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, March 31, 2013


 Ashley was four years old
The summer I went to war.
She was an architect,
Engineer, builder
Of grand sand castles.
Detail and proportion
Were her expertise.

The first morning her mother
Took her to the ocean’s edge,
Ashley, armed with bucket
And butter knife performed magic
Creating a castle built
For a prince and princess.

After dinner, her grandfather
Escorted her on a walk to the beach.
She pulled his arm hurrying him
Toward her creation.  She found
The spot where her castle
Once stood.  Little was left,
Only a wet round mound of sand.

  “Why, Grandpa? Why?”
He pulled her close and hugged her.
What good was explaining
Wind and tides, sun and moon,
The eternal turning of the spheres,
But he tried. 
She protested, “It’s not fair.”
He replied, “It’s not trying to be fair.
It’s just the way it is.” He paused.
“You can build it again tomorrow.”
She did. And again the tide took
Her castle.  All summer long
She never stopped building.

I returned home. I had survived
My year at war. I had lost buddies,
Buddies had lost arms and legs.
I had abandoned all hope of normal.
I watched as Ashley spent her
Summer building castles.

She never said it, but
She showed me:
Don’t let the
Beat you. 
She rebuilt my faith.

Sunday, March 24, 2013


When the bridge I built failed

During the evening rush,

Falling into the river below,

Making a sundae topped with

Cars and people, floating,

Drowning, it was me who crashed.

My failure was murder, but I live,

Not even probation or confinement.

My A’s in physics at Cornell,

Hadn’t prepared me for the collapse.

Tell my father not to be proud anymore,

Explain to my mother, love is not enough.

Give my wife

A message;

If I could be someone else tonight,

I’d be a baker selling bread

To hungry people

On their way home.

Sunday, March 10, 2013


Watercolor by
Pat Morgan

My hand on her heart,
I am more aware of
The rise and fall
Of her breathing chest,
Than the fullness
Of her soft breasts.
Is my new lust,
Having the depth of a canyon
Formed over years by a patient river,
Speaking French, where understanding
Comes more from inflection, than translation,
Not waning when wrinkles cross
The canvas of her gentle face,
Lasting gloriously beyond
Our bones and breath.

Sunday, March 3, 2013


Sister with the bruised cheek, you
Did not stumble, but came too close.
If you dare get close again,
Again the blows will fall.

When I walk the beach
The dark stain of earlier waves
Guides me how near I dare go
Without getting wet.

Sometimes a rogue wave
Slaps the shore.  Exceeds
What came before.  Either I leap,
Or my feet get a soaking.

After days of calm, his rage
Will return aimed at you
And lest you dart, you may not
Survive the beating.

You are a loyal wife,
Humble but blind, you're
Ever more precious than
Your relationship with him.

The waves may have no say
Striking the sand. 
Sister, you are not held to him
By gravity.  Time to leap.

A Collection of Poetic Pieces