Thursday, April 30, 2009









Brighton by the sea

Damp and cold, the

Angry waves pounding

On the deserted beach.

The leaded grey clouds

Hurl across an icy sky,

Pausing only to empty

Their “bladder” on the way

To some unseen forever.

I stood there, clutching  

The remains of my parents,

Heavy packets of ash,

Waiting to be discharged

Into a damp winter wind.

Then, the grey particles

Fled towards the sea,

Leaving me behind with

Little more than tears and

A lifetime of blurred memories.

Suddenly, a rainbow appeared,

A colorful arc across a pewter sky,

Reflecting a sun in all its brilliance;

Then, just as suddenly, the rain,

The wind, and the lonely silence.





Driftin' about in an open boat,
Fog wrapped around you,
Like a wet overcoat.
Feet tucked under you
In a painful slouch,
Wonderin' what the hell
Made me desert my couch.
Thoughts of fishing seemed
Like just some kind of lark,
Now I'm worried I'll be dinner
For some big old shark.
There aint nothing biting
Except this morning chill,
How could I be thinking
It would be some kind of thrill?
Guess I'll close my eyes and
Hope that line will give a tug,
Mebbe some mermaid will
Pop up and give me a hug.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009


Too many years staring
Down at my feet, 
Too many nights
Too frightened to sleep.
The images that appeared
Left me shivering with cold,
The painful thoughts choking
All hopes of growing old.
A dawn now descends
With a sky painted gray,
Tears on frozen cheeks
Reflecting another lost day.
I plod along slowly embraced
By these sad thoughts,
A lifetime of hope
Having never been wrought.

About "This" Fork

What is so special about "this"fork?
To spear some fish, or perhaps some pork?
This shiny tool is just lying there
Awaiting my desire to attack the fare.
An eating utensil cannot think
And when finished work it lands in the sink.
My fork works hard but it has no hope,
The morsels left on it are removed by soap.
I blame this tool for my bulging waist
It performs its duty with haste, not taste.
This trusty fork held in my fist
Will be there always to "assist".

Thursday, April 16, 2009



Thoughts blowing in the wind,

Visions like autumn leaves

Swirling about, momentarily

Caught in the lens of clarity, only

To be swept away again, sans focus.

I am THAT camera, the magical toy

Created for today’s memories left

To search for an image tomorrow.

Why this struggle to wade through

The vast wasteland of hedonism

If there is nothing worth saving?

Perhaps, I am just that tyro with

A camera only to have a blind eye.

The journey continues, propelled by

The belief that beauty does exist and

Can be saved through the lens of hope.


Wednesday, April 8, 2009


How often I have wanted

To drift back through the years,

Searching for the “happy times”,

You know, the ones without pain and

The unquenchable thirst for…….?

Without even a hangover, or

One that would not be remembered.

There would be no back pain, nor

The memories of knee replacements.

The hearing would be better and

The eyes clear, covered only with

The “cool” aviator wrap rounds.

Hair was slick then, the sideburns

Giving way to a chin not marred by

Scruffy growth or poor judgment.

The music was slow, time stood still,

Summers never seemed to end

Nor did our innocence, or dreams.

Who knew the word “nostalgia”, or

Could envision using it in a sentence?

Days seem to pass by now, crowding

More memories into smaller books.

The pages are worn, some marred by

Sadness, loneliness and, yes, even death.

The richness of life Is there, chronicled

In a weathered face now lined and scarred.

The eyes still twinkle, though less often,

And the stomach protruding just a bit

Over blue jeans not in need of a belt.

Yet, this is the morning of a new day,

Without need of drifting nor looking back.