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My poem The High Life appears in the spring issue of The Briar Cliff Review. It was written in celebration of fond yet weary memories of the days that followed after my father built The Timber Inn, a local watering hole – a clever play on words for my daddy, the sawyer.

I hope you will enjoy it.

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Gauzy recognition

vague eureka moments

Ah! This is what life has to offer. 

Then ~ blink.

Dingy gray-tones surround us.

We press onward,

arms outstretched.  Eyes wide open.

The foggy dimness ever present     hovering,

waiting.

Curl up, surrender, trudge on ‘til death?

No.

We hope, anticipate, strive for more

always more.

Reach

            for more.

And, still, more again…

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A poet in one of the writers’ groups I belong to recently self-published a chapbook anthology, the theme of which is writer’s block that includes my poem Poetry Group Beat Down. I wrote it after attending my first Omega Poetry group meeting where I was in awe of the many talented poets gathered around the table.

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You cannot be the cause of the problem
and seek reward for being its solution.

this orange turd will never soar…

fools know not how to solve
moon dust equations — Elites!, they cry.
these misguided “patriots” cannot exclaim
both joy & hatred, community & vitriol.

it does not compute!!

how do they think we’ll ever get
to where it is we want to go? have they
given any thought, any consideration
to our happily ever after?

People!!

It has to be a collective ‘our’,
a collective ‘ever after’.

Why can’t — or won’t — they see that?

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Serrated leaves of brethren black-cherry trees
wave to me outside our sunroom windows.
Empty wire-mesh feeders sway
in the muggy almost-autumn breeze.

Sluglike, I cross to the mailbox,
COVID-gloves in hand.
Wasted effort: Political flyers
for a candidate I’d never, ever vote for.

Didn’t I read somewhere
that September’s segue to fall
dictates longer sleeves,
cooler nights, solid shoes?

My sugar-self craves a hot cuppa chai
but not when The Weather Channel
tells me what I already know — we’re dying here
in this ninety-degree muck, reprieve not yet our due.

Predictably, others will soon
protest winter’s snowfall, her howling winds,
those frigid blasts of icy, northern air.

                       But I won’t…