verbs, transitive

I do not know if I
am coming or going.
There is a wheezing
woman between the
snoozing man and me,
interrupting my reading ,
her yapping dog, escap-
ing, scampering down
the narrow aisle to the
delight of the squealing
child kicking the seat
of the disapproving,
expiring man gazing
at the covering clouds
layering the horizon,
obscuring New York,
its buildings grasping,
reaching. The dying
man is thinking while
brooding me is realizing
--going or coming--
there is no debating
that hurling above Earth
its axis tilting, its life teeming,
is nothing if not exhilarating.

Poem #3

Tick tock
goes the clock
and here
I sit
with writers'
block.

Love Haiku

When he is near me
this heart brims over with rhyme.
Love is that simple

cruelty, poetry, april

I have not written in so long and now it's April--the cruelest month-- National Poetry Month. So I will try to write a poem a day because, unlike Freddy Mercury, I work best under pressure - with deadlines. And if you like, at the end of the month I'll bind these poems in a book with a cover I made just for you.

April is the cruelest month.

April is National Poetry Month

I have not written in so long.

A limerick fit for an Irishman

In a castle that had a deep moat
Lived together a toad and a goat.
They wanted to go out
and wander about
If only they could build that boat.

don't have a cow

Goodbye Norman. You were a fine friend.

these arms of mine

IN a clean, clear, crystal glass I've put ice and just enough scotch to swirl around with my thoughts. The air itself is clear, early spring cool tonight and the moon is just past its prime, a shade less than full & slightly sad. Inside the house, Otis Redding is singing These Arms of Mine but I am sitting on the steps of the front porch, watching a cat creep out of the alley and listening to the wind run through the bamboo.

There are no stars. A few cars drive the down my street but mostly it is quiet. I think of the people I love in the world -- of my family scattered like seeds across the map; of Squirrel deep in the northern woods; Freddy and Charles asleep in their beds and Crazy A who knows where. The daffodils are up and buds dot every limb and branch though the forecast calls for freezing wind and rain. This is how it is now, I think, and wrap myself tighter in these arms of mine.