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Vision Problems          Print this poem only


The old woman couldn’t see her meal

due to her vision problems

and exclaimed

with a smile of delight

how each meal was a surprise.

Oh, that’s corn but it’s not quite salty enough!


She was grateful for the unexpected,

even at age 98.


Isn’t it great even at 98

even with problems of the eye

still to be able to fly

from difficulties and muck

and give thanks for the good luck

and blessings of the moment.


I hope I will never have vision problems

so bad I cannot give thanks

for tasty corn, or a bright sunny morn,

or even for person gone away

for the joy in the park that day

for the bore

who makes me grateful and wanting more

of the people who inspired me

and lifted me to be more than I thought I could be.


I hope I never have vision problems

so bad I can’t feel gratitude

for all the wonders I’ve tasted

for all the hours I’ve wasted

just being with children and lovers

lingering under the covers

cuddling and giggling and feeling the soft touch

of the someone I love so much.

Written 9-18-18

Old woman eating.JPG








Sun-rise         Print this poem only


“Dazzling and tremendous, how quick the sun-rise

                would kill me,

If I could not now and always send

                sun-rise out of me.”

                                              -  Walt Whitman


Oh how bright he shines

so bright - the light fades me

                into the salty sea

until I stop and breathe

and fill my chest with his wide luxurious girth

his oversoul blanketing me;

I lay awake at night thinking of him

                and all his leaves

and cannot sleep until I up,

grab his book

and open it to read him, amusing my tired old limbs,

and take the striking photos
into my eyes

like Lantana joyfully seducing butterflies.


Oh how deeply refreshing

these journeys with Walt,

imagining him first toeing the surf

then floating in the sea

where he gloats about how much they have to give each other.


Oh poet of tremendous heart

and mind that caresses earth

like Neruda passing his fingers over the hip

of his lover languid from the fervor of their union.


These two passionate men

my true forefathers

pierce me with their pens

when my mind is laden with routine

and in need of infusion

soaking and fertilizing

to regain my greenness.


My gratitude for their volumes

spills over onto these lines

all the while humbled by their greatness.


Author’s Note:  A cherished and magnificent volume was given to us by a friend decades ago: The Illustrated Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman.  It is a joy and always an inspiration opening it to any page and finding this great poet overflowing there.  Another volume by my beloved Pablo Neruda, Odes to Common Things, has a similar effect.


Written 9-22-18









Go Long          Print this poem only


My buddy the quarterback said to go long

music to my ears the chorus of my song

I could easily outrun all the puny secondary –

the guys from one block over on wealthy Dewberry.

We were all better at football on Lillian Street 

beating the crap out of those guys was oh so sweet.


Now mulling my interests, passions and such

I wonder why I love football so much

what with a life of writing, thinking and teaching

my football mania seems a tad overreaching

but still my arm flexes watching that heaver

connect in a perfect arch with his swift receiver.


Being Cajun in Texas where sports are king

probably explains something of why I’m so keen

and my pulse quickens as I remember

the neighbor boys’ shouts and calls in September

to meet them in our favorite autumn spot

down the street in that vacant lot.


Most of my life I’ve gone for short passes

connected with ideas and English classes

no novel for me, I fell for poetry

nor did I brave the rigor of a PhD.

Now finally, with my scores of years its not so wrong

to watch, leave it alone, wait a while, and go long.  


Author’s Note: I couldn't go to sleep last night after watching the Bengals beat the Ravens (recording), so here I sit at 4:15 am just finished this poem. It became almost biographical I suppose, but as I tried to sleep I got this image of me racing to catch the long ball as a teenager and that vision would not let go until I wrote the poem. I'm tired now, ready for sleep. I hope it was worth the effort and you enjoy it half as much as I liked writing it.


Written 9-22-18

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small cup          Print this poem only


a small cup’s inside a vat

drip by drip

I've been working

on filling up

that cup


when it is full

and overflows

then I am done

for then the vat and I

are one.


Written 9-20-18




God in a Bag           Print this poem only


Several college students stood around

arguing about the meaning of God.

Nearby sat an old Indian woman.

They asked her what she thought.


With a wan smile

she took a small blue bowl

from a plastic shopping bag

laid the crinkly bag on her lap

and pointing to it she said

“This is the universe.”

Then she pointed inside the bag’s opening

and said,

“This is God.”


Written 9-19-18












Moored in Darkness           Print this poem only


This day is so bright

and all seems so right
I wonder if I can stand it

I had not planned it

the clouds and rain

gnawed so unrestrained.


Early morn’s nightmare

still lingers somewhere

moored to the dark

where it won’t disembark

still clutching me in slimy grip

I’m on its derelict ship.


How can a dream be so strong

and make me feel so wrong

just a wispy demon in the night

by now should have taken flight

but here I sit in light of day

still hoping the malefic will away.


Written 9-17-18

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