Category Archives: Poetry


I have never waited for the sun to rise

But have always hoped it would come along.

And often found myself beneath dark skies

Wondering where it was; the ruddy dawn

That always swept away the ink black night,

That silent thing so much filled with fright

On either side of my reluctant eyes.

peg April 6, 2020

Imagine This!

Some folks may not like this.  So what.


I sit here, now, imagining

That nothing was or is.

That nothing ever  mattered

Nor nothing ever will.

Imagine there’s no people

Nor light, nor darkness too,

No time or anything to do.


Imagine if there’s never

Nor ever will be you!

Just kill yourself then, Brother

And make it all come true!


Oh, ohhh, ohhh, ohhh!


It’s just a dream that’s all

And we’re all imagined

Shadows on some wall.

A wall that’s just a shadow

At the bottom of some cave

Where no light’s ever entered

Nor nothing’s made or saved.


Oh, ohhh, ohhh, ohhh!


Imagine what you cannot do,

Nor never thought, nor never will:

No God, no stars, no planets

No one to love or kill.


It’s just the perfect answer

For all the things we love.

Or hate if that’s your fancy.

Below or high above.


No heaven high or hell below,

No safe earth in between.

Simply nothing!  That’s the riddle

And the answer, don’t you see,

The Cheshire’s smile does mean.


Oh, ohhh, ohhh, ohhh!


My song’s about now over;

Well, really not begun.

Never really warbled

And never really sung.

Like a rainstorm in the desert

Or sunshine in the night

Drowning burning devils

In new agonies of fright.


Ah, ahhh, ahhh, Hahhh!


peg 06/11/2018




On A Day Like Today

On a day like today with the snow falling like a thick cotton curtain,
and no wind at all to send snow like a frozen slap across the face of you,
to send snow in tall waves against the buildings, rattling windows, shaking fire escapes,
to send snow in white torrents down the roads, great white rapids down roads,
to send snow into the alleys, shooting down the alleys like water from a hydrant,
to send snow pouring over the rooftops in cascades of powder,

On a day like today every kid I knew on my block,
every kid home from school on the rare days of no school,
every kid would be out by now in the falling and the fallen snow at nine in the morning,
every kid dressed in the uniform of the day against snow and cold,
every kid in galoshes and gloves, and hat and coat,
every kid knee deep plowing a path through powder,
in a competition to be the first to plow a path through the powder
in a rush to be the first on a sleigh down a hill deep in powder,
in a contest to build the biggest, the fattest, the best snowman,
in a war with the kids on the next block inside their fort
making snow balls by the hundred, hiding behind cars, splatting
old ladies, old men, old dogs, passing cars, trolleys and trains,
every kid runny nosed, and red faced,  and wet from head to toe and freezing;
but not coming in from the snow falling like a curtain from the sky.

Every kid was out because Mom had sent us out,
out because Mom had been out when she was a kid,
out because all the others were out and it was no fun
staying home on a day like today with the snow
falling like a thick cotton curtain from the slate colored sky.

Today is a day like today on my block.
No kids are out doing what kids used to do in the snow
on my block when I was a kid, and the only thing I hear
is the snarl of snow throwers, and the only thing I see
except the men pushing them are the birds at my feeder,
the juncos from up north who winter in New Hampshire.

The Only Thing I See

The Only Thing I See

Frostiana, Your Lines Don’t Seem to Be His Work

Some scholars say that this is one of Robert Frost’s last poems.  No scholar myself, I simply know that it cannot be from the textual evidence.  Can you see why Frost could not have written it?

The Edge of Winter

Windy Autumn brawls down my street
Kicking fallen leaves aside.
Frantically scuttering they compete
For any safe place to hide

This dance I think is good excuse
For me to wait until the Spring.
Leaf herding with split bamboo’s
No good at all for my old wings.

The brash youngster across the way’s
Gone and got himself a leaf blower
That stirs up a hurricane
Of leaves and needles.  A shower

Surrounds him slowly blowing
His way across the lawn.
I watch him working, knowing
While he works the law time worn:

The afternoon won’t have ended,
Day will not yet have gone
Gentle, but bright colors blended
Once more will blanket his deep green lawn .


A Poem: Aren’t They Nice?


Children are not children anymore.
Oh, they awaken early, and are early out the door,
But it is the clock awakens them
Neither herald bird nor shining sun
Pries open bright eyes, eager ears.
And mother, busy on the phone
With meetings and decisions
Tells them, “Hurry!”.  They must run
To swimming class and then ballet
And four more things as morning
Falls away…

“Hurry, now!  Traffic’s bad.
No time to lose.  Get out of bed.
Today’s the day you learn to swim!
Your teacher’s great!  I just heard of him
From Marcie’s Mom yesterday.
Thank God I said you were a special case.
Doesn’t Mama love you?”

