I taught at San Lorenzo Middle School in King City, California for thirty-six years before retiring in June of 2006. Phyllis, my wife of 42 years, and I still reside in King City.  I am a life-long rock-climber and mountaineer.  I've made numerous ascents in the Sierra Nevada and Yosemite, though my home crags are in Pinnacles National Park.  Many of my climbing stories have been published over the years.  One, Three's a Crowd, was produced as a radio play and broadcast on KUSF in 2006 and later made it onto PBS.  

I'm an experienced Fantasy and SF writer.   My novella Vienna Station won the Galaxy prize and was published as an e-book.  It is available for Kindle on Amazon.  I co-wrote The Man Who Murdered Mozart with Barry Malzberg a few years back.  My fantasy novel Chaos Gate was published in 2011.  You may have run across my Joel in Tananar, too.  My Young Adult historical novel Dawn Drums recently received two awards: first place in the 2014 Arizona Authors Association's annual literary contest and the New Mexico Book Awards Tony Hillerman Prize for best fiction.  

Somebody Walk the Dog


A speck, a fleck, a dab of snowy
Barnaby spittle 
Sails through frosty morning air
Like a galaxy skipping away from the bang,
One casual consequence of 
A leaping, panting, frothing, wagging
Romp.

Published last year in “Miller’s Pond”




Aunt Gerry’s Porch
 

Sunlight gems glowed below
Afternoon clouds the silver of your hair,
Soft gems – opals, pearls.
You sat in their antique light and spoke
Of Chase’s fall from the pinto,
Of Audrey’s baby,
Of David’s red wine.
You smiled at the south breeze
At its promise of rain, for
Rain brings the new barley
You love.
Then birdsong in lilacs at the porch’s end
Turned your mind to youthful journeys,
To Jerusalem,
To Baghdad.
“We must learn to live together, you know;
We must respect each other.”
I know.





Rollercoaster Ghosts


Hover in a grotto off the arcade
Where you work, glass man, glass-master,
Above the crowd, within a shadow,
Your torch as blue as a star.
Beneath your hands
Curve angels’ wings
And colored rings
For sale.

A Mexican girl by the tilt-a-whirl
Touches her soldier’s lips, 
Her smile so brave for his future;
They laugh at screams
From the Cyclone Racer
As their hotdogs drip
Mustard blood.

Your I-V bag glitters in afternoon light,
Half empty,
Half full,
Half empty,
For the monitor’s screen
Is still.

Glass Master,
Your torch as blue as a star,
Beneath your hands 
Curve crystal rings
And angels’ wings
So fine.





Secret Bodies


Plato never met Leonard Cohen,
Until I brought them to Lost Valley -
Old California, ancient California,
When Charlie Chaplin was a young man
And oranges grew on Disneyland. 
L.A.’s ghost,
Poppy gold,
Lupine dusted,
Hangs there,
And not just in winter when the wind is right.

Have a seat, boys.
Glass of wine, Leonard?
It's as cold as one of your similes. 
Plato?  
What about those secret bodies?
I’ve seen them, too, waiting
Beyond my gentlest touch.

Nothing to say after the long hump up the hill?

I carried the wine.





Tanka


Stately Pleasure Dome –
Granite smooth as silk on silk,
Scored by violence
Only ice and beauty possess –
A woman’s shoulder.