Fishy Days

Remembering our fishy days
inhaling water and salt
yesterdays and yesterdays
their stench of death on everything
hearts that cannot beat

Breathing in water
Breathing in salt

Memories that never were
projected on our retinas
stories misunderstood
lost in translation
slipping through the cracks

Breathing out water
Breathing out salt

This is the land

My newest poem is dedicated to the men and women who made the ultimate sacrifice in defense of this land. It is up to each of us to guarantee it was not in vain.

I emerge only to resubmerge
In the land of grand romance and lies
Of three-eyed fish and one-eyed men
Of time that moves so slowly back
And almost forth
Where whispers drown the loudest screams and
Darkness outshines light

We used to call this the land of dreams
When we knew what dreams were for


This is the land our mothers dug
Into with their raw fingers
That our fathers watered with their tears
This is the land we were hoping for
Where freedom is not just a word

We submerge and reemerge
The air so cold on our wet skin
The mud so soft under our feet
Our hair grown long and hard
Our eyes exhausted by everything they’ve seen
This is the land we were looking for
Where justice is not just a word


This tale will tell itself

Let’s go dancing through the minefield
one more time
or drift through a veil or two of consciousness.
We don’t need to live to tell the tale.
This tale will tell itself
in a language without words or sounds or pictures.
This tale will tell itself with light.



The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.

William Blake

The intense pleasures of youth – sex and drugs and rock’n’roll – take a heavier toll on my body, my mind, and my spirit with every passing year.

One of life’s easiest traps is to repeat actions that once brought pleasure even after their effects have turned to pain.

One path to the wisdom that is attributed to age leads to fields of subtle pleasures that are easily lost in the clamor of earlier, louder years.

Older pleasures do not explode or blind or burn or throb. Until you reach a level of stillness impossible in younger times, they are imperceptible. Too dim to be seen. Too soft to be heard.

It takes an almost unbearable sacrifice to perceive these new pleasures but if you can bear it, you will find they are more profound than any other, and deep enough to transcend physical sensation.


You never know what is enough until you know what is more than enough

William Blake

The Inevitable Sky

The air is cool but the sun feels nice

Angels observe from a discreet distance

But there is no way to hide benevolence

Any more than I can hide my love

The breeze is soft but insistent

Rest, it says, but not too long

Eventually I will have to move

I will have to return or resurrect

Even moving toward the familiar is moving on

Even with angels as my guide I cannot escape the inevitable sky