Photography and watercolor painting both capture fleeting moments and emotions, each medium revealing a unique perspective on the world. In photography, light and shadow dance together, freezing time with a click, while watercolor allows hues to blend and flow, giving life to imagined landscapes. The act of crafting poetry mirrors these art forms, as words weave together to form vivid imagery and evoke deep feelings. The poet, much like the artist, selects each word carefully, painting a tapestry of experiences and emotions on the canvas of the page.

In this creative endeavor, a poet plays with rhythm, meter, and sound, just as an artist experiments with color and brushstroke. The white space between lines acts like the negative space in a painting, allowing thoughts to breathe and resonate. Writing poetry requires not just observing the world but translating it into language that stirs the soul, capturing a moment in time that resonates far beyond the page. Through this lens, poetry becomes a vehicle for expression, inviting readers to lose themselves in the beauty of language and emotion, much like a stunning photograph or a delicate watercolor will draw one in.

"Uneven Script"

With Introduction

Intro: "Uneven Script" came about as a reaction to overly strict submission guidelines. Rather than force my writing into prescribed forms and tones, I decided to break free. This poem is a genuine, unpolished expression of myself, created for the sheer joy of it.

Iambic Pentameter.

I am a Bic and a meter.

Gobbledygook.

Didn’t read Yeats.

Prefer Eminem to Emily.

Anyway, Dickinson brings me down.

I can’t dance to it.

My inner child meandered through a garden of verses,

But mostly, I took the other path and made more reverses.

Don’t compare my works or judge them.

Though poorly stacked rocks build an uneven wall, it still stands small or tall.

The snowman, rolled and heaved, shaped against nature in lopsided proportion,

Is more beautiful, not for its grace, but for its resistance to forces.

The path I lay may not be through a yellow wood, well-trodden, simply understood,

Or treasured beyond measure to be followed and remembered.

And my Sanskrit word track is not chosen with regarding rules, guardrails, signposts,

Fences, nor expected end.

Mostly, the thicket is choked, the site-line obscured,

And each step forward into the unknown abyss; earned, rough, raw, unfinished

My unguarded lyrics clash with color, are piled willy-nilly,

Chopped and diced, thrown together, heaped and loosely balanced,

A Jenga puzzle about to topple, leap-frogging metaphors and spilling outside the lines.

But this isn’t any game,

Maybe a lame attempt at bucking off the narrow guidelines I was told to follow,

If I wanted to submit.

But now, I quit.

Hey, I’m not dragging you down this gravel word byway.

You followed me. I’m kicking you out of my word pile. I’m leaving you beside the road.

Get out of my notation highway and write your own poem!

"No, Not"

(written in November 2024, after election) ~

I’m not going to capitulate to a new stinging reality

Not raging against others’ narrow needs

Not dividing the fractions on rates

Not throwing the sticky net of gathering, culling and shucking lives

Not curbing the seepage of fear which oozes into the fissures of hate

Not placing measures on unchecked deeds

Not riding the tide to float with the current

Not going to nap while others sleep deeply

My pen and brush will speak

Though my manner is meek

My resolve is steel to crash against the mighty monster of corruption, power and greed

When I see misguided folks flock as a cloud of birds blocking out the sun

They know not where they are headed and it does not bode well, NO, NOT AT ALL

"Chatham"

Included in the 2012 Chatham Tricentennial Time Capsule ~

Like the force of a magnet,

You always pull me back,

And just as sure as the shifting sands,

The feeling of safety the harbor gives the crew,

How the lighthouse beam pierces thick fog,

Chatham, you are my home.

When the tide is low

The clammer rakes your back,

When it turns, the boats go do-si-do.

When it’s high, the ospreys fly and screech,

Over the shores’ buoys and floats.

Chatham, I long to be here.

I love your seasons, the winds, the storms,

The colors of Autumn and cranberries,

Stark Pleasant Bay with chop, the still mornings,

Oyster Pond with lifting mists,

Your glorious sunrises and sunsets.

Show off.

Chatham, I’ve walked your beauty,

Admired your birds, met your great people,

Shopped your stores, argued your politics at the Squire,

Relived your history at the Atwood.

When young, Annie and I had tea parties,

With Alice Stallknecht surrounded by her paintings.

I’ve bowled at the old alley,

Leaned on the shingles at the Godfrey Mill,

Shared a milkshake after a movie at the old drugstore,

Bought Twinkies at Bearse’s Market,

Sat on a picnic table outside Ho-Jo’s,

Where a guy named Todd told me I had root beer eyes.

Chatham, every July 4th, every First Night belongs to you.

So does every Summer, cook-out and swim.

I long to come back to you if I’m away,

But I’m here to stay. I’m back for good.

Chatham, what I mean to say, I’m here.

My heart is here.

My home is here.

I love you.

"A Crack"

Held deep in fissures,

amidst the clasp of city debris,

layered like a book of history

long forgotten,

the roots cling.

Bitter cold creeps into the crevice.

Time somersaults forward.

Heat bakes the abandoned pavement.

A thousand footsteps

thunder and quake over

the tiny orphan shoot.

Children play kickball,

dogs sniff and pass by.

The sun casts leaf patterns

of shadow lace on the walkway.

Stems slowly unfurl.

Leaves uncurl and probe the city air.

Tender green emerges against grey cement and steel.

One sweltering day,

a blossom bursts open.

A perfect red flower blooms

through a crack in a city sidewalk.

