Poetry and About Poetry

Six of my poems are included in the latest Magnolia Review available for free download  HERE . The theme of the issue was ” A Day That Changed Me.” “On the Edge of 1969” – on a day shortly after Woodstock when I realized I would never be cool “Beneath the Six-Sided Farmhouse” – on visiting my grandparents and meeting death in their basement “April 22, 1994—For Linda” – on the day my wife and I began our life together “The Context of February” – on the day I realized my first marriage was truly over “October 25, 2001, at 6:45 p.m.” – on the day my father died “Today (September 11, 2001)” – and this one is obvious My thanks to Editor Suzanna Anderson for continuing to support my work and for allowing me the honor of selecting this year’s Ink Award winner.  

Six of my poems are included in the latest Magnolia Review available for free download  HERE . The theme of the issue was ” A Day That Changed Me.” “On the Edge of 1969” – on a day shortly after Woodstock when I realized I would never be cool “Beneath the Six-Sided Farmhouse” – on visiting my grandparents and meeting death in their basement “April 22, 1994—For Linda” – on the day my wife and I began our life together “The Context of February” – on the day I realized my first marriage was truly over “October 25, 2001, at 6:45 p.m.” – on the day my father died “Today (September 11, 2001)” – and this one is obvious My thanks to Editor Suzanna Anderson for continuing to support my work and for allowing me the honor of selecting this year’s Ink Award winner.  

Six of my poems are included in the latest Magnolia Review available for free download  HERE . The theme of the issue was " A Day That Changed Me." "On the Edge of 1969" - on a day shortly after Woodstock when I realized I would never be cool "Beneath the Six-Sided Farmhouse" - on visiting my grandparents and meeting death in their basement "April 22, 1994—For Linda" - on the day my wife and I began our life together "The Context of February" - on the day I realized my first marriage was truly over "October 25, 2001, at 6:45 p.m." - on the day my father died "Today (September 11, 2001)" - and this one is obvious My thanks to Editor Suzanna Anderson for continuing to support my work and for allowing me the honor of selecting this year's Ink Award winner.  

Blue Horses  by  Mary Oliver My rating:  3 of 5 stars Mary Oliver’s poetry is often deceptively simple, earning a Zen-like wisdom from emotions and images quietly presented. Her latest collection returns to nature and to the most enduring human emotions–love, wonder, the awe-ful truth of our mortality and the power of that knowledge to make us truly see. View all my reviews

Lincoln in the Bardo by George Saunders My rating: 1 of 5 stars View all my reviews

The Thin Man by Dashiell Hammett My rating: 4 of 5 stars View all my reviews

Three Act Tragedy by Agatha Christie My rating: 4 of 5 stars View all my reviews

White Trash: The 400-Year Untold History of Class in America by Nancy Isenberg My rating: 4 of 5 stars View all my reviews

Blue Horses  by  Mary Oliver My rating:  3 of 5 stars Mary Oliver’s poetry is often deceptively simple, earning a Zen-like wisdom from emotions and images quietly presented. Her latest collection returns to nature and to the most enduring human emotions–love, wonder, the awe-ful truth of our mortality and the power of that knowledge to make us truly see. View all my reviews

Blue Horses by Mary Oliver My rating: 3 of 5 stars Mary Oliver's poetry is often deceptively simple, earning a Zen-like wisdom from emotions and images quietly presented. Her latest collection returns to nature and to the most enduring human emotions--love, wonder, the awe-ful truth of our mortality and the power of that knowledge to make us truly see. View all my reviews

Caregiver’s Song When voices like children hear themselves in a trickling creek, I laugh at the wisdom of their foolishness— and everything becomes still, the sun gone down, the moon falling as dew, my eyes gone black waiting for my counting off till morning. Come home, children, home free before you are caught outside by dark birds flying their hunger. The creek sings in children who laugh again and shout for haven in the hills that laugh all echoes back. And I may sleep some night at last, counting off cold stars past morning. published in the Hurricane Review David Anthony Sam

Caregiver’s Song When voices like children hear themselves in a trickling creek, I laugh at the wisdom of their foolishness— and everything becomes still, the sun gone down, the moon falling as dew, my eyes gone black waiting for my counting off till morning. Come home, children, home free before you are caught outside by dark birds flying their hunger. The creek sings in children who laugh again and shout for haven in the hills that laugh all echoes back. And I may sleep some night at last, counting off cold stars past morning. published in the Hurricane Review David Anthony Sam

