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Words scatter on the page

like a puzzle on a table.

Paw loose images;

gather them in pools

of blue, green, yellow.

Sharp consonants

edge vowels

in fuzzy similes.


demand a place

in broken lines.

Find your words

in the prose

of morning play.

Meanings curve

within the frame.

— t. l. cummings

Seasons on Hold


sealed in pewter heart

ash whispers untouched seasons

sitting on a shelf

Thank the Night


golden bodies rest

under shade of streaming rain

rise at midnight’s kiss

Birth of a Season


Train toys left your room,

whistled away your zest.



Rocking, creaking echoes

of your chair, forsaken.


Yet window pictures

wind chimes twirling

your soul’s melodies.


Ashes to seed,

seed to stem,

baring season’s bounty.

His Goodnight Moon


The moon knows when a soul

wanes to a sliver of light.

Eternity dwells in the world

between breaths. A star falls

in a tear. An old crescent moon

harvests the glow from the

child’s face, draws his spirit home.

When a memory of light reveals

River Styx, sun and moon

stir the tide. Darkness bears

a new phase. Nothing remains

but the curve of his smile

on the waxing moon.

— t. l. cummings

first published in Songs of Eretz Poetry Review


“Oh, don’t kill my baby and my son.

You can stretch my neck on that old river bridge,

but don’t kill my baby and my son.”

 – Lyrics by Woody Guthrie



Racists are the ones no one acknowledged

who planted hedges

separating neighbors from one way

neighborhoods without mirrors

bibles twisted into nooses dangling

dark     paths elusive as law

cowards hidden beneath bed

sheets     swinging in wind

only bones bleached white

are safe at last

Lone Willow


Lone WillowLone willow

stooped on life’s shore

boney limbs bared

from bygone storms


shivered in time’s breath

Rooted lips snubbed fluid

Fragile, blow-dried sprays

soiled the grounded bed


Long winds chimed

of better ages, closed

their wings, and

turned to sunset prayer


Daybreak closed the night

Centuries ebbed and flowed

honed her into earth-hot stone

a diamond, perfect

—  by t. l. cummings

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