Sunday, August 4, 2013

Little Epiphanies

Little Epiphanies

© Copyright 2013

E. G. Happ
Nyon, CH 1260

All Rights Reserved



The morning is a ever a time for knowing.  After the washing and the coffee, the rushing to the train, there is a quiet time, sitting and looking out the window as the world holds still.  I often say that I am not a morning person; I am not clear or civil until after the second cup of coffee, after 10 o'clock.  But I am often wrong.  Those times before the speaking and the thought are clear are times unchecked.  That is when the little insights come out to play.  And so this chapbook of fifty or so poems came to be.  Were it not for the train and the bus to Petit Saconnex, I wonder if I would write as much, listen as much, and be surprised as much.

July 2013

Back to Working Chapbooks


The following is a working edition of a chapbook.  The poems are dated as reminders to me about when they occurred.  Expect changes as I edit.  I welcome your comments. Please let me know which poems you feel are strongest, and which need to be retired.  Send comments to fairfieldreview at hpmd dot com (with a wink to the SPAMers :)  --Egh, 3 Aug 2013

3-Aug-13 - First draft of poems written in the morning and other waking moments.
5-Aug-13 -  Created a copy of the manuscript for easier reading and mobile support.

The poems I am currently attached to are:

  1. Adages
  2. Crosswords
  3. When you are old
  4. Stand By Me
  5. Old man at the station
  6. News
  7. Morning Poem xii
  8. Morning Poem xv
  9. Morning Poem xxiv
  10. Sounds that come and go
  11. Poem to myself
  12. Sunday Poem
  13. Acupuncture
  14. Nap After Lunch
  15. Sonnet Undone
  16. Why I believe in second chances
  17. A song to sing at evening's edge


Old and New


Another grey morning
and my stop is next;
the bus shutters and creaks
through its turns.
On my street there are remnants
of Christmas trees,
tips of balsam where
dry branches brushed up
against the doorways
thru which they were pulled
and popped their treasure.
I am told Epiphany is the time
for taking down the glitter,
extinguishing the lights
in the midst of seeing new;
yet today there is no sun
no shocking blue
no shadows on the walk.
Today I know nothing.

9 Jan 13

New Year’s Day

It is grey and cold and still
all the children tucked
warmly in their homes,
I imagine
phones and video games chirping.
somewhere beyond
all the silence
life is stirring,
ever stretching toward its spring;
but for now
these tall tulips and oaks
hold on to frozen earth
and the messages run slow
within their veins;
so slow they seem to stop;
I stand looking up
into their crowns.

1 Jan 13

On a Taipei Street at Hongshulin

They line up at the white marker
drawn across the pavement,
a barrier, a dam holding back
a flood of motorbikes about to rain
across this striped walkway
where I hurry with wheeled bag in tow
the walk-digits wind down
as the animated green figure
picks up speed.
And I wonder
between the yesterdays and tomorrows,
new ideas and old,
in the box and out,
how many crossings
are bounded by these barriers
that seem to fall
in the blink of a changing light.

22 Jan 13


In a land of a thousand signs
with their arrows and flashing lights
none point the way for the traveler,
the continents do not speak;
were it not for the translator,
I would be lost;
such are the paths of the foreigner
and the God that calls my name.

25 Jan 13

Matthew 9:10-17

The reading is familiar:
old coats and old wine skins,
feasting with sinners
instead of fasting with saints;
I am reminded how sometimes the metaphor
doesn't work; we put the new wine
in old oak barrels and it's better wine.

I tore my old leather jacket
in my haste to zip it up
and catch the departing plane;
it ripped neatly along the zipper seam;
such a familiar coat,
I did not want to admit it no longer fit,
not wanting to accept that
sometimes a new coat is needed to mend a new tear.

The article said the first responders
will never forget the image
of children strewn across the floor
of a peaceful classroom;
we try to imagine and we cannot;
our anger quick to change something,
the old arguments come quickly
and appeals to tradition abound;
sometimes old skins burst
old coats tear
and we are out in the cold places
of having to change,
of hungering to change;

And in the great reversal of this old story,
we feast with the new ideas of sinners,
we fast with the old ideas of saints.