Caregiver’s Song When voices like children hear themselves in a trickling creek, I laugh at the wisdom of their foolishness— and everything becomes still, the sun gone down, the moon falling as dew, my eyes gone black waiting for my counting off till morning. Come home, children, home free before you are caught outside by dark birds flying their hunger. The creek sings in children who laugh again and shout for haven in the hills that laugh all echoes back. And I may sleep some night at last, counting off cold stars past morning. published in the  Hurricane Review David   Anthony Sam

Ends Today April 17 –  Four of my kindle books free until Friday – Click HERE Here’s sample from Memories in Clay – poem about my father originally published by the Wayne Review: Fatherhood There was the valley, the Youghiogheny cutting through rounded mountains, the red clay my father dug with pickax and shovel to force a home from the grudging hillside. The time was new, the clay dark red with iron, the wind warm enough for summer, but not so hot you’d think of death. My father grunted with each heft and swing. He sculpted that clay with the same careful touch he used when he etched our busts in redwood. He showed me the meaning of the red clay, the river in the valley cleft, the rounded mountains. He showed me the tracks of the deer, the shy brown flash of doe between green undergrowth. He showed me how to find wild onions by their leaves, and how to recognize wild cherry trees by their black bark and sweet sap. And with the sunburnt sweat of his

Ends Today April 17 -  Four of my kindle books free until Friday – Click HERE Here’s sample from Memories in Clay - poem about my father originally published by the Wayne Review: Fatherhood There was the valley, the Youghiogheny cutting through rounded mountains, the red clay my father dug with pickax and shovel to force a home from the grudging hillside. The time was new, the clay dark red with iron, the wind warm enough for summer, but not so hot you'd think of death. My father grunted with each heft and swing. He sculpted that clay with the same careful touch he used when he etched our busts in redwood. He showed me the meaning of the red clay, the river in the valley cleft, the rounded mountains. He showed me the tracks of the deer, the shy brown flash of doe between green undergrowth. He showed me how to find wild onions by their leaves, and how to recognize wild cherry trees by their black bark and sweet sap. And with the sunburnt sweat of his rippling back, and with each hef

Ends Today April 17 –  Four of my kindle books free until Friday – Click HERE Here’s sample from Memories in Clay – poem about my father originally published by the Wayne Review: Fatherhood There was the valley, the Youghiogheny cutting through rounded mountains, the red clay my father dug with pickax and shovel to force a home from the grudging hillside. The time was new, the clay dark red with iron, the wind warm enough for summer, but not so hot you’d think of death. My father grunted with each heft and swing. He sculpted that clay with the same careful touch he used when he etched our busts in redwood. He showed me the meaning of the red clay, the river in the valley cleft, the rounded mountains. He showed me the tracks of the deer, the shy brown flash of doe between green undergrowth. He showed me how to find wild onions by their leaves, and how to recognize wild cherry trees by their black bark and sweet sap. And with the sunburnt sweat of his rippling back, and with each heft an

A collection of my early poetry free on Kindle until April 17 along with 3 other books; Dark Land, White Light Here’s a sample: “Death of a Mountainclimber” I feel the oldness finalize within me, white as glass chip ice, and I follow the bone track home. I am going now. High, a last climb, a last series of handgrasps, a last ringing of steel, a last living above the clouds; I am going now. The steeple cliffs sing silently, reaching (as I’ve always done) higher, pointing stone Gothic intonations to lead my eyes. Before, when I reached the top, the world continued below, but I had grappled beyond it. In the past, when I have found my soul, it was alone on a peak. Now I am going, a mourner and a celebrant both. I pass the last living—the tree line. The brown rock and the blueburning glacial snow split the world off from the peaks. I pass the world to the peak. Here, alone, I’ll find my soul, the soul that was never soft-touched but often knew the love of ice and

A collection of my early poetry free on Kindle until April 17 along with 3 other books; Dark Land, White Light Here’s a sample: “Death of a Mountainclimber” I feel the oldness finalize within me, white as glass chip ice, and I follow the bone track home. I am going now. High, a last climb, a last series of handgrasps, a last ringing of steel, a last living above the clouds; I am going now. The steeple cliffs sing silently, reaching (as I’ve always done) higher, pointing stone Gothic intonations to lead my eyes. Before, when I reached the top, the world continued below, but I had grappled beyond it. In the past, when I have found my soul, it was alone on a peak. Now I am going, a mourner and a celebrant both. I pass the last living—the tree line. The brown rock and the blueburning glacial snow split the world off from the peaks. I pass the world to the peak. Here, alone, I’ll find my soul, the soul that was never soft-touched but often knew the love of ice and cold-clawed rock. Here, a

