Saturday, June 18, 2022



You live in a Duplex/

Looking out to the Sea.

Searching the Shore to check/

For Subs of the enemy.

You scan the sand for Things/

And pocket a buck or two.

Listening to the Surf sing/

While sipping a cold brew.

You meet same each day begun/

Who measure their wealth in ease.

The Ocean ripples the Sun/

As it rises in the breeze.

You walk the cool Lo-tide/

Into the gentle Surf.

To Neptune’s Law complied/

And with the god converse.

You spy a Nautilus shell/

Lift it to your ear.

A seaborne Fortune-cookie to foretell:

“We wait for you my dear.”





Tuesday, February 8, 2022



I cannot see one foot past my front door.

The fog that floated on “little cat feet”

swamps me.

Wet like sweat, not cooling, but chilling.

Have I died?


Did I die a “Noir” death?

Have I walked onto a Hollywood set?

A 1947 Frisco waterfront?

Where Foghorns sound the way.

Am I lost?


Passion is the poet’s eye.

The gray fog ignites grey matter.

Emotions overwhelm.

I wander through the mist.


Where are the Foghorns?