 4 Feb 13
Reflection for the St. Francis Lenten book


Sitting in an aisle seat
here among the rows
and columns
of the modern plane,
I take up the puzzle
barely begun by the last
who I will never meet.
I imagine a young woman,
perhaps a student,
with a neat hand and petit r’s
that look like graceful birds
turning in flight.
She knows the French verb
and valuable fur,
but mistakes
the bird for roasting,
the flower,
and synonyms
for valiant
and final—
I am itching to take out my pen
and show her the way,
but I

and think about how
we leave clues for each other,
how we want to be solved,
to feel the sure pen
of another hand writing,
trying letters, leaving words
as helixes,
little epiphanies
up and down our lives.

As this hulk of hurtling
titanium turns, polished in the sky
I close the magazine
and write down this poem
before we land,
folding the once white sheet
up and down between my fingers
and placing it in the seat pocket
for the next traveler
to take up
these intersections of language,
and their little epiphanies
that cause the reader to stop
whenever they meet
because these two words belong,
and no others will do
hanging out on a crossword
of the day in hand.

28 Aug 97
25 Jul 13


poetry is about
carving icebergs,
having the mass
of mystery
a cube that breaks
the surface
of the dark
enough to shine
in the moonlight,
and with the ocean,
this revelation
bobs in the hole
startled with epiphany.

24 Dec 95
3 Aug 13


Palm trees
click their tongues
in the slow early
morning wind,
the air tripping
over their lips
as a stutter
of a metaphor
to the dawn.
Near the end
of my brisk
a night tossed
upon accusatory
running speechless,
the rhythm of
my breathing
settles into
the pattern
of endorphins
dancing on the
strained synapse
with euphoria
as a sedative,
I follow
paved paths
in a strange
near the
the thread of
this poem as
it dances up
in bits
and clicks
in the wind
of the feel
of the muse,
I come upon
Avanti Circle
that catches
my breath
and breaks
my stride
with the
where once
you come
to meet me.

9 Mar 97

At the Reading

The retiring man
speaks about Charlie Parker,
in a rhythmic meter
of jazz—
such strength and clarity
in the al-pha-be-tic

The archeologist gestures
through a sugar plantation,
unearthing images,
cataloging epiphanies
of fireflies

The romantic sings
about cats,
with the familiar rhyme
of hymns,
though more playful
and unpredictable.

The young businessman
has the telltale shake
in the wrist
as he reads for the first time—
with each line
an article of clothing falls
until all he is
stands naked in a pile
of everyday cover-ups.

8 Aug 03

Epiphany on a Treadmill

“But as to the sudden stopping, looking up, and tense attention characteristic of the people of the Bible, our wonder will not be so lightly dismissed.” –Karl Barth

At the end
of a brisk walk
up imaginary hills,
through the window
I see a couple
at their car
She points up
across the way
out of my vision
obviously amazed.
He gestures
across the car
to her—
the known gossips
of the YMCA
in apparent
passionate debate
about the heavens.
I stoop
to see what it is,
but cannot.
two of the matriarchs
in the stretching room
are talking about the store
and truck
across the street—
Restoration Hardware

30 Jul 03

Little Epiphanies

Clouds part,
lightening arcs,
thunder shakes
down in the toes—
grounded here
senses burn,
smoke curls
from the white
heat of knowing.

19 May 97
3 Aug 13


Saints and Sinners


He tells us of the operation
that reattached a retina
from where it had unplugged
at the back of his eye;
there were tiny flashes
of light at the edges,
along the periphery
of what we think is straight sight.
two years of this narrowest of beacons
sirening without the pain
or directness of a sound;
and then all went grey,
the light dimming
as if the power slowly drained
from this sharpest of eyes.
he gained some of it back
from the skilled hand of the surgeon,
but now the architect
of straight lines
cannot tell if the finish of the molding
lines up flush with its mitered turns;
precision slips from his grasp
and the creative mind
tells its lucid stories.

1 Jan 13


She sits on her mother's lap
as if on a throne
from which she dispenses
her waterfall of why's
with finger pointed here and there
across all her subjects,
leaning into her source of names
that are whispered in her ear--
ah, here is a big window
and outside a world still
unwrapping itself,
still in the throes
of being born.

8 Feb 13

When you are old

The appointed poem
for today's almanac
is this one by Mr. Yeats.
I write "Mr.", because he is older,
even gone
and I pay my respects.
yesterday the usher at the morning
service handed me the bulletin
with a gentle aside,
"here you go old feller."
there was no disrespect,
no shadows
on this book,
just a good natured greeting.
here just four days after ashes,
I am feeling the dust on my shoes
and the weight of my coat.

