Weary arms reach upward

toward an overcast sky.

My mind wanders,

back to seasons

of glorious colors gone by.

Brittle and broken,

my branches now snap,

under a passerby’s foot.

I look down, around,

at the tender upstarts

eager to show me up

and touch the brightest star,

cocky in the straightness

of their green spines,

while mine points downward

to a spot where soon I might become

the smoldering ashes of a

camper’s fire.

Red, gold, orange leaves

blanket the ground

below me,

ready to catch me

when I







I watched him from my car window.

I’m waiting for the light to turn green.

He stands there, motionless,

armed with a paintbrush

dripping noiselessly

on the yellowing grass.

Pointing toward Heaven,

the brush releases

a pale gray river.

It trickles downward

cautiously charting

unexplored territory

this side of Elbow Hill.

A Camel has attached itself

to his sagging lower lip.

Searing smoke rises leftward

entering that tunnel to his mind.

He blinks

and a dried up river bed

collects the withered tear.

The light is about to change.

I’ll be free to go.

Inhaling deeply,

he puts down the brush.


I leave him chipping away


at all the years of

peeling paint.paint




the morning

ripped apart

by long, thin

read – nailed fingers,


the sleeping sky


golden rivulets

reach the earth


the little children


all alone on the corner


for the lethargic

loping, yellow beast,

shuttling them protectively,

carrying them

to the playground

above the gray horizon

which quickly fades

when night begins to fall.

Bakelite Emotions


Melting street

trapping plastic souls.

Tar oozing over concrete

edges of crowded sidewalks.

Flannel suits and Dior dresses

jump quickly out of the way.

The sun burns white

dark glasses shutting it out.

Around the corner,

a body meditates

on the plight of the homeless,

a crumpled bag

providing amber nourishment

and the illusion of flight.

A Lesson In Painting I & II


Paint from within.

Use beauty and wisdom

to design your work.

Close your mind

to interruptions.

Paint from within.

See beyond your eyes

to reality and imagination.

Push the cold away.

Paint from within.

Bring lovers together.

Let them share

a stolen kiss.

Push away

the one who has been scorned.

Paint from within.

Bring the world to you,

so close

you can reach out and touch it.

Now, paint from within.




Colors are life,

paint not only pictures

but true life.

Paint with your heart

not your hands.

Colors are life.

Paint budding green trees,

not splashes of mixed oils

to give only allusion.

Smell the new growth

on a spring breeze.

Colors are life.

Paint secret meetings,

not stick figures

holding hands.

Paint love from within.

Colors are life.

Paint babies so real

you can hear them cry,

touch their velvet skin.

See beyond your eyes

to reality and imagination.

Colors are life, now paint!

Life Cycle


The cycle of my life,

starting and ending in a circle,

round and round it goes

losing sight of the beginning,

trying to avoid the ending

for fear of leaving nothing behind

to be remembered by.

Our children prove I’ve been, are you?

Why must I follow in someone’s footsteps?

Why can’t mine be the first

impressions in fresh fallen snow?

This is my cycle,

but it is our existence,

our beginning, our ending,

the cycle of my life.