A collection of my early poetry free on Kindle until April 17 along with 3 other books; Dark Land, White Light Here's a sample: "Death of a Mountainclimber" I feel the oldness finalize within me, white as glass chip ice, and I follow the bone track home. I am going now. High, a last climb, a last series of handgrasps, a last ringing of steel, a last living above the clouds; I am going now. The steeple cliffs sing silently, reaching (as I’ve always done) higher, pointing stone Gothic intonations to lead my eyes. Before, when I reached the top, the world continued below, but I had grappled beyond it. In the past, when I have found my soul, it was alone on a peak. Now I am going, a mourner and a celebrant both. I pass the last living—the tree line. The brown rock and the blueburning glacial snow split the world off from the peaks. I pass the world to the peak. Here, alone, I’ll find my soul, the soul that was never soft-touched but often knew the l

What can a poet do to make any difference in a pandemic? Two days left to get four of my kindle books free – Here’s sample from Early in the Day: “Bend, Oregon: The Fourth of July 1972” Tall pines, bed needles beneath, ash below rock precipice: He has come to an end of denials, and flows with the cold stream of melting ice. He cuts deep with the rivulets. He molds crevices in mud. He tears with the falling water and leaps rapids of rock and time diving for the valley. Surrounded there by sorties of mosquitoes, water wrigglings of snakes, he drifts through swamps in lazy near stagnation to the waterfall, and midair dances. He becomes mist. He powers the small generators. He runs to the city and becomes the river, suspends the swimming children and the sailboats highing to the wind; and he reflects fireworks by night.

What can a poet do to make any difference in a pandemic? Two days left to get four of my kindle books free – Here’s sample from Early in the Day: “Bend, Oregon: The Fourth of July 1972” Tall pines, bed needles beneath, ash below rock precipice: He has come to an end of denials, and flows with the cold stream of melting ice. He cuts deep with the rivulets. He molds crevices in mud. He tears with the falling water and leaps rapids of rock and time diving for the valley. Surrounded there by sorties of mosquitoes, water wrigglings of snakes, he drifts through swamps in lazy near stagnation to the waterfall, and midair dances. He becomes mist. He powers the small generators. He runs to the city and becomes the river, suspends the swimming children and the sailboats highing to the wind; and he reflects fireworks by night.

What can a poet do to make any difference in a pandemic? Two days left to get four of my kindle books free - Here's sample from Early in the Day: "Bend, Oregon: The Fourth of July 1972" Tall pines, bed needles beneath, ash below rock precipice: He has come to an end of denials, and flows with the cold stream of melting ice. He cuts deep with the rivulets. He molds crevices in mud. He tears with the falling water and leaps rapids of rock and time diving for the valley. Surrounded there by sorties of mosquitoes, water wrigglings of snakes, he drifts through swamps in lazy near stagnation to the waterfall, and midair dances. He becomes mist. He powers the small generators. He runs to the city and becomes the river, suspends the swimming children and the sailboats highing to the wind; and he reflects fireworks by night.

What can a poet do to make any difference in a pandemic? Two days left to get four of my kindle books free – including Finite to Fail: Poems After Dickinson Here is a sample from Finite to Fail: “Emily’s Ghost Machine” i am nobody so you can misread letters randomed as words fall of musty dictionary i am no one or two or trinity zeroed before decimal point or after all where minimal i am not this or that nor noun nor name so easily returned without comment i am not placed in certainty or misplaced in doubt but lost between i have nothing new but what is borrowed stolen worn as rags motley fooled i envy you who fall out these cracks into bright light for i have shadows for i am shadows this in contrast left to beg for space where not allowed i am no one to sing of nothing but make these mumbles assonant to life i am nobody to ask if you wear my anonymity as saving grace

What can a poet do to make any difference in a pandemic? Two days left to get four of my kindle books free – including Finite to Fail: Poems After Dickinson Here is a sample from Finite to Fail: “Emily’s Ghost Machine” i am nobody so you can misread letters randomed as words fall of musty dictionary i am no one or two or trinity zeroed before decimal point or after all where minimal i am not this or that nor noun nor name so easily returned without comment i am not placed in certainty or misplaced in doubt but lost between i have nothing new but what is borrowed stolen worn as rags motley fooled i envy you who fall out these cracks into bright light for i have shadows for i am shadows this in contrast left to beg for space where not allowed i am no one to sing of nothing but make these mumbles assonant to life i am nobody to ask if you wear my anonymity as saving grace

