Starlight dances softly upon rooftops,
Gliding through barren branches
To play on fallen leaves,
Reminding us gently
Of our own star’s
Promised return.
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Gentle Reminder
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Mind Mutiny
Pencil poised over clean paper,
ready for orders.It waits.
The command never comes.
Somewhere behind the eyes,
a small mutiny breaks out—
nothing dramatic,
just everyone deciding
to sit down at once.What used to be a war room
is suddenly quiet.
Maps still on the table.
Coffee going cold.At ease, Number Two.
We’ll regroup,
and like the French and the Indians,
mount our attack at dawn.
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Spring Cleaning
Mild winter has left the backyard
in a kind of limbo.
Too much shade,
last fall’s rain still pooled
in the cracks of the stone patio.Without enough sun to argue back,
the moss moves in,
slow and confident,
turning the stones a patient green
that feels permanent.I make a note: late spring.
When the pressure washer comes out
and does what it does best—
a loud, indiscriminate erasing,
as if nothing ever lived there at all.
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The Secret to Swatting Houseflies
The secret
to swatting houseflies
is patience.Don’t rush about,
swatter in hand,
like a frantic midfielder chasing a football
passed just out of reach—
again and again,
always a moment too late.Instead, sit like a sniper,
devoted to the science of stillness.
The weapon nearby,
not the focus,
just a quiet companion.Let the winged annoyances come to you.
Then strike—
quickly—
before they slip away
into the ether of your kitchen.Coincidentally,
this is also how you catch poems.
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Moonlight Society
If you are lucky enough
to live near a 24-hour grocery store
and haven’t yet wandered in at 3 a.m.,
I warmly invite you to join us
one quiet night.Prime parking spots ripe for the taking,
aisles wide and open as parade grounds,
freshly stocked shelves encouraging
a leisurely reading of labels,
checkout lines empty
as forgotten dreams.Among the sparse pre-dawn crowd,
polite, conspiratorial nods are exchanged,
binding us as silent members
of a secret moonlight society
of insomniacs
and solitude-seekers.
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Unmeasured Worth
A wealthy friend once told me
there’s no money in poetry,
no money in art,
as if profit were the point of a pulse,
as if value only counts
once it can be tallied.It may be a cliché to say
art is the freedom
to spill what’s inside
without stopping to ask
if it’s worth the mess—
but clichés tend to survive
for a reason.If money vanished tomorrow,
would you still do what you do?
That feels like the only question
that matters.If the answer is yes,
keep going—
not for approval,
not for the outcome,
but because making the thing
is already enough.
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Easy Way Out
Driving through the quiet north
of a crowded southern swing state,
I pass the sign—
a Virgin Mary, pale as porcelain,
cradling an even paler child.Do you think she didn’t have other plans?
it asks, the bold print righteous,
as if divinity erases doubt.Below, the punchline:
She didn’t take the easy way out,
and neither should you.A sentence unmistakably written
by a man who has never held
a choice heavy enough
to break him.
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Jim Hall and Django
Unprepared ears,
under siege from top-forty pop,
I retreat to my Sennheisers—
a small sanctuary—
where Jim Hall and Django
quiet things down.It’s a Universal Truth, really,
that jazz guitar belongs in winter cafés,
where cups stay warm in both hands
and no one raises their voice.Nothing flashy.
Nothing in a hurry.
Just enough space
for conversation to breathe,
thoughts to wander,
and coffee to cool
at its own pace.
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Red Oak
Leaves, once emerald, now ablaze in a fiery red,
Vibrant under the caress of morning light.
Proudly, it flaunts to the world,
The secret of its name,
Concealed across seasons, only to
Burst forth onto nature’s grand stage,
As our hemisphere gently tilts from the sun’s embrace.
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Casual Urgency
Now and then, in traffic,
or sipping tea at home,
it strikes me—this race
is likely halfway run.Who’s to say? We pace blind,
never knowing the final distance,
which makes strategy
a bit of a joke.Maybe I’m still in the first third,
time enough to jog, to breathe,
to save the sprint for later.
Or maybe the last lap’s begun,
and here I am, strolling
when I should be surging.Without sudden omnipotence,
all I can do is play the odds—
hope that forty-one is somewhere
near midcourse,
or not,
and feel my feet
where they land.
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Whale Day (Slight Return)
Inspired by a new Billy Collins poem,
I hurried home, eager to write,
sure I could catch the same easy current—
only to watch this poem unfold
like a half-deflated balloon,
listing sideways, refusing to rise.It’s like hearing Hendrix tear through
Gypsy Eyes on a ’68 Strat,
then picking up my cheap Ibanez
and fumbling my way
through a crooked version
of Three Blind Mice.
