Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)

Sometimes It Seems All Of The Days Are Gray

sometimes it seems
all of the days are gray
and the doors closed
without a glimpse of the one
who steps across the threshold
you are the one who walks in the rain past the curious stares of dry children in their after school program coloring within
and further along past the empty storefronts waiting for new tenants
you smile at the woman smoking beneath the dripping eaves
the open sign flashing red behind her

inside at home it is warm
the lights cast off the chill
but you know that you can
never ever leave the gray behind

Posted in Art and Photography

(PHOTOSHOOT) AM Walk in B and W Part Deux

Posted in Art and Photography

Urban Black and White – Photo Series

Photos from recent jaunts around the city…

More photos at

Posted in The Sunday Driver: Life in the Slow Lane

When the Wild Intervenes

Timing is everything
and I am not always in control of my time keeping.

Yet often I find that I am where I need to be
and I see
what at a different hour would have remained unseen.

The rain begins to fall.
A deer enters an urban yard.
Suddenly I am where the wild intervenes.

Posted in Finding Frost's Road: Encounters with the Culture

Walking home on a Saturday morning

I walk through the town in the quiet of an early Saturday morning.

I listen to the loud greetings of the alcoholic men who wait for the liquor store to open.

I walk past discarded clothes where the homeless slept.

On the street that was crammed with rush hour traffic yesterday, now there is only the occasional wind of a passing car.

Here is the place where I spoke to the proprietor about playing music in the evenings. She has yet to respond. I think of my concert hat that still hangs from the hook in a dark closet and my guitar lying lonely in its case in the corner.

I share a smile with the old woman beneath her magnolia tree which reminds me of my boyhood home.

Then I am at the hill and climbing toward my house, wondering what awaits me there today.

Behind me the sun rises.

I feel the heat on my back and before me my shadow stretches out, leading the way, pointing me towards home.

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)


In a dirty, dusty world of freshly tilled soil,
a man labors to pull unyielding stones from the earth.
It is agonizing work, but his perseverance is rewarded
with harvest after harvest,
good year after good year.

A town grows up a few miles away
and the importance of the land increases.
The community must be fed and the land provides,
harvest after harvest,
good year after good year.

The town becomes a city and the city becomes great.
It stretches and spreads outward until the land is
sacrificed to its unending, unyielding growth,
harvest after harvest,
year after year.

Soon civilization realizes the ignorance of its decision.
Starvation is at hand and the world crumbles.
Presently the land is filled with the ruins of
broken buildings.

In a dirty, dusty world of freshly tilled soil,
a man labors to pull unyielding stones from the earth . . .

(journal entry 2.18.87)

Posted in Art and Photography

B&W Photos From Several Days Of Walks




Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)

orange skies


i am an urban rat
i live under orange skies
clouds growing fat
with lamp light

rat a tat tat
a siren cries
tomorrow another stat
from another fight

i can’t control that
in this city of lies
but i know where the rain’s at
falling from orange skies
on the streets tonight