I was overjoyed to find her again
Resolved not to let her out of my sight
We had such hopes and dreams; but life happened
Moroccan tea, blue Palo Alto night

She looked up and examined me closely
Reflective expression settled on her
Quiet music fit our melancholy:
Chopin’s pensive Prelude in E Minor

When love calls; bittersweetness of it all
Such promise in our rekindled romance
Living conditions spun out of control
Out of sync no matter the circumstance

Things fell apart; sunny skies changed to grey
Tearing up;
                             turns quickly, she’s gone away

for Reeny, last seen in Amsterdam

Let’s meet in the aftershop
where nothing slips.
We can talk about grip and lids.

We’ll handle tools
that fit our hands.

You can tell me all about
how to seal things in and out —
sugar and rot —
and how to catch summer
in a glass throat.

And I’ll tell you everything
I don’t know
of friction,
and how things always slid
between my fingers
when they were wet.

“You should dry them, then,”
you’ll say.

I’ll retort:
“Make something that holds me
better when I don’t.”

And you’ll invent it
without a second thought.

And we’ll name that place ours —
where the threads match
and nothing jars.

In this land of freedom
and crispy red apples
daylight is flickering
between pitch-dark and dappled

For FEMA’s defunding
the yacht-loungers grin and clap
they jigger fat balance sheets
while Congress chips at SNAP

ICE storms all June this year—
isn’t this weather crazy?
Round strawberries left to rot
(they say immigrants are lazy)

I’m driven to pen rhyme
by a shortage of free reason
in this star-spangled land
where an op-ed’s labeled treason

Across orange fields of misery
let’s sow some seeds of hope
may humanity grow taller
and crowd out misanthropes.

Hard are the days,

When cicadas are chirping.

Singing their melodies,

In bushes they lay lurking.

And the sun she’s matching

Lucky hearts like ours.

Hearts with their love,

Like fire catching.

I pray for my sheets,

Like some kind of hymn.

And know that they’re better

When you’re within them.

what’s a fisherman to do with petrology?
for who born of the sea is likened
to a rock, one that shall surely sink?
from quarry to sculpting block, a living
stone is he now–those discarded nets deposited
along the shores of galilean sea.
still rough though wholly reformed, metamorphosed
was he through a burial deep of muddied
limestone sheets into a rock anew cut,
hewn from gleaming marble. this rock heart on
the block for the great Sculptor to chisel,
marked through an erosion most Divine.
in tender, scarred hands the Artist sculpts
this living stone into the creation He had in mind.

A mule sat down
‘neath a mulberry tree
sniffing at some flowers
though they buzzed with honey bees.  

The pollen made him sneeze
and he swallowed up a bee.
Now the mule is a-sitting
on a limb in the tree.

your round brown eyes,
    shiny with ceramic glaze
    from woods and soil, are
mugs sized like soup bowls,
and deliver coffee
    enough to necromance my insides.

It’s 105° and rising

the frog is feeling it now

time has come to jump

out of the pot

into the chef’s face

Please be mindful of your time, your day starts at eight a.m.
Breaking news
Did you upload that document?
At least 8 dead in shooting near Israeli and U.S.-supported aid sites in Gaza
Just following up on that voicemail that I left.
Why proposed Medicaid cuts could decimate rural hospitals
It’s not personal, it’s business.
After ICE raids in LA, families of those detained are desperate for answers
Can you explain why this didn’t get done?
The reaction as Trump’s travel ban on citizens from a dozen countries takes effect
Are you not taking this job seriously?
Journalists dodge rubber bullets in covering L.A. immigration protests
Hey, we need to talk about your tardiness.

Deep blue ridges watch me