Category: Free Verse Poetry

Thanksgiving Countdown

Thanksgiving Day,
What can I say,
Four days to go,
Hope we get some snow.

Cranberries, turkey, oh the dressing,
But always first, say a blessing,
Pumpkin pie, not ala mode,
All this food, stuffed like a toad,

Family time, all come together,
Always fun, big endeavor,
Macy’s Parade, on the tube,
Beats playing, Rubik’s Cube.

Giving thanks, for everything,
Lucky us, so we sing,
Backward glances, we recall,
Thanksgivings past, good for all.

Stuffed we are, at day’s end,
On the phone, greetings send,
To those not here,
We give some cheer.

Count the days,
Hearts ablaze,
Let us cheer,
Thanksgiving Day, almost here.

Winter Paints December on Lake Erie

If you look closely, you will see
the masterpiece Winter painted
along mighty Erie’s shore
in the darkness, well into the early morning light.

You will see winter’s fondness for ever so subtle shades of gray,
How one by one, winter’s breath bends, sheaths the tall ornamental grass
in rounded silvery whiteness,
And how he paints ripply footprints at the water’s edge.

If you look closely, you will see
the fluttering gulls in the distance,
Seemingly small, yet not insignificant,
Every detail a pixel of life.

There’s more, if you look closer.
If you’re willing to brazen the biting wind,
Like the pile of jagged sticks, and mossy green rocks from summer.
Now a single creamy white ice sculpture.

And if you hold your eyes and heart wide open,
You can read the painter’s signature,
Written in the battleship gray sky—
December!

As Above, So Below

All that is above
is also below.
The invisible inside
eventually is projected outward.

What takes form outside reflects back,
like the pond’s perfectly still surface,
allowing the soul to glimpse itself,
if only for a fleeting second,
before dissolving like the day into night.

The world around us appears and disappears
with each turn of the psychic wrench,
tightening and loosening our grip
on all coming and going as reality.

All springing from the inner depths
eventually is planted
in the outer mirror
for all to see.

As above,
so below.
As above,
so below.

Cosmic Wonder

I gaze upon her,
Virgin as she is,
But not for long,
Her purpose from the start—
To meld, join, transform,
Bring about what doesn’t exist,
Birth new beginnings.

First beginnings, I think:
Eden, Big Bang, cosmic innocence,
All other beginnings, only because
There was a first beginning,
A starting point before all others.
A single, untouched placeless event.
From that point, all others.

The Ancient Tree Drummer

I hear him:
Making holes again.
Hollow places in dead trees.
He’s very old, you know.
Prehistoric!
Pterodactyl-like, I think.

With his red crest
bobbing up and down,
He seems very proud.
Cocky, I’d say.

His drilling stops.
Oh, I hear him.
Odd cuk wucka sounds.
She makes him wait.
I know he’s listening for her.
Finally she returns his call.
His pecking resumes.

Strange fellow–
that pileated woodpecker.
Feasting on ants and beetles
Deep in the old forest,
where there is plenty of dead wood.

The hollow tree is his drum.
He plays a driving beat.
Latin rock, I think.
He’s ancient, you know.
I hope I see him.

Old Age Clumsiness

A certain clumsiness comes with old age,
Almost another adolescence,
We stumble–
On our words, footsteps, and
even our prognostications about life.
All else keeping us awake at night.

A certain clumsiness comes with old age.
Even when we’re seventy-one.
Thinking back, I remember
When my parents were where I am today–
Clumsily closer to nonexistence–
Where all is lost, including ourselves.

A certain clumsiness comes with old age.
And then, there is nothing,
Even the clumsiness ends
Once we get out of our own way,
And allow our stream of existence to empty back,
Into life’s sea of new possibilities.

Tufted Titmouse

small, gray, spiked hairdo,
overflowing with song,
sweet as candy cane,
prominent black eyes,
lumps of anthracite coal.

no flocks for this chickadee,
always in pairs, or alone,
fussy scolding voice,
when perturbed by a mate,
otherwise chipper and cheerful.

this morning a pair pecks.
nibbles seed in the back feeder.
selective in their tastes.
given that it’s spring,
most likely babies in the nest.

