Skip to main content


Everyone does this sometime.
Everyone like me
Sits in the hippest cafe
And leans over his notepad,
Believing inspiration will come
To choke poetry from the glistening
Channel of creation
In his twitching pen hand.
The coffee is good,
But that is not important.
If it were a bitter brew,
I would pretend not to object,
In case someone is looking.
Is that mocha too hip for you?
I can handle it.
I mean it's fine.
I don't dare look around,
Raise my eyes to meet
What might be other eyes,
What might be the harsh scrutiny
Of youthful self-assurance,
Pierced lips chuckling into the chai.
I just lean over my notepad,
Silver pen twitching in my hand
And listen to the invisible clicking
Of the amplifiers;
Music I wouldn't listen to elsewhere,
But that's how good it is.
I came here believing
The channel was blocked,
Afraid to uncap my pen knowing
Nothing would happen next.
But I wonder if there are eyes
On my table, on this shimmering quill,
The eyes of a young hopeful,
Who came here to uncap his pen
And see what wisdom his moleskine
Would soak up from the core,
Only to watch the ink dry on the nib;
Wordless bedroom poets
Looking on and thinking,
I wish I had that,
That flow.
The coffee is good,
Not that it matters.


Popular posts from this blog

When I See It

I don’t believe in time.
There's much more world left;
So much more to learn,
And I don’t believe in time.
I believe in shadow birds flying
Through the green of mown grass
Under the squint-bright sun;
An ocean dappled with clouds
And the white sails of small boats
Crossing my shoulder;
A thousand dynamic blooms
That I can’t name, speaking
With voices of children
And laughing as they pass;
The reassuring chatter
Of great wooden beasts
That sermonize patience
And continuity.
But I don’t believe in time
Or the limits it implies.
I don’t believe in the failure
Of the manifest soul.
I don’t believe death will result
From the cessation of habits
That feed my blood,
Because I won't believe
In a future nothingness
That I can’t see from here.

Dawn in an Hour

Dawn is in an hour;
in a night.
A light on the long street
on the grey river,
on a long walk of broken clays.
It takes only a streetlight
to bare the sighs,
the yawn of dark alleys,
of quiet honesty;
the great peace
of telling without cause,
without want.
The arm stretches
and guides the body;
the body doubles its warmth.
Laughter snaps
against brick and glass,
and the eyes combine;
heart combines with heart.
And dawn is in the hour,
in the night.


I think, sometimes,
that I can do anything,
but that can change on the way
to the elevator.

I prepare for outside.
Rain makes it easier,
bends my eye to the ground,
to the architecture;
turns everything to gold.
The new gravity holds me,
turns the voices into hums,
the walkers into clouds.

But outside my door,
there are voices already,
breaking through planks of wood
that should mean security,
and I’m in their path;
every word an arrow
tipped with poison.

They’re only voices.
They are not harsh;
they do not threaten.
They’re not aimed at me
at all. Yet I suspect,
hidden from me,
there are faces attached.