Category Archives: Friday Poem


We all come from somewhere, if you think about it.

But just like all good advice, piled high,
amounts to nothing when you finally rescue the Muse
trapped beneath the ice cubes in your iced black coffee–

So, too, with this great news.

That’s important to know – or, to think you know
When you remember you forgot
an avocado rolling on the floor of the Dodge Caravan,
dark and thick-skinned, resting quietly now under one of the captain’s chairs.

Or, when you hear the young man and young woman raise their voices again,
across the hallway,
just after you’ve dined alone on candied sushi and Merlot,
the Santa Ana winds in your apartment unusually chill.

Or, when you sit in the morning sun on vacation in Wisconsin,
sipping hot coffee, your wife and children asleep,
and a blue jay decides to rise and fall from your porch rail to the fresh wooden deck,
searching for something to snatch away.

Or, when the words of the prophet Jeremiah,
lonely and hardened as if on low branches,
finally pass before your eyes like tired, ecstatic midwives.


Friday Poem


There is no recipe for fog.

Sure, some people dream about gentle sorrows, imagined wounds and healing scars,
But they are mere garnish,
an overcast sky searching for its bleak but sandy coast.

No, this legion —
the weathered breastplate, dulled sword, matted hair and foul breath —
was once turned away,

but was not turned away today,
not on this path.

Not on this furious path.

–Dedicated to Robin Williams (1951-2014)


Friday Poem


“Who hasn’t been loved?” the priest shouted rhetorically
His sermon, full stop.

No one answered, of course.
No one was rapt.

But the young boy in the third pew,
his hair looking damp and prematurely spiked,
dropped his mother’s keys, right at that moment,
the ones that kept him busy.

And they fell straight into the silence,
falling freely as if forever,
past the silent archipelago of grace and remorse
surrounding us all.

Her yellow and white designer beads,
looped once through the gold fingers that opened doors,
her cherished key ring ornaments–

“Thwack!”  when they hit the polished wood,
shattering the measured pause.

Everyone transfixed by the echoes.




When my car finally rolled to a stop in the carport,
I turned to the bag of groceries in the front seat,
sitting quietly next to me,
and I said in a voice at once too vibrant and frightening to be my own:

“It’s time!”

But, it was only when I slipped my house keys
from the pocket of my winter jacket –
the ice dripping from the aluminum awning above —

that I noticed the bare dark trees smiling at me,
humming in chorus a classic Donna Summer song,
the beat only growing louder
as I carefully made my way to the frozen stairs rising up to my rented apartment.

The Friday Poem.

Whew!  What a week!  I have been working hard on compiling all of my writing over the last few years, editing what I need for my first book.  It’s a lot of work!  On the positive side, thanks to all of you who have been encouraging me with the project.  I’m hoping for a fall release.

Along the way, I have uncovered more than a few poems I have written on spare scraps of paper, the back of envelopes, or tucked away at the bottom of Word documents.  They are poems that have been inspired by my faith, for the most part, although some are a little quirky.  I thought maybe I would post one every Friday on my blog for a while.  (Editor’s note: Although I haven’t been as faithful as I would have liked posting here at, I promise to do better!)

Anyway, here is the first poem.  Have a great weekend.



Writing a poem is like enjoying a cigarette, I’d imagine.
You capture the flame, for a bit,
you tap the ash away,
you watch the breathless white lace dance, again and again,
in your memory.

It’s why I’m absolutely sure the Apostles smoked.

Ignorant of lung cancer,
transfixed by nerves,
not having much to eat.

Or, perhaps they just needed something to do with their hands
as they loitered in the alley,
waiting for Him to come out of the Centurion’s home.