18 Feb 13

Stand By Me

In the cold of an early
ground hog morning
a street musician
plays out his heart
in the station tunnel
where the acoustics
are forgiving,
thumping his foot
swinging his bearded chin
strumming the long strokes
of an impatient guitar
in the long shadows;
he wails the
chorus of "stand by me"
as a hundred commuters
rushing for their train
fly by,
his words ringing
in their ears

20 Feb 13

The Traveler

She sits in a long black coat
brown fur collar
deep-set brown eyes
short dark brown hair
and a scowl, muttering to herself,
a large drab gray bag
with leather handles
perched on her lap
that she grips with both gloved hands;
were it not for the twelve
red tulips like apostles
looking to the heavens
from the corner of her bag
I would swear that we were cursed
and this day not to be remembered

5 Mar 13
On the train from Nyon

Old man at the station

He stands at the end of the platform
staring at the lumbering freight train
passing on track three
his back arced with years
nose leading his head
as if he is leaning into the future
able to see over the wall
of tomorrows
and smell the cargo
that has already left the station.

7 Mar 13


He sat,
curved into himself,
chin to his chest,
white hair already wandering
into the night,
the lettered train
reciting thru its alphabet,
as the newspaper rose
and fell with the faint snore
that began on page three;
all that was told here
tents over his well-fed belly
sated on the story
between the stops;
imagine his surprise
as the train flips into
the next station
with a name he doesn't know,
beyond where he always
stepped off to the dinner
that used to wait.

1 Jun 13
From the train to Lausanne, weeks ago...


An old man with a short-chopped beard
and a baseball cap
stands looking in a dumpster
near the pharmacy
holding on to a shopping cart
filled with mostly plastic bottles;
he pulls one from the discarded
and adds it to his brimming pile.
I walk up with my box of trash
from the car,
and simply ask "plastic?"
"Yes," he says
so I hand him my empties.
He looks at me startled,
as if I’d given him a pricey gift;
"thank you", he says,
"god bless you"
with a sincerity that graces me
to my bones;
we both turn--
he pushes his cart briskly
to the side of the next store
and I walk slowly humbled
to my car.

18 May 13
In Eagle Rock, CA

A Teaching Moment

Leaving the Chinese Garden,
a young American family
is walking toward the garden,
with a stroller
and a three year-old leading the way.
"Which way should we go?" his mother asks,
nodding to the fork in path.
"You're the leader, you are suppose to tell us."
The young boy stops looking totally bewildered
and says "fuck!" ...
"Sorry about that," his Dad says to me
in all seriousness.
I nod to the divide of the way
with a smile and laugh.

20 May 13
In Huntington Library Gardens, LA


Morning Poems

Morning Poem iii

We are living
inside the egg of winter,
the curve of grey
a canopy shell,
the mother sun
freezing her butt off,
patiently waiting.
I can hear the chatter
of a toddler
behind me,
the high song
of innocence
gently shaking the walls
of the bus
her father providing
the occasional comma
and question mark.
we know how this story ends.
the bus will stop
and I will get off
into my spring
while she hurtles
into hers.

11 Jan 13

Morning Poem vi

This morning the whole town
decides to commute,
shoulder to shoulder,
hip to hip,
we crowd into the aisles
and the accordion
of a passage between
the train
plays us with teases
of cool winter air;
the line piles into
the first class cabin
where those who paid
a higher fare
sit in indifference;
there are seats,
the conductor says
motioning to the front;
yet as far as the eye can see
like a dead poem
no one has been moved.

16 Jan 13

Morning Poem vii

On a bitter cold day
on a playground crusted
with snow and ice
the young travelers
ascend to the deck
of an imaginary ship
and the first takes
the red wheel in her mittened hands
and turns sharply to the right;
all of this unfolds in the second
my bus veers left and ascends
the hill to my stop;
a framed story in the window
and the little voice
inside me says,
remember this
and write it down.

17 Jan 13

Morning Poem viii

The bus lumbers
up the snow packed street
the macadam long since buried,
the tires spin and grab
as if surprised,
the hill snickers and turns
its shoulder,
you may pass here
you may not pass here.
men in neon yellow coats
stand with shovels and watch,
where to dig first
always a mystery;
the turn is slow and waiting,
the rear cab takes its time
to catch up
and still the snow falls
without a care
gifting all who stand with mopeds
and parked cars
brushing away all that hides
with a question:
will we ever catch up?

