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I've written poetry since I was a child. Some of it is mystical, some is love poetry, some is written from the point of view of the working class.

I wrote the following poem later in life, but it recalls a childhood memory about Kane's Lake in Wisner, Nebraska.

The Goldfish Are Fine

Poor family
in winter's chill
fuel oil bill
in the mailbox.
No presents this year
'cept sweaters and winter socks.
Oldest son home from school
paper route to the family fund.
Sadness. Quietness.
What's wrong mother wants to know.

Skates, mom.

But you know we can't afford...

Used skates, mom.
For on the lake.
Racing gliding spinning
forgetting about you know we can't afford...

You won't take care of them. Remember the goldfish?
Two little goldfish
that little bowl
you forgot
and they died.

They didn't die, mom. Besides
that was years ago.
Skates, mom.

Knit sweater. Winter socks. And
Racing gliding spinning
kerfing circles and eights
as under the ice
the schools of gold
part like the red sea
before my approach.
The goldfish are fine, mom.


I don't often share my love poetry. Well, maybe just one.

Love Butterfly

From the first day
that I opened my eyes
To the wondrous enchantment
of butterfly sighs,
I learned just how painful
are tears that you cry
When you live in pursuit
of the love butterfly.

Yes, I'm a collector
of delicate things
With nets made of kindness
instead of white strings.
And songs of great sadness
I often must sing
Since I choose to live
with this butterfly thing.

Yet surely I'm unlike
collectors you've known--
No sterile collection
will I ever own.
For butterflies cherish
the flowers and grass
And butterflies die
when they're put under glass.

So tender love come to me
by night or day;
You're welcome to leave
or you're welcome to stay.
No net strings will bind you
but when you depart,
I think you should know
you'll be taking my heart.


You'll find more poetry at the poetry links on this site. (Gee, isn't that logical! ;-)


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