I shoot baskets like no one is watching. No one is
watching, except me, dream of youth, of future stardom, of
current stardom. Driveway hero of every game, concrete cracks
little lines where I place my sneakers, then heave up shot after
shot toward the red rim, its gravity like a sun, my sun, basketball
that sphere of influence. Minutes become an hour, become time itself.
Stand here, move there, under the hoop, arms and legs
leaping toward the sky.
Category: Poetry
Poetic Inspiration
reading you makes me want to write, then write some more
that you were able to say it just so pushes me to plow ahead
to speak the nonsense things while sitting in my bed
you help me drift and sift through words lingering in the air
with hopes they might land lightly on the page
for what you wrote has become my nightly stage
When The Gun Spoke
trigger
pull it
or don’t
i’m not in charge
it is the bullet
no, it is your hand
no, your fingers
they are needed
for me
to work
no, it is your eyes
to see
to aim
to know what to look at
no, it is your mind that
decides
to grip me
buy me
shoot me
no, it is your arm
no, it is the muscles
that have power
to hold steady
to kill
but whatever you do
don’t blame me
i didn’t do it
The Old House: 1978-2023
this is the place
where i once lived
basement tv, saturday sugar
cereal, endless ping pong
mowing the lawn and
shooting driveway basketball hoops
sledding as a child
reading by the fireplace
blasting the beasties upstairs
on the old stereo
ice cream birthday cakes
hide and go seek
learning how to shave
and juggle bean bags
talent shows with sunglasses
and the elvis moves
staring at jumping squirrels
outside my bedroom window
a home once ours
now is no more
At McKay’s
the poetry section is a jumble of
paperbacks, anthologies, Chaucer
Elizabeth Bishop, Neruda, Donne
Dickinson, page after bent page
used books, leaning paper spines
the dead supporting each other
most of their words long forgotten
USA $29.95, once the price of wisdom
now two dollars, time erases money
and memories of Isla Negra
Amherst lilacs, and all the rest
2023
it is the end of 2022
and what are we to do?
celebrate the newfound cold
and embrace all that is beautifully bold
there is a blessing in the air
a promise to live without fear
to love our family and all who are dear
this is what the universe wants us to do
to be kind and speak what is true
stand strong like sycamores against the wind
in this new year we begin again
to be grateful for all that is
and so the days will go by
carrying life like a sparrow song
our spirits dancing on and on
here’s to 2023 and all that is yet to be
Roadkill
quiet road
at night
when headlights
cease, time
of possum
raccoon and
the skunk
they wander
on asphalt
journeys, while
we sleep
they sniff
and scurry
when the
moon is
full or
waning, under
stars and
foggy skies
they are
out there
yet unseen
but come
morning sometimes
stiff dead
bodies, and
we just
swerve, in
a hurry
Birth of a Poet
i lived five years
without screens
never bought
anything online
or watched
tv
or had
email
at home
never got a phd
but five years
without screens
that was my
doctorate
and what did i do?
oh, you can guess
i read and read
and wrote
instead
October Walking With Hudson
wind
blowing
orange
leaves
through
the
sky
as
we
lunge
to
catch
autumn
in
our
hands
Self-Checkout
no more checkout clerks
at the grocery store
now it is us and the machine
little bar codes, red light
that beeping sound of
credit card accumulating debt
and no one smiles anymore
or says hello, or says
how about that football game
no, that is all in the past
now it is us and the machine
and sometimes we wonder
is this progress?