11 Feb 13

Morning Poem ix

She hands me a bookmark,
a woven thread of knots and beads
to place in this book I hold
open like a prayer.
That this is Sunday
in a church on Rue Montheux
and this a worn hymnal
pulled from the back
of a dark-stained pew
is incidental
and is everything.

25 Feb 13

Morning Poem xii

The young women of Nyon
wear their cigarettes
like earrings of the fingers,
delicate as the toe that touches
the ground in front
of a slightly bent knee
in that model's pose
that says I’m here
and I’m not here;
at times they bend their elbow
in a graceful arc
and kiss the end of the filter
with red lips.

13 Mar 13

Morning Poem xiv

Ukulele strumming the morning air
rising up to the bench where commuters
paper coffee cups and smart phones in their hands;
the street artists stir with daffodils each year
we rise to the train whose doors whoosh open
and walk through;
spring is late to Nyon this year,
but it comes,
it comes.

23 Apr 13

Morning Poem xv

I see the reflection of my hand
in the chrome mirror of the spigot
that bends over the sink
releasing all that is pent up,
all that waits for the turn of hand;
today I was a molecule in the flood
that pours from the morning train
narrowing to the stairway
that drains down to lower depths
that this earth pulls us all;
it is a waiting that suddenly hurries,
like mornings at the Gare,
like all beginnings.

23 Apr 13

Morning Poem xvi

Whisking thru the English
countryside in spring
the train to Cambridge
noted by the patches
of early greens and
rows of houses old and worn
then fields still with stripes
of brown earth,
an old man walking after
his dog who romps ahead
a few plow horses
tails in a slow swish
as we go by,
and you are searching skies
for windows of blue
and sun
there clouds with grey bottoms
scrunching toward the distance.

26 Apr 13
On the train from London

Morning Poem xvii

Where last night
there was no one walking
these village streets,
now the morning sun
has squeezed the many
from their silent beds,
turned them out to a day
so buffed, it gleams of spring;
where street musicians begin early,
the violin and bass here,
the accordion there--
each just beyond the hearing
of the other.
what they play, we know:
so much of life is just beyond
the sleeping silences of streets

8 May 13
In Nyon

Morning Poem xviii

It is too perfect a day
to be troubled,
there are no clouds
the blue so clear
there is nothing
that cannot be seen;
but within, the grays swirl
the fogs descend
the sounds of thunder startle
the winds deafen;
all that threaten to lose
one's way
rises up,

8 May 13

Morning Poem xxi

The young execs
do not walk down steps
they ski on the edge
of step and riser
as if dancers on the peaks of roofs
in a musical with Andrews and Van Dyke;
they are on top of world
and work is just a short slalom away;
I watch each step and hold the rail
careful as I count the years.

29 May 13
At Gare Cornavin

Morning Poem xxii

On the express train
neighborhoods and forests
whisk by like a clearing broom,
the dust rolls;
ah, sweet destination awaits
on truest rails,
then in strobe-like lightening
a train hurtles by
back to disorienting origins,
and in a blink, steel softens
there is a wobble in the wheels
a whistle blows
brakes as heavy as cinder blocks
drag the inevitable down
into the possible,
...the other way.

18 Jun 13

Morning Poem xxiv

It is one of those Swiss days
when the sky has been washed
by yesterday's storm
and all the violence has faded
to a blue so clean
with peaceful tufts of clouds
about the Jura
you would think serenity
was not a gift.
But you would be mistaken.

21 Jun 13

Morning Poem xxv

On this path
the morning doves glide
through the tall junipers
in arcs as if on a gentle slalom
and the sky a sea of blue snow;
that it is the first of summer
is no mind to the evergreen,
but to these two
who have finished
the work of spring
there is rest
on a bough beneath the ever
green of heaven

22 Jun 13
In Lyon, walking in the park with Flavian and Elise


Listening to the Requiem

Apres Midi Poem

Blackbird harking about his branch
to the pigeons who scatter
in his wake;
he leans into his role,
tail up, head down--
"I am talking to you!"
he caws.
pigeons strut securely
on the ground
having left their balcony seats
in the theater of pines;
blackbird not noticing the audience
had left,
the door of crisp winter air

14 Jan 13

Running shoes

In the mega-store
with its long aisles
and stacks of boxes
it seems as if variety is endless;
I try on thirty pair of running shoes.
"don't look for the color" she says,
go for the feel--
for a visual learner, this is a stretch.
for sore feet, it is a soothing word:
there was a time I ran the corporate challenge
in central park,
pacing myself, and watching the clock;
and there was the time
I would race up the side path
to the Appalachian trail,
crisp hemlock air whistling
through my lungs--
getting back for dinner
was the only stop;
but now I favor older feet
and the pace has slowed
enough that stopping
to look up at almost anything
is a welcome friend;
"move" is the imperative
from our health advisers at the office
and in the magazines--
yet stopping at a frost-like juncture,
near some snowy wood
with my neon running shoes
gleaming in the fading light
I am comforted;
my feet sigh with these older
tree tops weighed with winter white,
yearning for their spring.

