I am originally from Springfield, Ohio, and currently live in London, Ohio. I write poetry to make sense of the world and my place in it.  I have been fortunate to have my work accepted for publication in several print and online magazines.  

Sanitation Engineers


As children
we used to wake early
to the sound of chilled metal,
garbage men in the alley
below our bedroom window
and pull the covers up high.

We saw them in our minds
breathing steam and thinking
how this was just the beginning
of what they would do all day.

Their stomachs full of coffee
would begin to growl and feel sick
until they could have a sandwich
on their break
and clasp their calloused hands
wishing they were asleep.

With our own fingers
on the frosted windows
we wrote our names.





Another Day


fleeting glint of morning sun
we ache onward
no other options
try to live in the moment

then the moment is gone
these feelings constantly escape
articulation, wet slimy frogs
of the mind, get a hat

to brunt the spray of rain
wheel and deal contracts with God
while the holsteins stand blotched
in the meadow, before you know it

darkness falls again,
rocky jags on high
poke at the soft belly
of the slowly drifting moon





Autumn Fading Fast


One long puffy
white streak
of jet fuel exhaust
arcs across the sky.

Something crisp,
familiar in the air.
The mail truck
is on schedule.

The driver
fills the boxes
under a gazebo
from the rear,

locks the panels,
starts his little truck
and hustles on his way.
The old neighbor

walks slowly
like a cold lizard
across the courtyard 
to meet his mail,

hacks up phlegm
from a crackling cough,
his diseased lungs
racked, as he takes

a last drag on his
home-rolled smoke.
I am 51 years old
with much to learn.

The sun rises
in the east, the moon
has many faces,
it is better to be alive.





Inertia


I've been staring out
the window
at the same old electric
utility pole

with the same 
damn transformers
for too many seasons.
It stands there

in the distance
under every
kind of sky,
ruins brilliant sunsets

with it's ugly wires,
street light slanting up,
then bowing
to the street.

A flagpole with
the stars and stripes
from a nearby
neighbor's yard

reminds me that
I've got a big screen
t.v. and computer
to thank for the view.

I am restless
and craving more,
and at the same time
addicted to inertia.

Autumn ending, 
I realize how
old I've become,
feel a kinship

with the bare trees
inked into a
grainy paper sky.
As sparse winter

settles in, I'll seek
inspiration from
the sacred incantations
of undaunted crows.





Cold and Rainy Ohio


Nothing extraordinary happens
while we wait in autumn rain.
Traffic continues unabated.

Air brakes of buses hiss and moan.
The soaking song of the sky is relentless.
Pedestrians stretch their gaits

to avoid the largest puddles,
as they collapse umbrellas
on entering covered doorways.

Advertisements posted on telephone poles
slide out of their skins,
mat themselves to the curb.

The letter c has burned out
on the hotel's neon vacancy sign.
Coffee shop windows are steamed up,

restaurants empty, as everyone skipped lunch.
Board meetings remain gloomy and tiresome.
Participants barely keep their eyes open.

All the taxis have passengers
that don't want to stop.
Anesthetizing in loud shadowy bars

patrons can't remember where they are
till finding their way home,
collapsing, dinner-less, on the bed.

As they lay sleeping
rain pours, batters the windows
of their alcohol-induced dreams,

warps demented thoughts of jobs, but
nothing like the hell waking will bring.
They pull themselves together for the night shift

where machines clash like cymbals
running the full speed of manufacturing.
Stopping, then starting again,

batches of product filling metal bins,
ear plugs and constant muted crash of metal
stamping, pressing, loading, ejecting

machines, slammed, hurled, bashed
till quitting time, quick punch of the clock,
starting the never-ending cycle over again.