Tuesday, July 22, 2008


Veuve Clicquot in a juice glass
Yosemite Sam, guns raised, chasing round
something chipped off the shoulder of the old crock.

Clear here
we bubble up

through glass
a half-melting one
with a bomb a
someone who can
unstop the cork

and burst free
into the evening air
of the marketplace.

A trace of
now gone
is what became of us
rosy, dew-kissed, connected,
rocked to sleep by cool salt breezes, fresh from the sea.

Thursday, July 3, 2008


Plan the packing
Clean the camper
Test the tailights
Change of clothes
Popsicles and Pop-Tarts
Bikes on the back
Gas in the tank

A house filled with windows
with a deck out back
where a swallow of Starbucks
spins round in my favorite cup
Feet point west
as the sun falls through
a pink and blue sky.

(Note: If allowed, the words in the first stanza would be struck through with a pen down to "Gas in the tank".)