23 Feb 13

Sounds that come and go

There is a museum of endangered sounds,
all the clicks and taps of machines
that have come and gone
a rotary phone
a dial-up modem connecting--
my grandchildren do not know them;
and I wonder what sounds
my grandfather remembered,
a hiss of steam from a locomotive,
the single blade of a plow knifing through the soil,
the whistling of a bomb dropping from its bay,
I cannot remember the sound of his voice
just a harrumph when he shrugged his shoulders
like a god,
the great, silent one.

1 Mar 13

Evening Poem

As the light of dusk drains
from a late winter night
the crows come
circling in groups of dozens
they check out barren tree tops
and an idle crane
high above this main street
where commuters trudge
to homes after long days
at the end of the train line
that runs through this wayside town;
the crows remind me,
that this is not the story,
calling to each other
again and again
as if saying: this is familiar ground;
if we look at the arc of the sky,
we have been here before.

13 Mar 13


They’re like little flames,
pilot lights at the end
of thin twigs long bare
as trees are wont to do
on occasion;
perhaps this is all life is,
a spark that catches
on a hint of blue-green essence
and before you realize
something has changed
there are blossoms flaming
in great tufts of horizons.

4 Apr 13

Flat rocks

We are walking on the flat rocks
of a gurgling stream
cascading down the broken
sheets of shale and slate;
the youngest finds a small fossil bone
then the oldest sees what looks like coral
this wonder that pursues remnants of the past
as if they are new births of discovery;
today my daughter and hers
baked an old German peach kuchen,
that arose from a conversation I had forgotten
"what cakes did you mother make?
which were your favorites?"
the history of tastes called up a morsel at a time;
this was an early birthday
and the thread that ran from mother
to partner to daughter
pulled taut for a moment where the flat rocks yielded
to the stream that ran over fossils
and found its earth about our toes
and hearts.

8 Apr 13
With the girls in Ohio

Afternoon Poem

Crossing the Potomac
the new growth of spring trees
vying as children for attention;
lime green leaves, red tulips,
lavender and pink-white buds unfold,
even the scullers and kayakers rowing in the river sport colorful vests,
news of the ballgame on the radio
a warm breeze wafting into the car
and all this life calls out like a church bell at the appointed hour:
come home,
come home

13 Apr 13
Heading home from DC

Poem to myself

Though all may question
and some turn away,
if accusation and uncertainty
come dressed as twins,
if friends and colleagues
do not understand,
what is left?
It is the beacon of the heart,
what you know in your soul
is true;
do not lose sight,
even when you close your eyes
to rest.

8 May 13

Birthday Morning Poem

Today we are in the cookie jar,
the silver lid of clouds
fits tightly over the valley lake,
the bird-songs softer;
somewhere there is the sun
of hands that toss
the seeds and crumbs
for the sparrows,
somewhere there is the day I eat
and sate my feet
that walk a common path

11 May 13
My 61st


On the Venice Boardwalk
as far as I can see
a parade
a triumph of less is more
nothing shouts more
that winter’s gone
sun and warmth
and endless legs
as far as I can see.

18 May 13
Venice Beach, LA

Remember This

While you are waiting
For your name to be called
Standing in the sun with your cap and gown

I remember this
Of all the events that came,
this is one of the big ones.
In a handful of years,
there was much more
than learning the subjects I studied.
There was learning about me,
and how a dozen turns in that time
had such an impact on what I did afterwards.
I changed many things,
including my major,
grad-school intentions, jobs
and me.

Remember this,
Look back on the turns you've taken;
wonder about them.
But most important,
create new turns;
it's never too late.

You've made a mark in taking on challenges
and things that interested you,
even when it wasn't easy,
and the good grade not ensured.
This will serve you better than a GPA.
Remember this.

I remember working with you
on the roof of the shed,
taking off the old shingles and plywood,
putting down new ones.
We spent hours up on that shed.
And a strong roof was only one of the results.