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Help Wanted
At the dealership this morning,
waiting on my oil change
(a task I once handled myself,
back when money was tighter
and time felt less costly),
I watched an old man, newspaper in hand,
perfectly content
with the unremarkable quality
of the free coffee.He scanned the obituaries
as casually as one might browse
the Help Wanted section—
not actively seeking a position,
just open to the idea
of future possibilities.
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American Dream
Unloading the dishwasher, stacking plates
on top of their idle mates,
who rarely make it into the regular rotation,
I decide to count—twenty-two.Twenty-two plates for a household of four,
with an automated dishwasher
and free child labor to load it,
stacked neatly, waiting for a banquet
that will never come.I’m not sure I even know twenty-two people,
certainly not twenty-two I’d invite
to my home for a meal, all at once.
But should that unlikely day arrive,
I’m ready.This must be success—
owning enough plates to feed a small army,
and not washing a single one by hand.
Welcome to the American dream, kids.
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Mailbox
Four things waited in the mailbox today:
an early Christmas card from your aunt in Ohio,
a bill from the electric company,
still arriving on paper
despite being paid online,
a flyer from a real estate agent—
irrelevant now,
but maybe not in three years,
when high school ends
and the mountains call.And then a journal,
ordered a month ago
and forgotten.
It showed up like a small gift,
I’m writing these words in it now,
having recently filled the last one—
proof that past me is good at buying things
future me will need.The blue ribbon,
nearly the color of your eyes,
pulls me back to that little Italian place,
our third anniversary—
candlelight, red wine,
a moment that stays intact
even as a thousand other evenings
slip quietly behind it.
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Deep Burgundy Pairs Well with Modal Jazz
We have a parlor in our house,
which makes us sound wealthy,
which we most certainly aren’t—
unless compared to most of the world.You might call it the dining room,
but you’d be wrong.
No table, no dinner parties,
just a deep burgundy glow
that somehow makes Miles Davis
sound even better
floating from the Klipsch speakers,
wired to the Audio-Technica turntable.One wall is lined with books and records,
vinyl jackets worn, proof they’ve spun
longer than the machine that plays them.There are a couple of guitars,
a battered Martin, a shiny Gretsch—
both played poorly, but played nonetheless—
and a piano I don’t play at all.Framed posters—
Newport Jazz Fest ‘65,
Zeppelin in front of The Starship,
Dylan, moody and contemplative—
sometimes make me feel the same.A Buddha-head lamp glows beside
a small wooden bar,
Nag Champa burning atop,
giving the space a feel somewhere between
swanky jazz lounge
and 1860s opium den.At the center, a mandala rug,
where a table once stood,
back when this was a dining room—
before we had a parlor,
before we had a word
that made us sound wealthy,
which we most certainly aren’t,
unless compared to most of the world.
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Half Price Melancholy
Sometimes, when I want to feel sad,
I go to the used bookstore
and drift to the poetry section,
where once-loved collections
wait for new hands,
marked down, half-price.Maybe their owners let them go,
deciding they’d gathered enough dust.
Or maybe the owners are gone now
and someone else packed the shelves,
boxed the dog-eared favorites,
and dropped them off
with the dishes and coats.Either way, it’s enough
to stir a quiet melancholy—
the kind that pairs well
with the gray weight of winter.
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Sol Mate
Here, in the southern stretch
of the northern hemisphere,
the seasons hesitate.
Autumn and Spring exchange glances,
never more than brief affairs.Winter is a halfhearted lover,
rarely staying the night,
while Summer waits,
steady and burning,
pulling everything
back into her arms.
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Out of Place
I write these words from a chair
that doesn’t quite belong—
wicker-backed, the cushion reupholstered
too many times to remember.
Light brown now, red ferns curling
across fabric just shy of ugly.The seat, once firm,
now sits loose on its frame,
clatters to the floor with a careless shift,
a sudden stand.Once, it had arms.
Now only the hollowed joints remain,
knotted oak where branches used to be.It sat at the head of the table.
My grandfather’s chair.He’s gone now, but I keep it,
though I’ve never been one for heirlooms,
have little patience for clutter—
a tendency that borders on compulsion.Still, the chair remains.
Out of place in my bedroom,
awkward beside a small desk,
where I sit at the keyboard,
writing these words.
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About Monday Night
I’m on the couch, attention split
between a spy novel and Monday Night Football.
The volume’s so low the broadcasters
sound like they’re sharing secrets.My wife went to bed with a migraine,
the kids are upstairs, asleep—
or maybe pretending, flashlights flickering
over pages beneath blankets—
like I once did a million years ago.My book glows under bright overhead light,
because, according to my driver’s license,
I’m at an age where surreptitious reading
is no longer required,
no matter the hour
or day of the week.When Joe Buck’s voice jumps with excitement,
I glance up from Damascus Station
just in time to see the Bills score.
I smile—not because I’m from Buffalo,
but because Josh Allen’s on my fantasy team,
and I’m now winning a silly game
that means nothing at all.
The Truth About Tigers 