I am a 71 year old, retired, police and fire dispatcher for the city of San Francisco. I have known from adolescence that I am a poet, but I largely put off writing poetry until I felt compelled by circumstances This moment of recognition was a terrible way to fall awake. I started writing seriously, if sporadically, in 2007. The purpose of building a web site for the poetry is not to promote it, but to acknowledge it by preserving it.
In Memory: Francine Wiley You were like the crystal That is cracked, but kept On display in the hutch. Or, the ring with a cavity, Revered for the diamond That dropped and was lost. You were like a fountain Where the weary sit and think, Though it is dry from a drought. … More Litany
In Memory: Toni Hardley On her final day at work, Before we left the bridge, And she went home to sleep, She said to me: “You will just have to suck it up, Like everyone else, and do your time.” Then, gently, “You will see, The remaining years will pass, quickly.” They … More The Red Ahead
In Memory: Francine Wiley (France) “Where is your mistress?” Having bounded the shoals, He shakes himself From head to tail, spraying My legs, and, as I kneel, Even my torso, With the gritty, unholy water That has soaked his fur. He lifts his hopeful face And pokes it into mine. Trusting me, he … More Encounter
From a tower, at the first hour, a bell Tolls thrice, the summons for monks to come pray. None who walk the midnight garden can tell One flower from another. Each is gray. All is a colorless ghost of itself. Thick clouds obscure all but the fiercest star. Old pots of ash are now … More Nevermore
It is my kiss, which never met your lips; It is the one word I leave unuttered; It is my soul in bloom, the petal tips Unfolding on a hand without gesture. Accept, to sense a touch beyond all touch; To hear a silence filled with thoughtfulness. Revere. Let go of this reserve, this … More The Red Rose
When I was in the seminary, I was taunted by one of my classmates: “Let’s discuss Golden’s philosophy of life.” Almost fifty years later, here it is. At some point, I shall contact this person and direct him to read my poem as his penance. This was my first homework assignment from God. After I … More The Last Lay Lost
In Memory: Cheryl Gagnon How have they flown? Did they spiral upwards in a circle, A cloud of wings aspiring? Or, were they driven down And outwards, the hurling fists Of an animal madness? What is this place bequeathed? A wormy lair to snare The most beautiful feather? As if it were an old … More The Bird Tree In Winter
For T. M. When I was young, but grown, On the sandspit of a lake called Minatare, I witnessed him walk through a litter of glass. In the whiteness of the noon-tide, The glass bits glistered like gem stones. Above, he shimmered in the waves of heat, More beautiful as an aged man, Than … More The Angel of Light
For W. P. “Reality, and its insubordinate dream.” From: “The Pumpkin Eater.” Penelope Mortimer Walking through the rain For no good reason. No umbrella, nor bright, Yellow slicker with a hood. Darkly dressed, but not depressed. No need to impress, Or be the least convincing, today. Now, feeling the incessant drops Begin to … More A Winter’s Walk
For F. R. Taylor TAOS Hands shield the eyes. Viewed from an escarpment, Across the horizon, Mountains are black with forest, But hazed in light. A granitic cloud with a corona Keeps their summits a sacred secret. The heart aches for Taos; It is nowhere to be seen. Searching the plain, … More The Holy City
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