Tuesday, November 29, 2005


Like many poets, I at least partly believe in the Muse. I certainly cannot always explain where the images, phrases, or sometimes even entire poems come from. It often feels as if I am taking a sort of silent dictation. In any case, here's my Invocation of the Muse, done up country'n'western style.

Many thanks to my dear friend and fellow poet Moira Egan for prompting this line of thought a couple of years ago over late-night eggs and coffee in the Tastee Diner in Bethesda, MD, after a reading. You should buy her book Cleave. If you can't find it in a bookstore, it's available through Amazon.


Everybody knows where
you go when you
go downtown
when the rain comes
down just enough
to wet the ground
and spatter the glass
in front of the neon
beer sign. One
of those dark holes
in the city lights
a side street off
one of the better
avenues one of
those places where
everybody is baby
or sugar to those
few that is who
bother to look up
when someone comes
in. Everybody knows
you go straight
to the jukebox
and drop in a
fistful of quarters
and stand there waiting
in the blue-green light
to dance with any
man who asks or
for that matter
any woman.

November 3, 2005

Tuesday, November 15, 2005

New Link

I've added Old Blue Bus. It's a great spot for old-time country, bluegrass, blues, and Americana. Some Depression may be coming down soon; it has essentially stopped posting original content and is now more or less an aggregator of very limited scope.

New poem soon. Watch this space!

Friday, November 04, 2005

Transitional Season

These last few days here in DC have been perfect fall: warm and pleasant during the day and brisk with that autumn tang after sundown. I have been reminded of a poem I wrote three years ago during this season:

Dusk in Farragut Square

Loose flocks
of starlings drift
through the deepening blue
sky. Bare branches finger
the air and the rooftops'
edges soften into the dark
just above the reach
of the streetlamps’
light. Evening is dissolving
into night, autumn brushing
up against winter.
The park is a quiet island
and even the sound
of traffic seems muffled.
The chill breeze scatters
a few leaves, then stops
for just an instant,
still and silent as
a held breath.

November 27, 2002

New poem soon....