Hummingbird


I waited for you,
You did not come,
I watched for you,
My eyes grew tired.
I fell fast asleep.

As I slept,
There were dreams
Dancing through my head
Of you.
Life and death.

You were there.
In all my dreams.
The buzz of your wings constant.
Your gleeful chirp between sips
Of life’s sweet nectar.

I awakened from my dreams.
There you were at my window.
There you were in my heart.
It’s all a miracle—
The dreams, life, hummingbirds.

Mysteries of an October Moon

Why does the October full moon
seem so lonely, yet so bright?

Why does her luminous light
seem so still, without flicker?

Why does solitary moonlight
fill my dreams with deep mysteries
keeping me awake at night?

Why does the moon remind me
there is more to life
than what the sun can show?

Why do such questions
linger inside me
like hungry grey wolves
scouring the woods for prey?

Why is there no rest, until
I make peace with this October moon?

War-Torn Autumn Leaves

The woods outside my window are war-torn.
Filled with red, orange, and yellow soldiers,
Fighting with each other, and themselves
over who can standout most gloriously.

A perennial war they fight,
from rounded treetops,
through jagged branches,
then to the dark moist ground below.

There’s no winning the battle of color.
All pushing, shoving, name-calling in vain.
Eventually all leafy soldiers brown,
and the snow hushes their clamoring.

Autumn in All Her Glory

Meandering, painted forest all about,
Reds, yellows, golds, oranges,
Nature’s magical extravaganza,
coaxing us deeper within.

Autumn, screaming vibrant color,
Her sweet voice, ringing in our ears,
With gentle fingers, plucking harp strings,
enticing leaves to turn their final corner.

Migrating blackbirds overhead,
waving last goodbyes,
tip southward, then disappear,
into streaming white sunlight.

Tempted into submission,
we give her all we have,
Refilled, there is no containing,
what she gives back.

Boys Climbing Trees

Click here to hear me read this poem.

Some things always remain a part of you
Like when you were seven
And shinnied up your first tree
Like some starved Colobus monkey
In search of tenderoni leaves for lunch

Sooner or later, every boy climbs a tree
A rite of passage to manhood
Maybe to see the world from a higher place
Or just because the tree was there
Teasing you silly in the hot mid-morning sun

My first a massive sprawling oak
Jutting out our weedy backyard
Into the red brick alley
Where wood frame garages and steel garbage cans danced
On howling winter nights

I climbed high way up
To the big “y”
Where I perched for nearly five minutes
While my friends below
Proclaimed me a hero

While half the tree remained unexplored territory
I reveled in my accomplishment
Tomorrow was another day
A chance to climb higher
Seeing even more of the world’s vastness

Once the neighbor’s cat, chased by a maniac dog
Darted up the big oak, climbing too far too fast
The fire department was called
To retrieve the terrorized calico
From the high branches

We boys gathered to watch the rescue
Lasting twenty long minutes
Because the cat wouldn’t budge
Till assured its canine assailant was clearly gone
And control of the world returned to the cats

Somehow you just knew
That 1958 would always be
A watershed year in your life
Preparing you for higher climbs
Bigger life adventures ahead

Aiden Steven

Some of us don’t need long
to fulfill our life purpose
Nine months, four days
A very short life, indeed
That’s all Aiden Steven needed
before God called him back home

Obituaries are hard
especially those for young children
Aiden, a Gaelic name
meaning fire, and also
a name referring to Saint Aidan
a very old monastery in Ireland

I didn’t know Aiden Steven
My wife read his obituary in the paper
and tears filled her eyes
as she saw his angelic face
Her tears moved me, but
all I could do was write this poem

Purgatory

To some, an in-between place
for the soul’s cleansing
before its final transcripts are submitted
for admission to Heaven

Like one final car wash
getting off ALL the dirt
before you turn in the keys
and stop driving forever

Like stopping in Cleveland
to re-fuel, or repair landing gear
before continuing your flight
from New York to Chicago

Like in football, getting stopped
on fourth down, at the fifty yard line
on a last second drive
to the goal line

Here’s to hoping
your overall GPA is high enough
for immediate admission to Heaven
without re-taking any life courses

Cardinals

Cardinals
Earliest feeders
at morning’s first light
Latest feeders
at evening’s last light

Always an order to their feeding
Males, brilliant red
always dine first, but
females, tan with a tinge of red
are not far behind

Hear their sharp calls back and forth:
“chip, chip, chip”
Once a mate is spotted
we hear their distinctive song:
“Cheer, cheer, cheer, what, what, what, what.”