"Oily"

(Loosely based on true events in the Summer of ’69 with apologies to our law enforcement community) ~

Oily coyly stopped his chopper,

as a proper eavesdropper shopper

bravely waved a pointed joint,

under the discomposed coppers’ nose.

“This hair-lippy hippy, bike-psyched-type,

Mr. Cop, dropped this dynamite, white,

exquisite, favorite opiate tidbit,

leaving cool, fool, turned -on phenomenon.”

The grief chief, with relief, fetched his handkerchief,

blowing his flowing, glowing beak.

He chose to presuppose that this freak,

who reeked of unique tinfoil oil,

was an uncut slut-mutt, destitute,

pollutant, who was an absolute disputant,

of the authority of his cities criminal committee.

“I arrest you on possession, detest, incest, molest, and protest.

So, we’ll take your fake namesake on outbreak,

and that obscene mean quarantine gasoline machine,

to the accusation station!”

There Oily went through allegation,

aggravation, concentration and finally,

captivation, in isolation.

Out he strut, a mean nut with a crewcut.

After a while, in a pile, about a mile from the exile,

He found, interwound on the round ground mound,

an unforeseen scene of his unclean green machine.

With robust mistrust, he viewed the rust.

With lust, he thrust his leg to the starting peg.

He pointed his bike in the position of his demolition mission,

and rode with ambition at the thought of the exhibition.

The copper on the corner looked in horror as

Oily coyly again stopped his chopper.

“I’ll fulfill your will, but don’t kill!” the cop shrilled.

With a smile, the violated vile juvenile, said,

“I won’t. But one thing I bring, as a present,

to make it evident, that you repent the torment,

imprisonment, and punishment I underwent,

for your interferent, fraudulent mismanagement.”

With astonishment at this different development,

The cop underwent intense embarrassment.

For the once-longhair, began to tear the pair

of underwear, there, as citizens began to stare.

The big-wig pig was left with despair,

bare in the square.

Oily spat, with just disgust, as he tore the dust.

Away he rode to his abode,

leaving the Fruit of the Loom size 43

In the branch of a blue yew tree.

When your mood breaks from Winter cold to Summers’ warmth,

I love you more.

The sultry heat, the drone of far-off lawns mowed near dappled gaps of daisies

Dragonflies alighting on the lacy leaves of blue Nigella,

Bees laden with pollen tilting on their heavy takeoffs and landings,

Serenaded by sparrows joyful song of calling.

There is no sorrow in Summer, only joy!

Memories snap back, turning the pages in life’s photo album,

Screen doors slamming, sun on my back, grass at my toes,

Spitting watermelon seeds, plunging in sapphire waters,

Popsicles shared with family laughter and the taste lingers,

Everything screams, “Savor the moment, it is fleeting!”

When the leaves fall and bitter sweet, the sap stops flowing,

Then there will be time to ponder and look back,

But then, the green turns to scarlet and crimson and gold.

It is time to harvest and the crops reap bountiful,

Fall has its splendor and crisply wraps into Winters’ crush,

Settling a cold blanket of snow on Mother Earths’ body

And binds her in frozen wonder, shapely, naked and exposed,

Beautiful beyond words, a model posing for the waiting artist.

I think, then, I love you more.

Slowly, a miracle happens,

Expected, yet when it comes, magnificent!

Crocus pop their crowns of color upward,

The soil upends hidden treasures,

Unfurled gems sway on their stalks in vibrant strands.

Change creeps onward,

To melt and move, and mold the world, again, anew!

Rotations emerge, bursting in bloom.

And then I know. I love you more. I love you more, in Spring.

I love you, like the seasons. The circle is complete.

Spring, Summer, Winter, Fall. I love them ALL.

A carousel of seasons.

They bring each reason, each rhyme, each rhythm of poetry,

And reminder of why, I love you,

Because they remind me of you.

"Reasons I Love Seasons"

"Free"

The lark sings with open heart.

The tune is free and glad.

The river runs, playing leap-frog over rocks,

Babbling comfort to the fern draped glade.

Fish weave through the gleaming light beams,

As currents carry swirling leaves above.

The wide sky unfurls cloud sails

To float and billow like pillow doves.

Trees gather to gossip and whisper in groups,

Lifting their skirts with hoops, to dip and curtsy,

Then stoop, at the parting to the wooded door.

The meadow holds a carpet of flowers

Woven into a paisley patterned floor.

The grasses stir with ease,

On the fragrant, wafting, swooping breeze.

All this is free, and full of joy!

I am drunk with gladness to see

The earth opens wide her arms,

Laden with beauty and bounty and charm.

"The Winds"

The winds, the winds, the winds, the winds!

What do they want?

They’ve taken everything already!

They’ve taken my leaves and stripped the branches bare.

They’ve bent the conifer’s backs like stooped old men,

Yet they rap mercilessly at my door and windows,

Shaken the very ground and my peace with it.

What do they want?

They howl and screech, they moan and stomp, they push and groan!

The winds, the winds, the winds, the winds!

They pry every crevice, pierce, penetrate, prowl, pilfer, up-end, tumble, rattle and rumble.

The winds, the winds, the winds, the winds!

What do they want?

Rearranging, sculpting, framing, claiming!

Like an army of tanks, leaving a swath of destruction in their wake,

Crushing, mercilessly onward, taking, taking, taking, taking!

When will it end?

The constant shaking?

This Force of Forces?

This “Thing” that demands fear, supplication,

Which never grants pardon,

Rules with brutal ferocity,

And leaves with no apology.