Clear when I fell from my mother cloud, I flow from PVC pipe amber as sun tea murky with suds honor faucet and drain burble greetings to crews at the city water works pause as a puddle and run to a nameless creek feeding a lake, trickle, cascade, drip from eave or icicle, open my…

“And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger             sextillions of infidels.” –Walt Whitman, “Song of Myself” Between the subway tracks it wiggles, GI drab, a mouse the color of the dirt bedding the rails. The earth quakes every four minute, and wrenching wheels make the mouse heart clatter in a cage of roar. Metal…

Years ago, Beverly Rainbolt and I self-published a poetry chapbook, Visible Progress, and lucky us, we attended a poetry conference which Robert Creeley also attended. We caught his attention for, oh, ten minutes, and asked if he would read it. Little did I know at that point that Creeley would be a supporter and a…

When I left New England, I left behind my writing gang, a hard thing to do. But I meant to live in Ireland and those poets would be happy to visit me. However, I landed in Colorado, partly to be a daily part of my only grandson’s life, and partly because a novel I’d written…