The snow is gone.
Its beauty melted into the barren ground.

The snow shovel remains in the corner, rusting.


The Simple Answer

The Old Man wakes to find
Death on two feet wearing fluffy slippers
with bunny faces and glass eyes.

“I know why you are here
but why the fuzzy footwear?”

“There are reasons.
Some funny, some not.
But the truth be told
my feet are cold!”


The Weather

The winter gloom has settled in
And it will remain for weeks.

The light on my writing table
Is as dim as my eyesight
and spring is well off.

I will endure.


Circumstances have nudged me on to a path slightly oblique from my norm and reduced my poetic form to mere muttering which may not be apparent to anyone chancing upon these efforts even though I know my muse is distracted and is unable to provide a clear voice for my pen and I will require patience as I wait the return of the inspiration necessary to proceed in this new direction, whatever it may be.


Muse lays back and mutters to itself.
I am not privy to this conversation
until sometime later, perhaps.

If I am attentive, Muse may whisper to me.


I can capture the words if my pen is ready,
otherwise I lose them forever.

A Walk In The Rain

An illusory downpour is hidden in the glare
of a bright autumn sun shining in a cloudless sky.

It is make-believe. All of it.

Even so, we blissfully bask in what we imagine,
whether rain or sun, on a day we want to call today.

But wait.

It can be erased.
Not erased but unimagined and
it will disappear as quickly as it appeared.

Then, stricken by the pain of our loss, we will mourn.

The Future

As I age, my future
(or at least my concept of a future)

My spiritual adviser
(I don’t have one)
is pleased since his teaching
denies the existence of a future.

My financial advisor
(I don’t have one of these either)
is displeased since his teaching
argues for an expensive future.

My dog
(I have one)
is neither pleased nor displeased
and in her silence,
dreams of a yard without squirrels.

The Circle

Years ago, a child was born
And soon transformed into

A warrior whose sword dulled
A teacher whose knowledge dried
A father whose children aged
A husband whose wife died

And now, the child reappears
And quietly waits his return

To what he was
Before he was born.

I Am

I am an old man.
A wandering alien
In an unfamiliar world.

A world where
Only scattered artifacts
Serve as my reminders.

I am an old man.
A wisp of a shadow passing
Over fresh ground.

I am still me,
I whisper.

Poetry Lives

On this grey October morning,
Beethoven, rain, and a pen.

Nothing more is needed to bring contentment
To the cloistered world of the Old Hermit.