A Poem's Origin

“A poem begins as a lump in the throat, 
              a sense of wrong, 
                                         a homesickness, 
                                                                  a lovesickness.” 

― Robert Frost

Rocket Fuel For the Soul

“unless it comes out of


your soul like a rocket,


unless being still would


drive you to madness or


suicide or murder,


don't do it.


unless the sun inside you is


burning your gut,


don't do it.
” 


― Charles Bukowski

Good Books

Ernest Hemingway, on writing a good book (or story or essay or poem); scooped off the rain-soaked NYC sidewalk on 41st Street.

Snippets

"How do I get myself un-sad today?"

"You might not be able to."

*

*

*

"Can you hang in there?"

*

*

*

"Mm-hmm."  

*
*

*

"But when do we get to be dazzlingly happy?"

Summertime Ice Cream

We sit side-by-side. Our bare feet dangle over the wall's edge.

Our legs gently swinging. Playfully. They touch.

The summer day is blazing.

We’re eating ice cream.

Droplets of sweet cream loop around the cone.

The sun shines. Bright and sticky.

We dart into the corner movie theater.

The cold air shocks our sun-kissed skin like little pin-pricks.

Its dark, but for the lights flickering on the screen.

We shiver. And we feel alive.

A dollop of strawberry slides off your ice cream cone.

I catch it on the tip of my finger.

And I look at you. I lift it up to you. Into your mouth. 
Your lips close around my finger.

My mind reels and skips.

I'm waiting. Waiting for the ice cream truck.

There are two quarters taped to above my ankle, under my left sock.

Waiting for my Sky Blue Italian Ice. With a flat wooden stick.

You're the popsicle; I lick you up in the heat.

Everything turns sweet raspberry colored - our tongues, our lips, our smiles.

You taste sky blue.

And your sweetness drips down and into my waiting mouth.

I reach for you. My arms are around you.

You lean your head towards me.

Your body is against mine.

We melt.

And we explode.

One of Life's Biggest Lessons, On a Wall In Mexico

On Writing - Words from Dreams

"She captured words in a dream, like delicately catching hold of a butterfly's wings as it flutters around . . . Most great poetry is like that." 

-- Haruki Murakami

On Writing - Thoreau

"Write while the heat is in you."

                                                  -- Henry David Thoreau

Late for the Autumn - A Caramel Apple Haiku

Slowly opened it up.

Dove, eyes closed, meeting sweet crunch.  

Sticky on the mouth

Nighttime Reverse Freeze-out

Time shivers to stop, the moment preserved, cocooned, gift-wrapped in white.

As the plink-a-plink of freezing rain bats against the glass, the steady rhythm licks at him and wraps itself around the moment. 

Beads of water trickle, crawling upwards across the windows.

Hidden stars reveal themselves, white toy helicopters spinning downward one-by-one.

And the snow comes.  

It flutters across the moon.