I’ve written numerous short poems over a period of thirty-five years. Included here is a selection of the ones I continue to read.
untitled
on their way down here
the little flakes found partners
joined them
became heavy as love
–2026
bow wow
an old dog in the sun
stretched out
just shy of a pool of tar and
gasoline
opens his grey eyes, yawns
scratches his balls
rolls over and
disappears
–8.1.26 NYC
The Hawk
The red-tailed hawk
is bouncing the wind high up
over Washington Square,
making good moves
on a Sunday,
a day of rest, but not for him.
He plays, agile
ducking down, boosting up
tilting his wings and
galloping in heaven.
Where does he come from?
Where’s he headed?
Does he view the crowds below,
the doggies, the lovely children?
Is this bird really a rodent eater,
a fancier of pigeons?
He seems uninterested in food at the moment,
partnerless, his mind on dance alone.
A cloud hazes the sun,
the hawk’s gone for a breath,
someone calls for something,
And the impassive sky returns
to only blue. –2018
A Billion Destinies
first the wall
and then the trees
awake from their peace.
beneath the stars
a breath of light
and then a solar blast
reminds them that
night is past.
and I across the way
looking through my foggy lens
revive.
to be alive
is a transient gift
like the sun who
firmly drifts
across heaven
coursing through
a billion destinies.
but we are not watching.
–2021
At the Park
the pigeon was worried about
finding a meal
so I gave her one of mine
–2021
April 2021
our trees have decided
it’s time to bloom
so off go the buds
out the petals, the leaves
in comes the chartreuse
and we are free
to sit around in thought
to talk about it.
–2021
The Wind
After the birds fledge
the wind has nothing nasty to do
save picking off tourists’ hats
and moving them to another county.
So wisely, it rests,
listens to the dragonflies,
observes the other bugs wandering about and
waits for the coming Fall.
–2018-19
I’m a Monarchist
The monarch butterfly,
long free of its cocoon and
wandering,
takes a solo flight,
down Bleecker Street,
in New York City.
The pigeons in Father Demo Square
don’t give a damn,
nor do the winos, retired folks,
panhandlers, young lovers, junkies,
and other malcontents
watching the pigeons,
imitating ants,
endlessly looking for food.
The monarch isn’t looking for food.
It doesn’t care who’ll kick its fuckin ass,
or whether the market’s up or down.
It’s never been to a market of any kind.
It doesn’t have an ass.
All it wants is out,
and south,
Maybe to Mexico if it’s lucky
and there’s enough milkweed along the way.
I wonder how I can help,
as it veers and banks,
just missing
being gobbled
by the grill on an ’83 Ford.
A slice of sunshine at Carmine Street blinds.
I lose it for a minute.
Someone asks me for money.
The monarch feints, turns,
takes a block from a step-in van,
And it’s gone.
–1995
A Bird
One more worm,
then he rests.
Listless,
bum that he is,
he opens his beak,
and the wind, the stars
become merely shadows.
–2003
Untitled
Bursting off the pond
the mallard sings,
first with his wings
then with his crazy mouth,
addressing the wind.
–n/d
No Koan Here
Things settle
at the airports, and
traffic resumes.
Among the milkweeds,
the butterfly levels his wings.
He banks, drops six legs,
and casually touches down.
–2006
Two “Kinda” Haikus
———————————
look under the washboard—
a silverfish, weeping.
———————————-
zip up your slicker,
you wet old chipmunk.