Daylight Savings Time, Falling Back – Poem

Daylight Savings Time, Falling Back Jeremiah said, “The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved.” It’s not that the nights are so ... Read more »

Skull Valley, Arizona – National Poetry Month – 10

Skull Valley, Arizona We’d hiked by the thicket all summer. The twisted brush, vines, tall grass, and an apple tree we kids thought wild. In the fall, after the wind knocked away the leaves and the rain started to plaster the grass to the earth, we ... Read more »


Above the River – National Poetry Month – 8

Above the River My old Scout shudders to a stop in the emergency lane. My cousin and I stand with the hood up, on the breaks. The highway a mirage tributary shimmering down to the river. Cars and semis disappear into the heat waves, swallowed until they ... Read more »


Blythe, California – Summer of 1981 – National Poetry Month – 7

Blythe, California - Summer of 1981 Heat waves surrounded my ’62 Scout with a flat tire in the parking lot. We had less than a hundred miles to go to the mine east of Joshua Tree. My cousin shook his head ... Read more »


When We Last Rode East – National Poetry Month – 5

When We Last Rode East We left in the dark, as dark as Los Angeles can be at 4am with the city lights, filtering through the smog and the marine layer ushered inland by the offshore breeze. You hung onto my waist. A warm ... Read more »


The Days We Ran in the Desert – National Poetry Month – 4

The Days We Ran in the Desert We carried pebbles under our tongues as we ran. Our father told us They’d keep us safe from cottonmouth. Keep thirst from breaking our stride. We sweated down cattle trails and old dirt roads and became dehydrated dizzy and ... Read more »


We, Brothers, We – National Poetry Month – 2

We, Brothers, We For my brothers Barefoot, we three boys run through, the desert playing at war. In our ragged jeans and bare-chested, brandishing mesquite branches for rifles, we appear a lost tribe, fighting the onslaught of the 20th century and not the modern army we imagine ourselves ... Read more »


Portrait of an Artist as a Single Dad – Powder Puff

Powder Puff Football I sit at the top of the stands alone, watching high school girls play flag football. Teens walk across and up and down bleachers confident their youth holds promise. Weary parents sit out their Wednesday night no lonelier than at home. Seniors huddle before ... Read more »


Portrait of an Artist as a Single Dad – Birth

April 11, 2000 In the darkened hospital a baby cries fresh cut from her mother. I, new father, whisper over the girl's fragile head. A blessing for her. "Oh me, Oh Life of the questions ever recurring." Walt Whitman old man with butterfly eyes. Old man who gave me ... Read more »

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