"The Lincoln Lilac Larceny"

The names, faces and details have been blurred to protect the not-so-innocent.

I was a lilac
thief in Lincoln,
the church grounds
dark, deserted
just me
and God
and two noisy dogs
who obviously cried
wolf too often
for no…

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"Marking Time"

Winter always seems to be the season for deep reflection, and pondering the past seasons.

I mark the passing seasons by the shifting of the sun
Gone are the luminous red fireball evenings of summer
Replaced by the naked clarity…

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In a few short weeks between Thanksgiving and New Year's 2004, we bid a fond farewell to my 101-year old grandmother Madeleine and prepared to welcome my first nephew into the world. I have struggled these past several years with

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"The Pen and I Are Old Companions"

I am finally learning to reward myself for being a writer,

or a cistern

collecting gravity-bound drops of words together

saving them for a bright moment,

or a dark truth,

or simply an apt place for their release


I have…

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The Great Smoky Mountains are far and away America's favorite national park and a glittering jewel of biodiversity. As with Shenandoah, my own "backyard" national park, winter is often the best time of year to visit. I particularly like it

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"Untitled (Isla Grande)"

Panama, August 2004

Senor Pablo dances
    with his broom by the sea

casting off the remnants
    of the weekend guests
        at Sister Moon

    Always new,
occasionally familiar

their stories and laughter
briefly carom off
the wood and stucco,
    fueled by…

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"When Pizza is the Yardstick Measured By"

Might there be more to our menu choices than meets the eye?

My sister and I eat pizza
the way our mother taught us
with reverence and gusto
    Faux Italians
        eating Greek pizza
        in Sicilian style

Life has its occupational…

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"White's Ferry"

For the month of the Blue Moon, a little summer romance and reminiscence perhaps amidst the statuesque floodplain sycamores, following a moonlight ferry ride across the Potomac

The Jubal Early,
Slowly, steadily, restlessly
Making its way back and forth across…

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"Writers, Bears and Biology"

How dare I be so presumptuous

to suppose that my words have meaning to others?

That these scraps of thought

and ink

and wrinkled paper,

Are anything more

than the poorly digested

pile of berries

Left behind by the bear,

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