Tuesday, September 22, 2015


            Insomnia is gray. Not the pearl gray of the buttons on a new spring suit.  There is no iridescence at 2:00am.  No faint hints of pink or powder blue, no lights reflecting off a smooth polished surface.
            It is not the dove gray of a pair of soft, leather gloves.  There is nothing pliable or supple at 3:00 a.m. Nor is it the gray of storm clouds, charged with ions and full of power.

            The gray at 4:00 a.m. is dull and dead.
                                     an instinctive pull
                                     to the glow of the street lamp-
                                     the dance of moths

            Insomnia is gravel gray.  Dark, uneven, blotchy.  A gray mass covered with a dusty film and course sandy grit.  With each move and turn, the dust lifts and floats inside my head, obscuring thoughts.  The grit irritates the soft tissues of the soul and imbeds itself in the spongy surface of the mind.

                                       hidden lives
                                      in the shadowy night-
                                      the cries of insects

            The gray swells until it has filled all the spaces that no candle or incandescent light can dispel.  Then…the first, nearly imperceptible tint of dawn gray, and the gravel gray, suddenly and completely, retreats to a corner and waits.

                                       repeated bird calls-
                                       lulled to sleep by the language
                                       of morning
Presence, May 2005

Sunday, September 13, 2015



Published Daily Haiga
5/12/4;  7/4/12;  2/6/13

Friday, September 4, 2015


                                              green and orange leaves
                                              the capriciousness
                                              of autumn;
                                                      how do I explain
                                                      the changes in my life?

                                              in these cool days
                                              it is her shawl I wear–
                                              a vibrant orange
                                              flashing stich after stich
                                              through her flying fingers

Magnapoets, Jan. 2009
Modern Tanka Press, July 2009