waiting for hot water

watching the blue flames
the bottom of the kettle

strip off the wrapper
just below the surface

tiny tea oscillations
the water

sugar crystals
to the spoon’s edge

two crystals on the
of your lip.



a recipe for bread

baking bread
is not for the faint of heart

there is patience needed
time for the yeast to proof
and dough to rise,
the kneading and baking

You are hungry.
I make you bread.

your eyes follow me
preparing it
rocking gently back and forth
stretching, folding
over, and again
flouring the table boards
and pressing fingers
deeply into the dough

I tuck the loaves
into their pans to bake
and we wait

later I watch your teeth
as they sink into the browned crust
disappearing into your mouth
until  you are full

and only then,
hallelujah, I whisper,
oh hallelujah

squatter’s rights

on the window pane
your white shoulder
curves – half a cartoid

with only my fingertip
gliding tangentially across
to tether you to me

original – those of you who know me…know I don’t tend to edit. But after letting this marinate, I think simpler is better.

the moon hangs low
over the darker shadows
of the willow trees

disheveled fronds
strain against captivity
silhouetted against  cobalt sky

on the window pane
your white shoulder
curves – half a cartoid

with only my fingertip
gliding tangentially across
to tether you to me


how light stretches


the city lights below
the almost stars
hanging high over the bridge
across the bay

we rode the trolley
across town
thigh to thigh
on the hard wooden seats

searching for constellations
you slid a bit closer
your eyes clouding
when I kissed your hair

blueshift tells me
every day the
Andromeda galaxy
is moving towards us

but you pulled the cord
at the next stop
the light stretching, redshift,
as you walked away

Haiku of sorts 

Faint stars in the sky

Scattered like freckles on skin 

I only see you 

a thousand little cuts

how long is the wave
just reaching land
starting buried deep
far beyond the break

they say some anger has a long fuse-
welling and building
biding time until
it pounds fists
against the pilings
crashes furiously
onto the sand

I’ve watched the little wavelettes
lapping against the beaches
slowly nibbling away
at self
and at shore.


I’m wrapped
in your dirty tshirt
on the old porch swing

how is it that
the tang of old sweat
overrides the new
the just now soft scent of grass
and of the ground after the rain

i think of you
and the moon
the last sliver bravely shining

before it slips behind
the tallest oak tree
standing there
100 years or more

in a few more hours
when the sun paints the dew
strung across spiders’ webs
between shorn blades

I’ll wash clean
my green-stained feet
and your shirt
crumpled on the floor

Petrichor (/ˈpɛtrkɔər/) is the earthy scent produced when rain falls on dry soil. The word is constructed from Greek πέτρα petra, meaning “stone”, and ἰχώρ īchōr, the fluid that flows in the veins of the gods in Greek mythology. from Wikipedia

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