July 2020


The clouds are very low.

I am waiting; waiting for them to clear, for the sunshine to warm me, for the warm breeze to laugh with me, for my lover to comfort me.

I wait for Angel to find her way to me.

I wait until there is no color left. 


My Black Cat

I went to the garden to see all the sights.

It had been warm on the previous nights.

My Black Cat flew in on his broom; it was June.

The flies swarmed about both our heads.

They got in his eyes, they got in his ears, it just made him swoon.

They flew all around and pestered him bad.

It made me so mad, I cried, “Oh, what the fret!” and bought him a hat with a net!



May 2020


I must be naïve to think I know of the Source, but I come from the Source

I must be naïve to think I have been in this world in the past, but I have.

I must be naïve to think I have an angel, but I do.

I must be naïve to think I have been called, but I have been called.

I must be naïve to think I have a soul, but I do have a soul.

I must be naïve to think I will come back, but I will come back.

I must be naïve to think I know about love, but I do.

I must be naïve to love you, but I do.


November 2018



In your restlessness call me,

I will be there

At your side

In your bed.


I will love you

You will fall asleep


In the morning

I will be gone

You will be full of me.


Words will be exchanged

Work will be done.


The everyday bits and pieces of life will pass bye

You will have none of it.



Lovers, walk and hold hands, talk and make plans.


The clouds are very low.

I am waiting for them to clear, for the sunshine to warm me, for the breeze to laugh with me, for a lover to comfort me.

I wait until there is no light


by Wendell Berry

When despair grows in me

and I wake in the middle of the night at the least sound

In fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,

I go and lie down where the wood drake

rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things

who do not tax their lives with forethought

of grief. I come into the presence of still water.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars

waiting for their light. For a time

I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

I see my angel in the Mist

Sometimes when I cross the bridge I see my Angel in the mist. She appears spiraling and floating just above the river. I know that it is her; I see an imperceptible change in the light, my heart beats faster, the mist envelopes me.

I am waiting, waiting, waiting to be in her embrace once more, a gentle breath of warmth caresses my cheek; I surrender, I feel her body press against me, I hear the rustle of her wings as they surround me. Her scent is the scent of autumn; her voice is the gentle sound of the morning breeze. The mist recedes; my Angel lightly dances across the surface of the river and disappears with the warmth of the rising sun.

 Once again I am alone, I cannot possess the mist, I cannot possess my Angel.





  Angel sets me free


                Angel swam down

                And with her key

                Released the lock

                That set me free

The One Night Stand

What is this spot, this blot, this dirty dream, wound around every tendril, every synapse, invading my soul like a worm, dividing and subdividing in my mind.

It doesn't stop or slow down when I take from him all his dreams and self-esteem.

I use him and abuse him, I rob him of his right to love.

I throw my infidelity at him, I take advantage of his generous love when I am weak with this sickness.

I plunge deeper into the abyss with every one night stand; drowning in my incessant needs.



My Angel comes to me as a storm

My Angel came to me in the form of a storm. She cried a river of tears. I asked her why she was crying, she told me that I didn't love her anymore.

"I love you!" I proclaimed.

"For those words I will reward you with a dark starry night and a wondorous comet as a sign of our fidelity."

Now in the early mornings before Christmas, I see the sign of our everlasting love.


My Angel sinks with me when I drown.

Holding on and staying above the surface is too much for me!

It is time to let go.

Drowning no longer frightens me.

Down we go into the darkness, no need to struggle.

Angel holds my hand, she calls my name.

I make a choice.

My Angel gives me a gift this morning

My Angel gives me a gift of ten thousand points of light

I arise to to catch them glimmering in the trees.

The sun plays a theme upon the limbs, sparkling, shimmering.

I behold my treasure knowing it is not mine to keep.

My Angel is the sunrise

My Angel comes to me in the form of a sunrise.

She is all red and orange, her wings extend over me - they are pink and blue gray.

It is painful to see her beauty.

I know her image is fleeting.

I wish to join her.


My Angel's Touch


My Angel's touch is the wind. her scent is the earth, her tears the rain,

her warmth the sun



My Angel Curls Up Against Me

Sometimes my Angel slips into my bed, and as I sleep on my side, she curls into me. I reach my arms around her and pull her into my chest and stomach. I feel her head on my arm and her breath across my hand and wrist. She spreads her wings to give me access to feel her bottom. I pull her hips back and down into me. She reaches back and gently guides my burning desire to a damp and comforting place between her thighs.