On this quiet frosty November morn
their voices carry, like gunshots
telling us it’s time
to get out of bed
and be about our day

Santa Claus

Santa Claus
Mythical hero extraordinaire
Innocent enough, on the surface
Deeper down?
He is far more

Santa, a symbolic source of fulfillment
for our child-like psychic wanting
Our insatiable longing
for more than offered us
by any given moment

I’m not sorry I believed
in Santa Claus
He’s one of the reasons
I made more of my life
than I might have otherwise

As a child, I believed
magic could work for me
Know what? I still do, and
I’m not sorry
I still believe in magic

My only regret about Santa
is that he was a night owl
I’m a morning person
Guess that’s why
I still want things in life

What Draws Us Back

Combing the years for answers
Something, helping me find
what I thought was lost
that turned out never to exist
in the first place

This backward-looking
Far more than nostalgia
Closer, perhaps, to an obsession
Clinging to old feelings
still looking for a home

Deep down, I know
there is no going back, yet
even deeper down I know
I want to go back
just to come back around again

What haunts me, drives me–
back to events, people and places
more imagined than real, and
even more ineffable today
than what I thought was real back then

My obsession, an equal longing
for what is deeply simple, within grasp
and what is inaccessible and totally illusive
like the light from a distant star
taking years to reach us

Yet, it is this light
keeping me awake nights
It is this light
coming from so very far
stirring me back in time

Partial Awakening

fast asleep
the world turns
at a moment’s notice
in unforeseen directions
like those carrying us, back
to our adolescent years

awakening, slowly
still filled with dreams
leftover night promises
then, morning comes
washing away
what was never there

only then, cleansed
we glimpse something beyond
self-deception, misperception
something, we ourselves
must wear inside us–a curtain
hiding us from ourselves

In Search of God They Murder

Many over 10,000 pounds
standing 10 to 12 feet tall
Among God’s most grand creatures
Hunted, brutally slaughtered for their tusks
Senselessly stripped of life

And for what?
Just to feed a mindless fetish
for ivory pendants and trinkets
designed to ward off evil
and move souls closer to God

Wouldn’t this journey to God
be much shorter
without such evil, and simply
following the elephants’ footsteps
into the summer sunset?

Always in Good Taste

Gaudy, Mother Nature is not
Never does she show poor taste
how she displays herself
Can you think of a time?

We may disagree with the clouds
she hangs overhead, and
the rain they dump on our parade
But hardly gaudy, you would agree

Yet, as we look in the cosmic mirror
it often seems we, as one
of her more able creatures
fail to live up to her high standards

Why else would we paint over
her beautiful forests and streams
with all our houses, roads and utility lines?
Someone please take away the brush!

Slowly it seems, we are catching on
It’s high time, we show better taste
in how we live our lives
Don’t you think?

Rant: Sometimes I wonder what the heck
we are doing to our world. We build beyond
what we need. Less is more. Don’t you think?

People of the Lie

Liars await around every corner
Coming in all shapes and sizes
Peddling deceit
Twisting truth
Dodging what truth demands

Rather than give in to reality
they cling to ego’s shadows
hiding under layer upon layer of lies
Though they pray for light
only darkness comes

The liar jeopardizes our integrity
befalls our character
sucks out our dignity
rubs away our goodness, and
ultimately robs us of who we are

There is hope
You can fight back
against the people of the lie
Not by changing them, but
by honoring the truth inside yourself

Note: M. Scott Peck, M.D., a psychiatrist, Christian
theologian and well-known author, wrote a disturbing,
but tremendously insightful book called People of the Lie:
Hope for Healing Human Evil in 1983. Peck was perhaps
best known for his 1978 book The Road Less Traveled.
I heard Peck talk in the Cleveland area about both books
in 1984. M. Scott Peck died in 2005.

