Kea, the Cyclades


August 2012


Up in the Clouds



Up in the clouds

it’s always sunny

or starry, and below

and beyond the soft edge

of any cloudbank

you’re resting on

or roaming over

there’s a sound

much like surf,

a distant report

like breakers

on a long, lone beach

whose volleys are muffled by seagrassed dunes.

From time to time, 

silver planes pierce through

heading north or west;

and pilots tip a wing

your way, like tipping a hat.

On rare occasions a rocket

races by en route to the moon,

or a hot air balloon rises

slowly, serendipitously,

Blue-Danubely, usually

with men in moustaches

and goggles who fuss

with ropes and flames

inside their floating picnic baskets,

as they ascend away.

Best of all, it’s never crowded

up here: never more than 

a few people watching the sunset

or sunrise, when all goes pink

or zinc -- or lounging, reading

or daydreaming. And maybe

there’s an old lab chasing 

a tennis ball, and a gull

that points

like a trusty weather vane

into the wind.



out on the South Fork

East Hampton,

New York

September 2008


Dit Zachte Land /  This Gentle Land


Cloth-white cows

float by, reflected

in the moss cool water

that streams through

this soft land,

where centuries pass

on summer afternoons.





Late Summer


from The Speed of Sight



Anguilla  /  Eel


                   for Rome, the Eternal City


The Tiber squirms

down the streetwise map

of Rome.

An indigo eel


the superannuated city

and its layers of history.

Brushes against

the tentacles of

the Piazza Grazzini.

Snakes under

the Pope’s nose.

Bifurcates briefly

around Tiberina Island

and white bedfuls

of stagily ailing Romans.

Bends slowly

and bluely round the

Palatine and Aventine

Hills and the ringless

 Circus Maximus.

Before it disappears

a half inch past

the silent

 via Stradivari.





December, 2005


High Tide Rising



Marsh melds with river

to form one dun blue body, its

edges smooth, the rest rippling

as tide pours powerfully

in from sea.


A necklace of plovers

strings left over

the odd needles of reeds

tipping the surface;

a green heron dabs right.


Down the center

of the mingled waters

new-made islands, daily and thin,

some with scoops of sea myrtle,

dash long, short and green,


telegraphing a May day message

to the passing afternoon.



Kiawah Island,

South Carolina

May 1999


The Inside Passage



The upholstery is vast

and varied.

Overstuffed divans

wildly embroidered

with orchids

and scented with cedar.


with legs of living wood.

High, wing-backed chairs

of granite and quartz,

doilied with distant snow.

Seedling-stuffed ottomans

fit for the feet of Gullivers.

Fans of delicate ferns.

Headboards of hemlock

carved with eagles.

All carpeted with barks

and cones, and plush

mosses made for the touch;

all dappled

with serene summer light.



Frederick Sound

SE Alaska

July 2009


The Poet’s Bench



Poems are made here.

In the sun.

In the snow.

On the wind.

By the still

and moving waters,

seasons, wildlife

of the pond.

By a poet floating

in the open air.

Poems that open

from the inside

out; are open

to everything

flowing outside-in.

Their landscapes

communing, with

and without words.

At a simple bench

beside the woods.



on Kitchell Pond

in the Loantaka Woods


New Jersey

February 2017