the true poet knows words
are second to action weaker
than blood spilled on the battleground
of human rights and dignity
The True Poet
I Like Kenny G
There. I’ve said it
And if that makes me whiter than Wonder Bread
So be it.
His music takes me back
To a brief time when I was happy,
Depth
Indescribable depth of pain
As she defines a new horizon
This uncertain home lacks
Cats and comfortable beds
My Burdens
Do you remember that time when we got lost camping in the mountains?
When I asked if your pack was heavy, you assured me it wasn’t
Woman on the Balcony
two three times a week
I see her sitting on the balcony
when weather permits
here in old Italy town
in what is left of North Beach
Seven poems on the fortifications of Cartagena, Spain
The Batteries of Aguilones and Conejo
2 batteries, abandoned villages
on hillsides looking out across the sea
linked by the tunnel of the wind, a pass.
Conejo as the name implies is full
of rabbits breeding merrily
Nobody shoots them there. It´s far too near
refineries. A spark could send those up
Did eagles fly over Aguilones once?
The only eagle left there is mosaic.