Just published, Book III

SEA GLASS SOUL - Invisible Colors, Poems and Paintings

My poetry and Pat Morgan's art - available at,
The Sea Glass Poetry Trilogy is now complete.

Sunday, July 29, 2012


                                                My wife found another man.
The night she told me,

Having waited
For just the right moment,

But it wasn’t the right moment
For me.  I felt bashed

And assaulted.  Mugged.
Dying would have been easier.

It was as though I’d been pressed in a winch
By a wench, until no air was left within.

Months passed.  I survived.
Understanding would take longer.

Two years later she wanted to return,
I no longer wanted her.

I was coming off a fill-in relationship
So filled with sex, I lost my virginity again.

My lover was a young mother
Rocked by her own divorce,

Remarkably kind and giving.
She gave me such tender attention

The gaping hole in me
Stopped throbbing.

I doubt we had a clue as to
What we were really doing.

We were both too bruised and needy
To create a sound place to stand.

We mistook physical comfort
For solid ground, but at least

This was our moment, our 15 rounders
Were over, we could leave the rings behind.

Sunday, July 22, 2012


                                    Erwin carried himself with gentle dignity,
An unobtrusive figure,
What he lacked in height,
He made-up in stature.

His spirit, like breath on a frosty day,
Rose above the crowd,
Even Hitler couldn’t diminish
The sparkle in his eyes,

He could lift with his wise words,
Inspire by the sincerity of his deeds,
Warm with his inner glow,
Light a fire by the intensity of his moral stand.

His convictions were vertical like girders,
Yet he lived with his feet touching the ground.
He loved his wife, children, community;
Also sand and sea, the beauty of nature.

He knew no other way to be, no other deeds to do,
No other words to say, no lessor love to feel.
His life, like a shooting star lighting the darkness,
Left a sweet, lingering afterglow.

Sunday, July 15, 2012


I live on a sandbar
And expect someday,
The ocean will wash
Me out to sea.
Till then I write.

I write poetry, but wish
I could write a good joke.
Did you hear the one
About a priest and a rabbi
Meet in a bar…that’s as far as I get.

When I was a kid,
My parents never told me
Not to write poetry,
So I’ve been at it
For 50 years.

Now that I’m older,
I can’t decide
If I’m turning into
My mother or my father.
One was water, the other land.

It doesn’t matter.
I keep writing, waiting for the big one
When the bay meets the ocean
And sweeps me and my poetry
Out to sea.

Sunday, July 8, 2012


Age had cost the old man
Most of his sight,
More than half his hearing and
Much of his memory,
But he could recall
A summer morning
When the crows
Squawked their claim
To the telephone wires
And a yellow sun rose
Through low clouds
That magically turned it red.
He told his son
That was the day
He waited at the train station,
Bouquet in hand, but
She did not arrive.  Undeterred,
He waited hours for
The next train. 

“I’d have given my right arm to see her
Get off that train,
But she didn’t come, nor call.
Who needs sight or hearing or memory
After such a day?”

His son put his hand
On the old man’s arm,
Squeezed it and said
Without even a hint of recrimination,
“But Dad, Mom did get off that second train.
You married her
And lived together
For 50 years. 
You just don’t

Sunday, July 1, 2012


                                                            Go ahead –
Quit, Give up,
Go back to Egypt,
Be a slave, worse,
Be a content slave.

The eternal struggle
Between a past
You can perceive
And a future
That’s God’s secret.

But the past has
No possibilities.
Lock that door.
Jump out
The window.

Brave one,
You can fly.
Look back,
You have
Hero’s wings.

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