“Take this and sit quietly.
It has all your favorite games.
I’ll only be a little while
Inside with Mr. James.
Stay right here, Dear.  Give me a smile.”

Holding the Blue Ray-iPad
Hand held device
They sit and play.  But are they glad?
Forget that.  Aren’t they nice?


A Poem

A Change of Skin

Two men are at work next door to me
On the house  behind the tall oak tree
That lost some limbs in the storm last year.
They’re putting on new siding.  The work is dear.

Today they ripped the old stuff off.
Starting early shortly after the sun was up
Their hammers’ claws bit deep, off came
The old skin in strips to be thrown away.

The house is little more than half my age
And this is its third set of skin.
I’ll bet the oak’s at least twice me at least
Tough, strong, thick and darkly sheathed
And I though wrinkled, loose and thin
Still have some use left in my old skin.

Something plastic, white, covers it now:
“Tyvek Home Wrap” is says, from Du Pont.
One of them called it vapor block when I asked
And turned to his ripping, stapling, taping task.

I turned back to what I was doing then.
Tomorrow the new stuff gets stuck on;
Blue I think.  I wonder if I’ll be here or gone
Before the siding get itself changed again.


Clean and Dead

The fellow down the street in the yellow house
has built a swimming pool in the backyard.
Last year he had all his trees chopped down
the land was cleared, the soil was scraped away
and a big hole was dug that stayed that way
and filled up with snow all the winter long.
He filled it with a pool this spring.  Put sod
around it.  The sod died.  I saw a dead mouse
at the end of his drive when I passed by
the other day walking down the hill early in
the morning; though I don’t often walk that way.
If you look for it you can just see
the pool from the corner of his property
sparkling clean as dawn on a summer day.
There’ll be no leaves in that pool come Fall’s winds
what with all the trees gone now.  There’s just sky
above, bits of grass, empty flower beds.
Everything else is wiped clean, clean and dead.


Death came to my door
Neither late nor early.
Death is, if anything, on time
Though I was not expecting him.
The house was unprepared for any guest.
In fact it was in a more than normal mess,
And Death I think soon saw his chance was slim
Of welcome, pleasant visit.  The hour chimed
Behind us.  I turned.  Death smiled, “My hour. Three.”
I smiled, “I should have cleaned.”  I closed the door.


Quiet mist and secret

Quiet mist and secret

In the morning lies

And all the world within

Asleep,  hidden for a time.

And all the World sleeping

Across the mirrored deep

Hard against brooding trees

Open to innocence or ill

Two homely structures still.

In silent shallows near

What waits?  What waits

For mist to thicken or to clear?

What waits for mist to thicken or to clear?

Creature dark and threat filled near

Hidden from the light

Betrayer of the peace of day

Friend of  fear and fright,

Or something simple slow to die

Or something simple slow to die

That hurrying a misty morn

We let our mind deceive our eye

Allowing monsters to be born.

Pass this way and wonder

Pass this way and wonder if

The mist low on the dark cool depths

Is all and only what you see in it

Or much, much more of life and death.

I Wonder What I Don’t Get

Here’s what puzzles me sometimes.
I’ll take the time to listen to a line or two in my head
Like a bulletin from somewhere about something
Smarter people than me call insight
And it will lead me to waste an afternoon
Writing down things on my yellow pad.

First I’ll stick to the neat blue lines.
I’ll even count syllables and read them
Back to myself ticking them off on my fingers,
Or tapping out a beat as I go.
Switching words. Throwing some away.
I’ll check the dictionary and thesaurus
If I can find them or remember where
In God’s holy name I last put them.

The page soon loses all sense of order
As lines and half lines of words get scrawled
Until it looks like a dryer full of wet wash
Or better yet like the tracks of shore birds
Searching for mollusks in the sand at low tide.

This I call working it out.
I’ve taken to walking away
for an hour or two, a day
or longer hoping somehow
I’d remember tomorrow
what it was that had to be said.
Take this last one I just did.

It took me some while to do
And I’m still not sure it’s through
With being written.  I think of it
When I read it over that something’s not there
Though for the life of me I don’t know what
That might be.  My wife said I should try prayer,
And, well, I have.  Then I hear stuff from friends
Who say everything from “Nice” to “Best yet”
About it and I wonder what I don’t get.