Here is a small sampling of some of the verse I’ve written over the years. My style tends to be brief and imagistic, generally free-verse but occasionally straying into the realm of traditional structured forms.
My body spread like fallen leaves.
The breath of you, my autumn wind,
to stir me crisply in your eddies
until I lose all sense of me.
Were I not in this place,
Would I have asked to love you?
Would not the question have hung
Between us and forever?
But in this moment, I am undefined,
Without boundary, without end.
Had I folded my heart octavo,
Would it have made any difference?
Or would this unchaining of ourselves
Have occurred apace?
Instead, the sky opens wide
And I am overcome.
for my daughter, on the occasion of her fifteenth birthday
Only life can tell
what life will be.
If in twenty years' time,
we can still
take coffee in the park,
talk of philosophy
then I will be a happy man.
for Toby, beloved pet and companion
The coming and the going.
The rising and the falling away.
It is only this world of dew
that hangs at the corner of my eye.
Four-fifths a Sonnet
The question still will not abate,
for what is form and what is fate
that we should scry and correlate
effect and cause? This chain of states
we seem to be, when glimpsed in time
subjectively, in which we find
no start, no end. Instead, a kind
of thread, conditioned cause, that winds
in both directions. Morn and eve
are linked, entwined, each to leave,
arrive, or stay--however brief.
No sooner spring's than autumn's leaf.
Do we persist? Were I to guess
an answer, I'd say no...and yes.
As though love were not enough.
As though I would not flow into you and you out of me.
As though I would not swim in this moment and never surface to breathe.
As though I have not been chewed and swallowed and digested.
As though I even exist.
As though you and I were not already mapped atom to atom.
As though you and I were not more real and less real than the thought of your lips on my skin.
As though you and I were not this sun which blinds me.
A Free-thought Poem, with minor editing
Cop a feel to these emotions man else
you run the risk of unfettered unfeeling
lonely logic: can computation
lick a clit
or roll an orgasm
on its tongue?
No such existence gasped breath
like the coming of a mate
in shadowed sweated sheets.
Commentary on the Present Situation from the Perspective of a Certain Chinese Philosopher
Grasping and clutching, nations rise.
Clutching and grasping, empires fall.
As Lin Chi would say,
"Shit rolls downhill."