44 Years

My heart beats for you
My red haired angel
Who closes your eyes
When you laugh
And still looks at me
Like I am your sunrise

47 years ago our first kiss pulled you into my heart. The taste of your lips and the warmth of your soul have been my life. When the poet in me dreams of love… it dreams of you.

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A Peaceful Place

Each of us needs to find that peaceful place in our lives. A place where the outside world doesn’t dare penetrate. Somewhere we can recharge our batteries. For me, I love my wife, nature and Autumn in particular ( depending on the situation, not necessarily in that order).

I love that time of year when I can see my breath in the early morning air.  When nature is giving me that one last display before the big death scene of winter. The crispness of autumn tingles my imagination and makes me feel more alive than any other time of the year. I’ve always said that I can put on more clothes when it gets cold but I can only take so much off when it’s hot.  So sitting on a river bank on a cool autumn morning, the fog just starting to lift as the sun peeps over the hill top. With every minute that passes, something new comes into focus. Nature starts off with the sound of leaves rustling in the wind. Downstream a bullfrog croaks out a single bellow. As the sky lightens, birds join in and by the time the fog has cleared, a concerto fills the air. That’s as close to heaven as it gets.

But I think those peaceful moments can be found pretty much anywhere. Even late at night, with my wife’s rhythmic breathing lulling me to sleep. I’m just on the verge of dozing off but not wanting to give up a single second so I just lay there in the dark, half dreaming and half asleep.

Or after all the deadlines are passed and I’m sitting alone at my writer’s chair, free to write anything that pops into my head. Just for the fun of writing. No pressure, no hassles. With my headphones playing my favorite play list. Not caring if any one likes my work, whether or not they’ll share it, or even if anyone knows it exists.

Visiting the grandchildren and having their stamina penetrate and lift my spirit. Oh how they can wear me out with their never ending energy. But each moment is a treasure.

Shoveling the snow off the driveway early on a Saturday morning. My gloves, stocking cap and scarf tucked into just enough layers to keep me warm but not overheated. The world is so silent on those mornings. Neighbors all tucked away inside their houses. Not a single car on the street. Maybe a little laughter from a few brave children with the courage to defy nature.

Walking hand in hand with my wife, down a tree lined street with no place to go and no set time to get there. Talking about anything that comes to mind. The soft breeze blowing away our worries and the days problems crumbling under our feet.

Whatever your peaceful place happens to be, take the time to visit it often. Don’t wait until your batteries run empty to recharge them.


A Beautiful Soul

To my wonderful wife on her birthday (happy 30th dear).

A Beautiful Soul

Your beauty
Does not need to wear a skimpy bikini
Or hide behind a painted mask of vanity
Your beauty
May bulge over the edges of the mold
But that is a mold, cold men created blindly
Your beauty
Does not yield to the encroachment of time
But transforms to embrace reality
Your beauty
Is in a smile with crooked lips
The tears shed in sympathy for others
Your beauty
Is in arms outstretched for a hug
And in a heart filled with dignity
Your beauty
Reads my words before they are written
It inspires my poetry, hopes, and dreams


My wife and I have always been, for lack of a better word, loners. We have children, grandchildren, brothers and sisters that we dearly love. But we have always been nomads and spent our entire lives enjoying the company of each other. We are the best of friends. I wrote this poem quite awhile ago after watching a family member suffer from dementia. For my wife and I, our greatest fear would be to lose our memories of each other.


Please old man you must let me be relieved

Let me go where I will not be abused

Old man you know it’s me they have deceived

My mind is silent waiting to be used

My memories, they are fading faster

It is my sadness that has been released

Old man you know that you are my master

Oh please…why won’t you let me find some peace?

So I will go to join their procession

But first there is someone that I must seek

She is standing, in love, right beside me

But our fingertips just don’t seem to meet

Her hair burns bright with the color of fire

She is standing in the night beside me

Is it my mottled mind, am I dreaming

Or is it that I just need to believe


Red, orange, yellow, purple, blue and green;

The colors flow smoothly from her fingers

A rainbow of yarn like I’ve never seen

So absorbed in her I stop and linger


With every twist of her agile wrist

I watch intently as the afghan grows

Without looking, she creates every stitch

Then carefully crochets them into rows


The weight of it on her is comforting

Its warmth blocks out the chilly winter air

Still I can’t keep myself from wondering

Will it soon be too much for her to bear?