Poetry: Movement


I recall a speck of ancient wisdom

That the mark of success is to embrace

Patience: to lounge aside a riverbank

For a whole day, doing nothing except

Loving the long moment. This bright image

Fills me with dread and despair, for I want

To move like the river, to unravel

In an orgy of endless change, to bounce

On a kaleidoscope of shifting floors,

Under the spinning skies, rushing ahead

Through random currents, by stony shores,

Between the strange delights of helplessness

And the certainty that within movement

Lies the eternal rush of becoming.

Poetry: The Wish


If I could have a single wish, if I

Could rub the bronze bottle and send him back

With two shiny trinkets still in his hand,

If I could blow out the candles or snap

The bone so that magic dust filled the air,

I would wake to find myself surrounded

By people incapable of lying,

People who had dug deep into their souls

To reveal and face the truth and hold it

In close embrace, enduring the sharp pain

Of discovery until an imprint

Burned into consciousness the awareness

That truth is the real source of human love

And the warm seed of the human spirit.


Photo Credit: © Paija | Stock Free Images & Dreamstime Stock Photos

Poetry: El Rastro de Madrid



Sunday afternoons they break out cigars

After mass to kill the dark smell of sweat

That clings to the faces of men playing

The shell game, smoke swirling from their nostrils,

Rope-scarred hands imploring you to take yours

Out of your pockets for an offering.

Shrunken old ladies armed with little girls

Pull green palm branches out of the garbage,

Wrap them in stale news and sell them for luck

To guilt-drenched browsers and lottery fans.

Up the twisted lane ragged parakeets

Squawk for freedom from this human madness

While women drown them out with hot gossip

Made delicious by holy communion.

Poetry: Paseo, Madrid


We bounced through the gold satin glow, the desk

Teeming with new arrivals, then spinning

Through the door we tumbled to the plaza

To begin our quest for tapas and wine.

There a bright blue streak of lightning reshaped

The photograph into a negative,

Causing old women to scream in dismay

As the dampened skies unleashed shocking cold

And agitated pools buried our feet.

We took a shot on the next bright corner

Where we fell into step with white clerics

Solemnly leading a quivering line

Of mantillas lowered in devotion,

Thrilled by the appearance of suffering.