Monday, September 13, 2021


 Poem #27

Someone asked why.

It may have even been me.

Usually I assume this warrants

The scribbling of a few lines.

But maybe not this time.

You could turn everything off,

Put your pencils down and 

Look at your middle aged hands.

Rediscover old fading scars that

Once flashed bright red.

Pause at the top of a stairwell,

Grip the railings, lean forward

But don’t begin to go down.

Look how far you’ve come.

Think how thirsty you’ll be 

Waiting for next week’s rain.

I get asked a lot of things 

And poems like this are just replies,

Not answers or expiations.

You could always leave the page blank

With the sharp rebuke of silence.

Or you could try to speak. 

Some say Om,

Some say Amen.



Clouds of unknowing.

I prefer to whisper why.

I go to waterfalls

In the daytime

And write a few words 

And wonder why.


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