You are the mug and the black coffee,. And the rain on the roof. You are a basketball flying through the hoop,. And the old man on the back of the book. You are a watermelon in the soil. And the horses in the pasture. However, you are not a slowly-sipped cup of water,. A tall glass of wine,. Or a Jeep in the parking lot. And you are certainly not the flowering dogwood.

The Blog is created with the sole purpose of posting my poetry. Feel free to drift in the sea of words. Friday, September 07, 2007. Standing still on the edge of life. I call upon the northern wind to take away my pain. Straining muscles before I dive. And still afraid of things that might remain. Before the wind starts cutting like a knife. I tilt my head to taste the droplets of the rain. I lean and jump into the hive. Feeling my hair shield my falling frame.

I am an avid reader, reading over 100 books per year. I have read the Book of Books,.

Monday, September 29, 2014. Lying on the sand, sideways I see pipers and gulls screeching, picking at the congregation on the edge of the tide. Closing one eye then the other, watching the horizon jump back and forth. Children search for stone crabs on the rock jetty. Time, arrow or not, hangs suspended languid and indolent. The pull of the tide the syrupy smell of kelp and. Why do objects appear to become smaller as they move farther away? Relate to the amount of uncertainty.