Watching My Name is Earl

Made a serious mistake
Watched My Name is Earl last night on TV
Suffered permanent brain damage
from the experience

Know the show?
Hopefully not
It’s a solid hour of sheer lunacy
Craziness beyond description

Not one of the show’s characters
has an IQ above 75
Nothing against Earl, or hillbillies
After all, I grew up in Appalachia

Some experiences require no repeat
Watching My Name is Earl is one of them
Hopefully my brain cells will regenerate
If not, my poetry life may be over

Halloween

On our doorstep
goblins, witches, angels,
Bart Simpson, transformers,
Elvis, vampires, and
perhaps a crossdresser
Oh God, I hope not, but
that was some homely woman

Halloween, come and gone
Tossing October aside, and
hurling us into November
Leaving us breathless,
thinking Thanksgiving turkey
Donning winter coats, now
we dream of a white Christmas

Where does time go?
One moment, it’s May
the next, Halloween
Time flies…
fast as trick or treaters
on and off
our pumpkin-filled front porch

Truth Within Our Midst

Flirt with truth
You may find more than bargained for
Reach inside, beyond where questions go
Answers arise from deepest confusion

Yield to the moment’s beckoning
Speculation subsides
leaving the here and now
to tell it’s own story

Challenge your deepest weakness
There you find your bottom
reaching to the ocean’s floor
where time starts over

Then, before everything begins again
let your heart dwell
just beyond all surface awareness
There, give time a chance to return

Awaiting Morning’s Light

Throughout the night
moonlight swept through long dark trees
standing deathly still
waiting for morning’s quiet return

Near the creek
high above the forest bed
a familiar barred owl calls out
claiming stray moonbeams his prey

Ghost-like, shadows hover
between trees and beyond
to places figured lost
save their fortuitous lingering

Somewhere, in the spaces between
what’s known and what can never be found
the night slips into my soul, and
so shall I also wait for morning’s light

Doing What You’re Here to Do

As your life happens
in deep unexpected ways
give in, to the light
shining magestically through
all standing between you, and
that shining through
like sparkling diamonds
in the black satin night sky

Surrender, best you can
to what you’ve always been
from the first moment
your soul breathed
inhaling life’s eternal beauty
exhaling what only you can provide
in this incantation
and this incarnation

And when you know
what can be known only by you
about this life
its purpose and position
rest assured, you have achieved
what you must
so all else, inside and outside
can continue forward

Autumn Changes in Our Lives

The air turned suddenly cold last night
Not bitter and biting, like lifetime anger
festering in the soul
but cold enough
freezing helpless leaves
making them wince in pain

Taking her orders straight from the top
Autumn brings down and colors up
what eventually passes
Giving way to Old Man Winter
his long thick white beard
and deep frosty breath

Perhaps a good night for a fire, warming us
to impending changes in the weather and ourselves
Not a mandate for winter coats yet
but certainly an occasion for donning
that heavy wool sweater smiling at us
from the dresser’s bottom drawer

All this said and done
Autumn readies us, for what is to come…
transformational change, like that brought on
by the marriage of death and rebirth
Like that touching us
in our final working years, just before retirement

Strangers to Life’s Inevitable Suddenness

You forget the golden sunrise, letting
the shifting sands of time, slip
through your fingers, like
life falls off the bones
of subtle lonely strangers

Knowing nothing of the waiting
shadows linger deep
just out of reach of tomorrow, where
hearts ready in quiet desperation
haunt us, then let us go

And then, just before surrender
to what beckons
you rewind, and
in your own unique suddenness
the inevitable happens

Cat and Mouse Games

Cat and mouse–
one game I try not to play, but
one playing its way
through my life and yours

Watch and you’ll see
There is no pretending, or
disinterested play, for
every move is life or death

For the cat, it’s all in the hunt
As for the mouse, it’s about slipping away
evading capture, and
living to tell tales of the mythical adventure

Don’t fear its reality, cat or mouse
but enter dog, and cat becomes hunt’s object
mouse slips free, and
the cycle continues

Like so many things in life
Cat and mouse become part
of something larger–
something even the hunt cannot contain

