Some Days I Wake Up,

Some Days I Wake Up,

and feel the World is mine.
It belongs only
to me,
and I may do with it
as I please.
I may keep it,
or throw it away.
I may bite into it
and savor the juices
as they stream down my arms,
sticky and sweet.
The World is mine,
and mine alone.

The World
is a friend.
We laugh and dance,
and play together,
children of the same
fertile Mother.
We use the Moon as a ball
and run like Wind,
toward the promise of

Some days I wake up
and feel the World is mine.


My Virtual Friend

My Virtual Friend

We have never met,
you and I,
not in the traditional sense.
This virtual world brings us together.
A chance meeting,
on a random site.
I call you friend,
not knowing who you really are,
nor you me.
We write notes,
send smiles,
tell each other we care.
I send you my deepest secrets
in words thrown together
to resemble poetry.
You never critique.
Everything I write to you is true,
you have no way of knowing for sure.
You write your story
and title it fiction,
hoping no one will believe.
I never judge.
I hope what you write is fiction,
no one should live like that.
Through your writing I feel your pain.
I long to squeeze it out of you,
virtual hugs just aren’t tight enough.

Alone Amid Friends,

conversation all around.
I am distant,
unaware…out of body.

I wonder who I am,
who owns the voices around me.
Faces stare but don’t recognize me,
though they see me every day.

The ghost of who I was going to be
haunts me,
telling me how I have failed.
The mocking smiles confirm my guilt.

Still I must try,
must walk the stage, perform my part.
In the end,
it is all I have.


This is another one where the title is actually the first line of the poem.

Time Travel

I took a trip back in time today and made myself sad. It wasn’t intentional, this time, it just worked out that way. I traveled down roads I have not been on in years. I thought of faces I have not seen in decades. I recalled regrets that I thought were long dead.

The roads were the same as I remembered, straight, rough, a curve here or there. They traveled to places I called my own in my youth. There were more houses now then when I was young. As I drove, my mind wandered back through time. Passing one house, I saw myself standing in the yard, guitar slung way too low, trying to keep up with the real musicians, hoping she didn’t think me foolish. I can’t remember her name now. Further down the road Jennifer’s house passed by and I was instantly transported back to the high school library. We sat on the floor between rows of books, talking of what would come next in our lives. She smiled at me and gave me a memory that has lasted three decades. I wonder if she is as beautiful now as she was then. I wonder if she is still alive.

Next I turned towards the south and thought of all the times I had in that direction. I remember the hills and the woods and the stream and the girl I didn’t give a chance to. I remember the waterbed and how I wish I could go back and make things right. Though I would never have admitted it to anyone, I was afraid that I could never live up to her expectations. I was right. Thirty years later I had a second chance. I’m still a coward.

I thought of the games we played and the friends I had. In all that time I know the fate of only two of them. One married into the family. I hear of him only through the grapevine and speak to him only at funerals. The other one is a regret that will last another lifetime.

The trip lasted a little over an hour. It brought back many memories and many thoughts. I cried tears that had dried up years ago. It is a trip I don’t wish to take again anytime soon.

(this is pretty much how I spend my weekends, anyone got any better ideas?)

My Friend

My Friend

I miss my friend.

The long drives
on crisp fall days.
The walks near the lake,
icy wind numbed my ears,
the warmth of her smile
warmed my heart.

I miss my friend.

The talks of nothing
till the evening turned to night.
The memories she gave
of places I have never been,
of dreams
I thought long dead.

I miss my friend

The bright shine of life
in her eyes.
the sweet smell of her hair.
The soft touch of her hand.
The song in her voice
spoke to my soul like no other.

I miss my friend.

The Good Old Days

River in Panama

Me and one of my sisters many years ago

The Good Old Days

As cold comes
I long for my youth more often.
I am getting old.
My knees ache, my back more hunched.
The wind, which used to make me feel alive,
now is cold and uncaring.

I long for days when I ran free
under a bright blue Panamanian sky.
The air was warm and comforting, like
an old friend who knows you well.
Grass, soft and springy under bare feet.
In the jungle I could be anything I wanted.

Friends I had were like friends we all have
in our youth. You loved them,
and hated them, and loved them again,
all in the same day.
We swam, fished, and talked
of nothing.

Friends I have today are few
and far between. None of us run.
We are content to watch our children swim.
When we talk the conversation always swings back
to how it used to be.
I find little comfort knowing I am not alone
in longing for “the good old days”.


The picture was taken in 1971 nearly two years after we moved from Michigan to Panama. OK the sky isn’t all that blue in this shot but I just kind of like it. That is me in the corner.



It is like a fog in my mind,
some force that stops me thinking.
I sit and try to remember
good times I have had.
Old photographs show evidence
that I smiled, even laughed.
I try to recall these times
but the fog deepens.

My childhood is a ghost
half seen, hiding in shadow.
What I remember are not my memories
but stories told through the years.
Friends speak of youth with a twinkle in the eye.
They speak of games, friends, places visited.
I listen with envy.

Older, I feel out of place,
I cannot remember the last
clear day.
Photographs show evidence,
but photos show only surface,
and fade with time.
Like a Polaroid left in the sun too long
I am losing my color and fading.
I wonder if I was ever really here.