Sound has always played a role in my performance poetry. Sound is personal to me. Poetic therapy.  Choosing where and how to begin and end a line, to me, is what makes a poem …

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It’s a silver metal and wood encased box,
wrapped with a thin white bow.
A gift from my favorite friend,
I refuse to open.
The door, she lays next to
is really her exit.

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After the ethereal wind stopped
and the ocean receded,
I learned
fences have no meaning.
Keeping people divided,
really does not work.
Walls,
between neighbors,
get knocked down.
After earthquakes,
hurricanes,
floods,
fires,
lines disappear.
Walls fall,
fences break
down.
People step
up,
over boundaries.
They help,
reach out.
We should know …

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2016 Annual Poem

In the news, this year and now appearing.

the sparkling snow and white tail deer,

with a distracted camper no longer peering

… through his telescopic lens aperture.

Meanwhile, dashing through …

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What roads diverge in my soul,

of love and desire.

To travel on a wooded road,

to make camp and read poetry

by a warm fire.

I’ve told people I’m a counselor,

a craftsman of words.

But …

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