Beyond What’s Apparent

Think of the odds
unthinkable as they are
Imagine something, beyond
where imagination usually leads

Find yourself, midstream
between what’s known and anything other
searching for the crack, expanding
across the cosmic egg you call your life

Hatch the truth–
not at all perfect, often missed
accessible though, if you linger
just beyond your denial

In all this
go beyond what you know
Find what nobody knows you have
What you don’t know you have

There, you’ll find your way–
the way you lost
whose end wants
just one last beginning

When a Factory’s Life Ends

Foul gray smoke once belched
from tall red brick stacks
A bittersweet sign of life–
the old factory was still working

The smoke has now ended
along with the noisy metal-banging
that kept men busy
from sun up till sun down

The iron gates are chained shut
Never again, will they greet the dark faces
of hardened men with stale breath
from strong black coffee and cigarettes

Too easy to blame, too many strikes
for the factory’s foreboding silence
but hungry workers elsewhere, willing
to work for much less
and customers needing less metal
are just as much the reason
why the dark faces have grown much darker

The mill is history–
a cold, lifeless archeological ruin
So are the paychecks that paid the bills
giving small consolation to the two thousand men
laughing at each other’s lame jokes
dreaming of days
they wouldn’t have to work so hard

Now that day has come, and
their dreams and jokes both have ended.

The Slow Economic Bleeding Takes Its Toll

So many small towns
Desperate
Down on their luck
Fallen, and
unable to get back up
No way to revive opportunity

I’ve seen their faces…
all those workers, young and old
losing it all, including their dreams
More than they ever imagined–
gone, like a vanishing ghost
leaving them cold and empty

Times have been tougher
like the Great Depression
but the slow economic bleeding
is taking its toll everywhere
Hope is still out there, but
wrapped in unfamiliar clothes

Who Am I?

Who am I…
when I stop being afraid
stop pretending
give up trying to be somebody, and
finally give in to being me?

I’m not…
the person I thought I was
wanted to be
was to please someone else, or
imagined one night all alone

The easiest thing, and
the hardest thing in the world
is being who you are
without trying, and
without being anyone or anything

All of us stray from ourselves, and
forget who we are
Next time you lose yourself, just remember
you are the subject, searching
for what you aleady are

Truth as Your Surgical Knife

Psychic surgery
You’re the surgeon
Cut carefully
removing only the bad apples
spoiling the bunch

Some parts of us, look diseased
needing extrication, but
at a closer inspection, we see
good and bad, sewn together
All parts of the same cloth

Parts and wholes
just illusions
like chickens, desert journeys, and
Sunday afternoon football
All parts of who we are

Surgery, on one level
separating us, parceling out
what’s not needed
to be healthy
and grow stronger

Should you decide
psychic surgery is needed, and
something beyond cosmetic fixing
choose truth, as the knife
used to remove what’s no longer needed

Saturday Sunsets and Promises Beyond

Of all things
happiness, above
everything else imagined
all things promised

Climbing, far ahead
Higher, than the most perfect sunset
Clamouring beyond
even best Saturday night promises

Taking us, down
life’s most worn path
time knows so well, but
finds no end in sight

There, and only there
truth curls up next to
tall sleeping lies
awaiting the next Saturday sunset

What It Takes

Not at all clear what it takes
to make it in a world
where success is all numbers
and truth is strictly quality
Clearly, more is not better

I have my doubts
You’re entitled to yours
that anything better
than more of the same will happen
when the motive is just getting by

Something different is needed
of you, me and all others concerned
if we’re to get past status quo
and march in brave new directions
where no one has been

And, in all this
we must be prepared to accept
that everything possible can be done
and still, it isn’t enough
to take us where we need to go

A Prayer for the Haunted

Sometimes ghosts haunt you
even in your dreams
Sometimes they demand conversation
Engagement you’re not ready to provide

At any cost, avoid possession
For surely then, you’ve lost it all
and then, hope escapes you
like a clouded over full moon

When phantoms come calling
become too much for you
pray, as you never have before
starting first with our Father
thou art in Heaven
protect me, in thy name

