After eight days
In a foreign land
One begins to believe
Every bad driver endured
On a narrow winding road
Is American

Or a midday pint is proper
Or Guinness
Would do just fine

Rain becomes fair play
And sun, dislodges from the sky
As the strangeness
Of stranger evaporates
With the forward lurching
Of time

Trail Closed


The bridge isn’t sound
The one we traversed
A hundred times before
The sign is posted
We’ve been warned
And now a new path
Has been roughed in
One of soft mud
Tender earth
Virgin soil
We are sure to emerge muddy
Should we choose this
Over what we know
Our well worn
Unstable bridge
That one day
Is sure to give way
Under the weight
Of our stubbornness

Ode To The Mouse

Ode to the mouse
At the bottom of my recycling bin
It must have been the cold night
That stole your little life
Or was it the headfirst dive
You took inside
The hard plastic bin

Was there comfort for you
Curled against the weekly coupon circular
Did you chill inside your silvery grey fur
Until you could feel no more
Only God’s hand lifting you
To a sunny field
Full of wild grass
And cousins galore

As I stood
Shaking you from the bin
Into the English ivy you spilled
I held in my heart
A tiny prayer
For a rodent resurrection
Surely by spring
You will bloom
And climb with life
Within the divine ivy vine

But until then
Rest your tiny mouse feet
In peace
Free of the felines
Who prowl next-door

Over Me

I leapfrog over
and leave that me behind

forgetting the obligation
of shame
or duty to aspire
I unlatch the leash
that binds me
to me

and for a second
or mere fractions of
a second
I leap above, float
and leave my own-self

I leap above and
that I am
an “am”
I leap above into