I remember the first computer we worked on.
Building it from the mother board up.
We bought parts on eBay.
It worked, and was quickly replaced.
I think we lived Moore's Law together. And you soon ran
faster and farther.

I am amazed at how many facts you soak up
and how hard you work at learning.
You are always willing to put in the hours.

But I am most impressed
and I am most grateful
for the effort you put into staying in touch,
no matter the distance or time zone.
That has told me your care and your kindness.
Remember this.

Ask yourself often if you are having fun.
When not, change something.
When you are, celebrate.
Have a glass of good wine,
perhaps some pate with a sliced baguette,

Remember this,
whatever the years may bring you,
your care and kindness will mean more
than most anything else.
It is something that can't be bought,
it can only be given
from the heart.
Remember this;
it may be the greatest fact you’ll know.

But beyond all memories and hopes,
most of all,
I am proud to call you my son,
remember this.

19 May 13
From the letter to David for his graduation
Occidental College, Eagle Rock, CA

Sunday Poem

I had a poem last Sunday
by the edge of its robe--
whether from the line in the story
the priest told to open his homily
or the first line from the hymn I love
whose name is somewhere
in the back of that weighty blue book;
a Barthian or Harry Potter moment
Expectant or ominous--
I only know it was wonderful
and would have been of the riches of the heart
or from the heart,
and it spoke to me,
the pilgrim who in a divine moment
confesses or forgets.

29 May 13
Emmanuel Church, Geneva

Writing chair

I come back to the path
that winds up the hill
to search for the wooden chair
where I sat and wrote
each morning
in a green notebook
while looking south
toward Lecco;
but it has been moved;
I circle up and back
the flimsy rail at my side,
I am the hawk I saw
earlier in my climb,
looking for that tree
where the nest
was anchored
and I took the leap
all before me have done,
and I wrote
and wrote
and wrote.

6 Jun 13
In Bellagio

Mid-day Poem

At the gold fish pond
in the Jardin de la Paix
an urgent frog breaks the serenity
with a stuttering croak that
is more cicadas than frog;
it is as if the conductor
stood up on a lily pad
and waved her baton
with a giggle...
first one, then another, then ten
were singing with such
ferocious sincerity
the chattering of two women
across the way faded;
the ritual wound down as suddenly
as it started,
the pouches of bravado emptied
and the pond at peace again.

26 Jun 13
For Margie’s, my Auntie Mame’s, birthday


If he pins me down
I will sleep;
the questions are few
"work too hard?"
" ça va?
and commands gentile
"place your wrist here"
"stick out your tongue"
"take off your socks"
thirty-four fine needles
to hold the monarch
elevated above the page
and for forty minutes
as the chi stirs
the boiling pot,

the steam escapes.

I snore.

2 Jul 13

Nap after Lunch

He lays arched
as a ballet virtuoso
would reach for a star
in another dimension,
his paw curled on the edge
of the patio where sun meets shade
and birds chatter persistently
announcing that the cat sleeps;
there are pieces
of torn bread the visitor has tossed
from the table, whose cloth flaps
like a tail in the gentle breeze;
and I think that this is the border
between aware and oblivious,
something this sleeping hunter
is teaching me again.

6 Jul 13

Sonnet undone

To ache for the poetry
in an ordered life
is to live beyond the forms
of rhyme and meter that mark
the break of lines
           and turn of phrase—
to lust for more than metaphor, yet no
less than words that move
across a page, or lips, or hearts
and throw morality and vice
into the same rumpled bed to shout
of righteousness, won in passion
that breaks the sure of heart and mind
           and turns cautious
           wisdom upside down.

31 Dec 98
19 Jul 13

Why I believe in second chances

The bus shakes and rattles,
angling its way up the steps of the side roads,
morning sun slicing this way
then that--
everywhere there are the tall cranes
with their long arms and counter weights
their shadows whipping the bus
with jagged stencils of black and grey
and then they are gone;
stepping off through a wheezing door
the blue sky calls,
and this morning
even the clouds have fled.

31 Jul 13

A song to sing at evening's edge

"Good night my angel
Now it's time to dream" –Billy Joel

What song would I sing to you my love
across a ocean dark and blue,
what notes would float
on mist at morning's break?
there is a tune that comes
from deep inside,
it is the humming of my day;
if I would sing at evening's edge
and you could hear me in the wind
I'd sing a song, a lullaby
and you would dream
our dream forever.

22 May 13
After the movie, "Marion's Song"

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Document last modified on: 08/05/2013

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