When people tell me they don’t read modern poetry, I understand why. Many of the poems I come across are inaccessible, their language convoluted, their meaning obscure. A poem should leave you gasping in wonder, shocked by its passion, blindsided by laughter or tears. A poem that leaves you scratching your head and saying, “Huh?” isn’t a poem at all. It’s an ego trip, and I don’t do ego trips. I do joyrides, and I invite you to come along.

January 2021

I Am Like Snow Falling

In the whiteness,
the air is sugared
sweet granules dissipating
on the outstretched tongue
a slow-motion blizzard of softness
a soundless interim
comfort as eternal
as a cloud within a dream
a transition into awe
a farewell to being

Yellowstone in Winter

Solitude howls
Ice arrows
Bison mound into snow

Clouds hunt
Wolves erupt
Winds deliver frenzy

Owls muse
Foxes drift
Smart grizzlies snore

Streams nibble
Elk puff
Winter sings its psalm