Some Sort of Love

Some sort of love with a
camera and lens- Ugly is
interesting and interesting
is beautiful

Produce something all
yours to put out in the
world as a freshly shared

Protected at first from
light in a dark plastic
box the project waits for
perfect moments

Children playing, lovers
holding hands, beautiful
people and beautiful things
worth remembering

Never fed grime but kept
clean until the filth has
saturated and turned
to art

Darkness and meaning wait
as the impurities are then
rinsed away for a long,
cleansing bath

Then to develop into
some sort of love
on a 5 x 7 sheet
of photo paper


Modern Medicine

If happiness could be discovered

in that hole in the wall where

even non-believers are stunted

by magic,

if lasting health could just be turned

on with the flick of a switch when

modern medicine isn’t enough to give

some control to its patient,

and life closed to a cover of

glitter and diamonds we would look

at our bedrooms from all angles and be

very thorough spring cleaners.

(From “The Modern Way” 11/23/05
rev. 2/11/09)

No Sense of Time to Dwell On

Watching my feet come up as I
fly through the air, I notice the playful
squeals in the background blur and it's

just you and me in our dirty soccer
uniforms with muddy cleats and scraped
knees and your father is

clapping for you with lessons for
you on how to fly higher and lessons
for me on how to be a kid for a while so

I own the wind as I pump until the world
is reduced to one box of tanbark, untied
shoelaces and no sense of time to dwell on.

(org. 11/23/05 rev. 2/11/09)

She Waits

With knees tucked in
tight from the curb, wide eyes
eye as the cars keep
brushing by.

A woman with a bushy hairdo
and too much makeup comes
to lead inside that poor little
girl she could not recognize.

Into the evening the child
waits- calling a dial tone for
a mother, a father,
a loving embrace.

(org. 11/23/05 rev. 2/11/09)


Rain's becoming to my face, the

misty winds: a cold embrace.

Faeries ting-a-ling little bells on

the toes of little stockings. The

noise's too soft to be heard. Frost

spreads over the ivy. Ting-a-ling!

Trees dance barefoot

under piles of leaves. A

small, white paw tosses the

decayed leaves away for the toy that

would be favored anywhere. Seasons

changing. Ting-a-linging.

Rain's becoming to my face, the

misty winds: a cold embrace.

Ting-a-ling! Sprinkles of sparkles step

up to the crossing, racing frosting

forests from this juncture all the way

up to the hills.

(org. 11/12/05 rev. 2/11/09)