What can a poet do to make any difference in a pandemic? Two days left to get four of my kindle books free - including Finite to Fail: Poems After Dickinson Here is a sample from Finite to Fail: "Emily's Ghost Machine" i am nobody so you can misread letters randomed as words fall of musty dictionary i am no one or two or trinity zeroed before decimal point or after all where minimal i am not this or that nor noun nor name so easily returned without comment i am not placed in certainty or misplaced in doubt but lost between i have nothing new but what is borrowed stolen worn as rags motley fooled i envy you who fall out these cracks into bright light for i have shadows for i am shadows this in contrast left to beg for space where not allowed i am no one to sing of nothing but make these mumbles assonant to life i am nobody to ask if you wear my anonymity as saving grace

There are still four days left to get my poetry collections on Kindle for Free. Get my poetry collections for free on Kindle Now until April 17 , 2020 and have something to read.

There are still four days left to get my poetry collections on Kindle for Free. Get my poetry collections for free on Kindle Now until April 17 , 2020 and have something to read.

There are still four days left to get my poetry collections on Kindle for Free. Get my poetry collections for free on Kindle Now until April 17 , 2020 and have something to read.

“True ignorance is not the absence of knowledge, but the refusal to acquire it.” Karl Popper

“True ignorance is not the absence of knowledge, but the refusal to acquire it.” Karl Popper​

“True ignorance is not the absence of knowledge, but the refusal to acquire it.” Karl Popper

Stuck at home? Get my poetry collections for free on Kindle between April 13 and 17 , 2020 and have something to read.

Stuck at home? Get my poetry collections for free on Kindle between April 13 and 17 , 2020 and have something to read.

Stuck at home? Get my poetry collections for free on Kindle between April 13 and 17 , 2020 and have something to read.

My poem “ Climbing the Red Dog Road ” is available now in From the Depths (on page 4). You can read a free digital issue but consider purchasing a copy to help the press out. This poem comes from a memory of driving to my mother’s parents’ home above the Monongahela River in Pennsylvania when I was about 9 years old.

My poem “ Climbing the Red Dog Road ” is available now in From the Depths (on page 4). You can read a free digital issue but consider purchasing a copy to help the press out. This poem comes from a memory of driving to my mother’s parents’ home above the Monongahela River in Pennsylvania when I was about 9 years old.

My poem " Climbing the Red Dog Road " is available now in From the Depths (on page 4). You can read a free digital issue but consider purchasing a copy to help the press out. This poem comes from a memory of driving to my mother's parents' home above the Monongahela River in Pennsylvania when I was about 9 years old.

“I discover my questions by entering my questions.” Jane Hirshfield 

“I discover my questions by entering my questions.” Jane Hirshfield 

"I discover my questions by entering my questions." Jane Hirshfield 

“Poetry explores depths of thought and feeling that civilization requires for its survival.” Stanley Kunitz

“Poetry explores depths of thought and feeling that civilization requires for its survival.” Stanley Kunitz

“Poetry explores depths of thought and feeling that civilization requires for its survival.” Stanley Kunitz

HopeChallenge: Post a photo from where you are in quarantine that shows 1 thing that gives you joy in spite of everything.

HopeChallenge: Post a photo from where you are in quarantine that shows 1 thing that gives you joy in spite of everything.

#HopeChallenge: Post a photo from where you are in quarantine that shows 1 thing that gives you joy in spite of everything. 

From Socrates to Sartre: The Philosophic Quest  by  T.Z. Lavine My rating:  4 of 5 stars View all my reviews

From Socrates to Sartre: The Philosophic Quest  by  T.Z. Lavine My rating:  4 of 5 stars View all my reviews

From Socrates to Sartre: The Philosophic Quest by T.Z. Lavine My rating: 4 of 5 stars View all my reviews

Bill Withers, Who Sang ‘Lean on Me’ and ‘Lovely Day,’ Dies at 81

Bill Withers, Who Sang ‘Lean on Me’ and ‘Lovely Day,’ Dies at 81

Bill Withers, Who Sang ‘Lean on Me’ and ‘Lovely Day,’ Dies at 81