My Angel Lies in Front of Me

Sometimes my Angel lies in front of me. She tucks her head on my chest, under my chin, and spreads her wing over my body to give me comfort and warmth. I breathe the fragrance of her soft fine hair. I take my hand and trace her shoulder, then lightly down over her ribs and hips, down over her thigh; then with the back of my hand, I caress the silky hair that protects the object of my burning desire.

My Angel Takes Me Flying 

Mostly my Angel comes to me to give me comfort. Sometimes my Angel needs comfort. When my Angel needs comfort, she arrives all at once rather roughly. My Angel swoops in and throws off my bed covers; she rolls me onto my back and lifts my night shirt, I become proud, my Angel sits astride me; uses her fingers to guide me. As she lowers herself, I arch up, and we are joined for takeoff.

My Angel spreads her wings, I hold her hips, we lift gracefully into the air. We fly out of the house, above the goat, the chickens, the geese, the river, above the places where I have taken my lovers, up into the dark heavens; to a place she knows over the ocean.

My Angel arches her back, a red river flushes across her breasts, she throws her head up and back; her golden hair streams down her back; with one great beating of her wings my Angel takes all to satisfy herself. Slowly my Angel lets herself down on my chest, I feel a great warmth and wetness between my legs, and with her wings outstretched we glide and whirl back down into the room and onto the bed.

Sometimes in the early mornings, I smell my Angels scent, I feel her lightness upon me, and her warmth and dampness between my thighs; and I wait in great anticipation for the time my Angel will take me flying again.  


Outside a plastic bus window

a glimpse of crimson leotards.

Handcuffs upon her belt,

she strolls into terminal building "C."

Left lane reserved for what?

California rolls by

mile after - freeway clogged with

finger tapping on steering wheel - mile.

Freshly watered grass trimmed -

motorcycle passed -


Los Angeles!!

We disco after - adult store - dark.

Five lanes of headlights

stream north.

San Francisco reached.

Terminus of a rainy coast road.

Yesterday's hippies ply the streets,

tourist's clog the wharf to spend

Ghiradelli bucks on eats.

Leather suggests another kind of life.

Across the red bridge

we drink the grape.

Cool blue night leads us

to the trains at


The big flat way of farms,

pick-up trucks rest among

the vegetables, at lunch.

Farmhands toast their bellies

like ripe tomatoes in the sun.

We photograph the heather grass

and watch the herds of beef.

Straight railroad tracks

and grain storage silos rise

to immitate the windmills of

the desert.

In my sleeping bag I hear

the coyote's cry, and wonder

how long I must wait to

come again to


Notes from California


A western jay,

Sits upon the weathered, wooden fence

Rocking gently backwards.


Pleasant company,

The two of us.


Sun soaked warm, we listen to

The ocean cleanse the shore below.


Bees and tiny Hummingbirds,

Busy the mountain flowers.


And all the time,

Pfeiffer's Falls brings

Renewing water to an ancient sea.


Chimera shapes the crystal form of spring.

Ten thousand leaves fanned by ten thousand wings.

Crimson tulips march across the verdant lawn.

Equus waits for what the white hot sun will bring.


Black Cat

Black cat, sit by the table, watch.

Friends discuss the wisdom of their middle years.

Over a lovely luncheon, prepared with care, in the transparent air.


Watching Wash

Hangaly, dangaly, wash upon the line.

Hangaly, dangaly intrigues this cat of mine.

Winofred, oh! Winofred, whatever’s on your mind?

Tail curled around your feet, you spend your time.

Hangaly, dangaly wash upon the line.



Still lake, gentle upon the land, small birds chatter mindlessly, low clouds surround the steaming hills.

A giant foot of sunlight steps upon the shore.

Where are you Blackie, do you hunt the nether hills, or are you only in my mind?

Is this the warmth of memory I feel? Gone too soon.

Like the sunlight’s kiss upon the lake.

His Footsteps

The low, cold, sun-rays fall red upon the stair.

It’s like this, every late winter afternoon, when I’m alone.

Before the sky turns black I think of you and I.

My eyes move toward the room we shared. You kissed him there beneath the stair,

before ascending to our room.

I turn away.

Through the window, I see the swing we played upon.

Ropes tattered in the winter air. The seat broken, shattered like our love.

By your lover's footsteps on the stair.

