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A Collection of Poems

Canopy of Fog

No breakwater visible.

The lake itself the color of fog.

cocooned in, small now as any inland lake.

Ten gulls overhead, darker shade of fog gray.

We feel our way, directionless

in this nether world of isolation. We grope

along the banks of this River Styx.

The wind picks up, there is thunder.

The rain begins, the fog lifts. We trudge

through the sand, surfacing into

the real world or, according to Plato,

out of the real world into the world of shadows.

In this world of shadows we sit in the sun,

eat dried tomato sandwiches, listen,

to be sure the gulls are not calling our names.



Hessian Lake

The air is honeyed with wet grass, sunlight

and lake algae

On the water is the brightness of the backdrop,

cool winds, tepid daylight.

Crows scatter as I pass, while the geese

hardly flinch.

On my perfect day here, it is raining.

A soft rain that turns the lake grey and

relieves the smell of weekend barbecue,

picnics and rotting fruit.

The mountain towering above is a sweet green,

innocent in comparison to other giants.

No one else is here,

except an older coupler—

the weekend lingerers.

With every step, I pull the ground behind me,

peddling the earth backwards,

the lake in the foreground.




as sun slants

beneath the canopy of trees

skim the path—

its nuances already one

with marrow of bones—

into the silent spaces

where grackles have stopped

their guttural squawking

cicadas wait

their turn to sing

and the sun

blesses the day



Canada Hill

The neighborhood hill is my match.

Pavement gives in to gravel, which

leads way to rooty earth,

pointed skies,

forced sunlight.

Often, my grip is challenged as

eyesight races foothold.

Below, my kingdom rises.

Wood ducks cry out;

mountain laurel fidgets on its stem.

Unknown beasts have carved the path before me.

Ghosts of myself,

in running shoes long put to rest.

Soon I plateau, descend.

I am home before darkness.


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