each poem has a country of its own,
or maybe an entire city, or even the tiniest
of town.
It may drum heralding my death
or send me to the moon
with no regrets.

it may reduce hay fever
sufferers to a sniveling bag
of segregations
or to Robin Hood
and his merry men
trapped or listening
to whale music
on top of Mt. Olympic.

it can ride on a bike
soar in the air
sing a song
or even play piano.
Does notions flow up from you or does
a god whisper in your ear?

so many uses for a poem
for a broken bone,
or if you’re a relative
of King Olaf,
or are you a color
that no man knows?

whatever your schtick
there is a poem trapped
in there somewhere.

A VIEW IN THE NIGHT

BAILEY’S HARBOR


Ninety-seven steps
in an eighty-nine-foot
Beacon.
The night sky
clear
the wind swirls.
The light of the half-moon
shimmers off
the restless lake
like drips
of flamed
stars.
Silvery froth
reflects the moonlight
back to the sky,
illuminating
a bank
of clouds.
The fringe
of a storm
on the horizon
soaking canvas sails
entering
Lake Michigan’s
edges.

FLOWERS IN THE NAPE OF A RIVER

I’ve always been good at being alone
and traveling roads that have no future
finding them when there were none too fine.

 I find clarity and answers out where it is green
and brown, and where the river slouches on its banks.
Once, there was a ditch, not hard, and it slipped

into gentle and full of muddy water and where I would
find my celebrations and regrets.
It was yesterday that I stepped into that mayhem
and began an infinite drift.

Once I could touch my shadow
find happiness in the field of those youthful images.
The field was yellowed with blossoms and sunshine.

But when the time came the dreamy and whimsical
were washed away with sadness into the nape 
along with the foolish thoughts of murky melons.

I’d rather be alone with all of my unclear 
thoughts-and moods that seem relentless- in the place 
where children grow like petals.

WHERE DOES THE POEM LIVE Each poem has a country of its own,or maybe an entire city, or even the tiniest of town. It may drum heralding my deathor send me to the moonwith no regrets.  It may reduce hay fever sufferers to a sniveling bagof segregationsor to Robin Hoodand his merry men trapped or listeningto whale musicon top of Mt. Olympic. It can ride on a bikesoar in the airsing a songor even play iano.Does notions flow up from you or doesa god whisper in your ear? So many uses for a poemfor a broken bone,or if you’re a relative of King Olaf, or are you a color that no man knows? Whatever your schtick there is a poem trappedin there somewhe