The Old Fear

While he was dressing,

You finished your hair in your lingerie.

Downstairs in the coffee shop,

like the night before, you tried to feel full of him.

But, he was quiet,

and the old fear returned.

The sickness of love never gained.

My Black Cat

I went to the garden to see all the sights.

It had been warm on the previous nights.

My Black Cat flew in on his broom; it was June.

The flies swarmed about both our heads.

They got in his eyes, they got in his ears, it just made him swoon.

They flew all around and pestered him bad.

It made me so mad, I cried, “Oh, what the fret!” and bought him a hat with a net!



Two doors in front of you stand closed.

Which to take?


enters on the realities of life, atomic dirt and strife.

The very thing you now



The other enters upon your dreams, mystic clear and clean.

The very

thing you idolize.


Now you must decide.

Each is clearly marked.


Some will

choose the door marked life, to conquer all its dreadful stink,

And by winning

self esteem find the door marked dreams.


Some will open the other door and

through the power of their dreams,

Gain the strength to stand before the door

marked life.


Some will exist forever, their hand outstretched into the air,


And never open either door.


They will lead no life, nor have no





Assume that you could see all the things in life through

a cat's eye.


To stare and not be seen. What would you see?


Brown grass bent

by summers heat, winters snow upon the window ledge, fluff upon the



Instead, would you wish to see into the souls of those who have no

time to look at you?


With pressing problems of their own upon their minds,

they move in front of you in rhythm déjà vu.


Like the clock upon the wall,

time will take its toll of all.


You blink and change the scene. To sun's and

moon's and starry things that whorl and swing. You float above the common world,

you turn the eye upon yourself.


Do you see more clearly when you see through

other eyes?


Do your eyes despise the life they see?


Take my offer traveler

in time, to see well you must adopt the vision of the cat.


To stop and stare

at some blank wall tells the fortune of us all.

moons and starry things that whorl and swing. You float above the common world,

you turn the eye upon yourself.


Do you see more clearly when you see through

other eyes?

Do your eyes despise the life they see


 The Pontiac


A Pontiac pulled out in front of me.

Two women, three children, heads illuminated by

my lights, the five of them and me.

We all set sail up Route 23.


The color green, like key lime pie

vinyl top, tattered by unfriendly skies,

streaks of country lane and rusty bumpers,

a poor family anyone could see.

What about the lives of the persons just ahead?


Snow swirled around, cold enough

so flakes bump

upon the ground, but

fly again into the winter sky.


The older woman, I surmised,

was the matriarch of the five.

Dumpy, with fat fingers, her gaze

just below the wheel.

She steered through the blowing snow.


Each flake, a little orb of light,

became the moments of her life

which passed her by, but never stuck.

Like her thoughts once in her mind,

which now preferred to be quite empty.


Her daughter sat to the right.

A love lost and left behind.

Her man gone a few years now,

used too many drugs anyhow

and could never keep a job.


She had to work one of those jobs

we never think about.

Standing behind a counter in a Five & Dime.

It made her thin.

While she was with him they had

three kids, who sit restless in the back.


Pressing the soles of their rubber boots

upon the vinyl of the seat up front,

they fool around

oblivious to the lack of sound

of a snowy, stormy night.

They sit so low as to see the snow

shining from my lights behind.


The oldest, a girl, thin like mom,

has on pink leotards and red boots.

She makes it big one day, but she's

the only one to do so.


I'm not sure why I think that way,

just the law of averages, I guess.

One of these three should make it big,

I'm told,

by those I meet who are bold enough

to hazard that type of guess.


The middle one's a girl in black boots,

she resembles Dad

and still loves him although he's gone.

So she finds her love in the cab

of a pick-up truck.


It was so neat the first time for her,

she told them all.

They conceived one night outside a bar

in a green Pontiac just like this car.


She marries him and settles down

on a farm just outside

of town;

they have three kids and chickens.


The last child is a boy

with big sparrow eyes.

His eyelids are so thin,

blue transparent, he seems so frail,

with a pallor to his skin,

except for red, red cheeks

which make it all okay again.


He has a runny nose and smells

of pee,

as boys will dance around too long

before they have to go.

With boots missing links and buckles

from hard play, his is the love

and ache in his mother's heart

and now lives out this way.


They turn off the road ahead of me

and leave me to my thoughts.

Quiet snow swirls around my mind as

I wander home to dream

again some other time.