Then, ask the blessed angels
your guardian watchmen, be brought forth
in the Holy Ghost’s name, protecting
you against desperate incarnate beings
seeking complicit bodies
to host their reincarnation

In whose name, we ask
what no other can oblige
but safekeeping from all evil
And, in the name of the most holy, amen

Hanging in Pristine Nakedness

Too often, too much
At times, not enough
Then, when we’re satisfied
something new arises
moving us, to yet another new place

Usually a place we’d never find, unless
the world slows down enough
letting us catch up
letting us surpass ourselves
and find more truth than lies

More solid, dependable ground
than turbulent soil
undermining our sense of hope
Releasing us from banality
like every beach releases its sand

And once the beach disappears
and all her sand is gone
we’re left, hanging
like the new moon
in pristine nakedness, before the sun rises

No Escaping Who You Are

Escape your lies and self-deception
like time out runs the clock
and like the waves
always stay ahead of the ocean

Whatever you hold onto is nothing
compared to what is left
after you let go of the illusions
blocking your path to reality

No matter how hard you try
there is no escaping who you are
Eventually all clouds clear
and the real you shines through

Once it does, there is no hiding
no more pretending
you can be anything better
than who you already are

Find a Cure

Chloe’s eight
Sweet child, lovely smile
eternal optimism, and
stage four cancer
in her brain and spine

No, it’s not fair
Chloe knows that
She still believes in miracles
and hasn’t given up
Nor should we

Look into her sparkling brown eyes
So much life, speaking through them
telling us there’s something more powerful
than the hideous beast
feeding on her precious life energy

In all this
so much unexpected hope
from what seems so hopeless
From all this
life becomes even more special

When Those Parts of You Meet and Party

Throw a party
Invite all parts of yourself
to come and celebrate You

Nourish your guests
Serve a savory meal
Everyone feeds on truth

Drink and dance, together
like stars in the sky
on a clear moon-lit night

Finally, sit by the fireplace
Everyone gives thanks for each other
Then, holding hands, they sing togeher

October Full Moon

Why does the October full moon
seem so lonely, yet so bright?

Why does her luminous light
seem so still, without flicker?

Why does solitary moonlight
fill my dreams with deep mysteries
keeping me awake as I sleep?

Why does the moon remind me
there is more to life
than what the sun can show?

Why do such questions
linger inside me
like hungry grey wolves
scouring the woods for prey?

Why is there no rest, until
I make peace with this October moon?

Why Wait?

Sometimes we get lost, waiting
for things to happen in life
While waiting
we miss the joy in our life
and replace it with worry
doubt, disappointment and confusion

Waiting causes us to wish
for a reality different
than the one showing up
While waiting for what we want
we postpone engaging the moment at hand–
the only reality available to us

Like most bad habits dying old
waiting is a vice grip on life
causing us to miss
what presents itself
and deserves our full attention
So, why wait?

In a Heartbeat

More elegant, nothing could be
than a simple heartbeat
So rhythmic, so alive
So vital to all I am

Pushing life, through my veins
one precious surge after another
Keeping the miracle going
even without my asking

Quickening in the presence
of a lovely lady
Fluttering at the sight
of a spellbounding sunset

Invigorating me, as I run
life’s endless mazes
Exonerating me of my sins
of too much of too many things

Its irresistible music, overtakes me
fills me, sweeps me away
Fills my hope for the next moment
Thump-thump, thump-thump

The Crickets’ Autumn Song

Solitary crickets, drone on
through the night’s deepest hours
about fall’s impending ascent

They tell poignant epic stories
they never quite finish
leaving last lines, for the winter sun
to write on fresh-fallen snow

The crickets hypnotic chirping, drowns out
the 12:07 am train, passing unnoticed
except for the squealing rails, stretching
from one end of the night to the other

Summer died suddenly, but gloriously
like the fuzzy green caterpillar, morphing
in one afternoon into a graceful butterfly

The crickets just do what they do
without being asked, or rewarded
They sing in a voice, heard by the turning leaves
the fading grass, swelling pumpkins
who otherwise might miss their time

When I was young, I was too busy
to hear the crickets sing
Now autumn rises up in me
as I ready for the winter sun
to write again last lines
in the fresh-fallen snow