In search of story


Connections: May 8.18

I don’t know how to play it

wouldn’t know where to begin

and yet it beams out a gravity

much like a rolling pin

or terracotta flowerpot

pruners, or a hoe

piano or organ keyboard,

a scraper for bread dough,

a pad of lined blank paper

a pen, an artist brush

they make my fingers eager

they give me a head rush

with primal primitive instinct

my fingers stretch, reach out

but it’s really my very self

the pull is all about.

Certain things there are

that, silent, speak to me

make my fingers restless

to do, to make, to be.


More thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.






On writing: April 26.18

Well, dear reader, here it is Poem-In-Your-Pocket Day, and I have nothing for my pocket and nothing for yours. This year has been the first in several when I haven’t cared a lot about Poetry Month. It’s been one of those writer’s slumps which maybe you understand.

I can’t even figure out what poetry is, and am nearing the conclusion that poetry is such a subjective thing that there must be a different definition for each of us.

I often meet something called a poem but to me it seems like prose. Why is it a poem?

I try to use rhyme in my poems — if such they are — because I like the discipline imposed by rhyme. (I admit I also like the entertainment — trying to rhyme can be hilarious.) But I know that rhyme doth not a poem make.

I have read that the root of “poem” is a word meaning “to make.” That suggests that a poem is something deliberately crafted. I have heard that poetry is acoustic, that the sound of the words is part of its essence. I have heard that poetry captures a moment. But have you ever read Mark Twain’s descriptions of the Mississippi River? If those aren’t crafted and acoustic and immediate, nothing is. Yet they aren’t considered poetry.

Someone told me that if you think you’re a poet then you’re a poet. Really? That’s all there is to it?

So it all seems a bit ambiguous to me. I’d rather it weren’t.

Maybe I’m trying to define the undefinable. Maybe you get that, dear reader, and so I hope you have a poem for your pocket even if it isn’t from me.




Connections: April 8.18




Simple guise

bewitching eyes

a depth belies.

Seduction incredible

memory indelible

the poem edible.


And so, dear reader, in honor of Poetry Month, it behooves us to eat more desserts.

And to use more words like “behooves.”

Many thanks to the poetic soul of S.W. Berg and his Photo Archives.



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Connections: March 30.18

It’s there

in spectral glow

an orb of lustrous being

something that we know

yet just beyond our seeing

elusive and alluring

it hovers in a mist

with silhouette and shadow

slyly obstructionist.

Still writers strain and grope

— it really is absurd —

for the Holy Grail beclouded:

that precise


right word.



More thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives for this remarkable image of the writer’s brain.




Connections: March 11.18

I hold these geese

in low esteem

this has become

my  rabid meme.

And so it is

with disbelief

I ask is this

a goose in grief.

In seeming search

unanswered blat

it seems to wander

aimless, flat.

It’s obvious

my mind is crumbling

imagination stretched

brain all bumbling.

A writer’s mind


sees the world


How else to render


for my deluded


Perhaps his lady

is just egg-sitting

and he is nervous

tense, unwitting.

But whether Dame

or anxious Sire

the ducks are going

to inquire.

I needn’t worry

until I see

my back yard’s become

the nursery.




Connections: March 9.18

Which way to tomorrow?

Into the wind or hard alee?

Do we veer or hold the course

to the Land of What-Will-Be?

Do we clamber up some scaffold

to get a better view

of all the choice and option

our futures might imbue?

But maybe it isn’t there

’til we bungle through today

so we declare the future is now

and cower in cliché.


More thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.




Connections: February 22.18


Measured anger,




sourced in heart

tempered in mind,

sentence by sentence

clearly defined.

Rage and anguish

penned halberds

change can fly

on wings of words.


We must, dear reader, believe that.