Saturday, December 17, 2011


Into the church
we few mourners gather
close to the small table
filled with a photo 
of a smiling
young man,
a single candle,
and a golden cube.

I did not know him
whose ashes
now lay within 
that dark space.

Old friends, his parents, 
and so I came
to keep them company.

We pray the sacred
texts, sing holy 
mass to send 
his lingering soul
sweeping home

to God,

but his mother weeps 
in the silent repose
of ancient peace.

Thursday, December 15, 2011

Lake Country

Photo Courtesy of Sonja Bingen

Dark line, thin divide
sky and lake face,
gaze upon 
cloud and ripple, 
flush of fading sun,
in cold depths unseen
but deeply known,
to ancient space.

Monday, December 12, 2011

Travis Moonrise

Over barren trees
the tattered moon 
ascends, barely clearing
dark hills
pausing, unwilling
to fall back 
into cold, delta fog,

like the lumbering C-5 
through the gloom 
rising on bright thunderbolts
to December's
bleeding moon.

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

Uncertain Night

Uncertain night,
cold lamp-light
pitches misty tents,
meager respite
from December's blight.

Winter fog softens
both pain and joy,
consigns hot youth
to sterile void.


Неопределенная Ночь

неопределенной ночью,
холодной лампы света
смолы туманной палатки,
скудные передышку
от ожога в декабре.

Зимний туман смягчает
боль и радость,
предает горячей молодежи
в стерильной пустоты.

Monday, December 5, 2011


Dry grass is shifting
in chill autumn wind

soft hills once green
are brown once again

I yearn for the rain,
winter's blessing to fall

and spread wide white fields
of asphodel.

Gray stones mark my
resting place

deep in the earth
where I lie by dark lakes,

but in winter I crave
the fruit of the pall

Oh, spread wide bright fields
of asphodel.

 Author's Note: Asphodel, in Ancient Greek mythology, is a favored food of the dead and is often planted at grave-sites.


Сухая трава смещается
В осенний ветер холод

мягкие холмы когда-то зеленый
коричневые раз

Я жажду дождь,
Зимой благословение падать

и широко расставив белые поля
из асфодель.

Серые камни помяни мое
место отдыха

глубоко в земле
где я лежу на темные озера,

но зимой я жажду
Плод покров

Ох, широко расставив яркие поля
из асфодель.

Saturday, December 3, 2011

Advent Song

In the cold, hard dome
of December's sky,
distant stars carelessly glide
above our dark, bewildered lives

as we search heaven
for one, perfect  star,
but despair that, for us, 
heaven's too far.

What gift can we give you, 
O Bethlehem's son,
to help save the children
of faithless Eve and bold Adam?

Wednesday, November 30, 2011


would be like
over and 

Seeing how it all will happen
before it happens
would be the final blight,
a leaden pall falling
on your joyful life.

So much better to live
in ignorance,
in hope that tomorrow
will be better
or at least the same
as today.

Monday, November 28, 2011

Morning Means More

Morning means more
than it did before.

Back in the heady days
when night throbbed
neon-full, flashing
surging through moon
soaked skies,
I thought it all
was mine!

But now in the morning,
rising before the sun,
pouring strong coffee
into my steaming mug,
the old cat on my lap,
silently I watch
as the sun rises,
and wonder as  I see
how He fills the land

most generously.

Friday, November 25, 2011

Waking to Darkness

Reaching to turn off the alarm, 
I look out dark windows 
and see the dreaming moon, 
high in the tree, 
filling the sky with 
unfinished sleep.

Better to wake 
to the morning's light,
to roll on my side, glance 
out the highest pane 
and see the sun 
fill the world again.

Tuesday, November 22, 2011


Dark spirit
seals my eyes,
hides from me
how wise trees
recall lusty
summer green, 

they're dead,
and when I die
my pain will also end
with his dubious gift
of nothingness.  

But I don't believe
this lie
of passionless 
eternal night,  

for in my core I feel
searing tongues of flame,
lifting me,
like spring,
from winter's grave!



Темный дух
уплотнений моих глазах,
прячется от меня
как мудрые деревья
Напомним похотливых
Летом зеленые.

Он говорит,
они будут мертвы,
и когда я умру
моя боль закончится
с его сомнительным даром

Но я не верю
эта ложь
от бесстрастного
вечной ночи,

ибо в моей основной я чувствую,
языки пламени,
жгучая благодать
подъемные меня, как весной,
с могилы зимний!

Friday, November 18, 2011


глубоко в моем центре

он резонирует
мягко, это
мне в ухо.

ее любовник,
как густой туман
прибрежные склоны.

но эта сырая песня
тревожный гонг,
бедных подражания,

все объяснение.

это просто


deep in my center
lies the 

it resonates 
softly, it 
in my ear.

its lover, 
the word 
like thick mist 
coastal slopes.

but this crude song is 
a metaphor, 
an anxious gong, 
a poor imitation, 
a mockingbird.

the word 
all explanation.

it just simply 

Thursday, November 17, 2011

Lament for a Cop

Helicopters hover,  searching
for the one who shot
the man who served,

who held a thin shield
between us and the chaos
of violent minds, reckless desires
born of poverty, 

He coached our kids
showed them how
to hit three-pointers, 
be safe, 
without fear.

Fearlessly, he pursued the robbers,
slammed them to a firm
stop, and followed them
down an ally
to his death.

How can our city, 
our state or country, 
our culture survive
when ignorance wins
and heroes die?

dedicated to Officer Jim Capoot, Vallejo PD, killed in the line of duty on 11/17/11