October in Stockbridge
A New England reflection We came where Berkshire whispers dwell, To walk the streets where silence fell On painted doors and windowpanes, Where autumn’s breath through white walls strains.
The Stone I Took
I was driving somewhere, past the part of Massachusetts where maps just get tired and give up - Otis, maybe, or a town pretending to be Otis because it liked the sound of the name.
The Bench Under the Apple Tree
We made a bench one smoky day When clouds hung low and woodsmoke stayed, To sit beneath the apple tree Out front, at Boulevard and Street.
At Authors’ Ridge - 2024
For The Steady One We came not just to walk, but remember... Past Concord’s hush, past pine and ember - Where word and wind and granite sleep, And roots hold secrets buried deep. No fanfare marked the path we chose - Just lichen bloom on aging rows, And leaves like letters overhead That whispered names we’d long since read.
First Kings of Elmira - 1975
In the summer of 1975, the grass along Eldridge Park field ‘neath the old wooden roller coaster was patchy, tall in places, thin in others - but to us, it was emerald, endless, a kingdom under the slow, benevolent sun.
That One Bottle — 1989
A Memory in Sweat and Grace In Nuremberg, summer pressed its full weight down - thick as iron, bright as judgment - onto a rugby pitch ringed by trees too wise to move.
That Old Zenith
Ozone blues and the hands that tried. That old Zenith sat like a dark-faced preacher, its back peeled open - a small cathedral of wire and light.
If Sylvia Had Answered the Phone
after Dr. Hook’s “ Sylvia’s Mother ” There’s a payphone by the station wall, where mercy takes small change. He feeds the coins like rosary beads, and waits for her to breathe.
The Headless Horseman Rode Through My Homework
I met him once in fifth grade - right there between spelling words and a math test I hadn’t studied for.
Catalog Dreams and Charlie Brown Nights
'Tis the Season on Lincoln Street Christmas doesn’t come from a store, maybe Christmas… perhaps… means a little bit more. - Dr. Seuss, How the Grinch Stole Christmas! It always began with the thud of the Sears catalog on the kitchen table, thick enough to stop a bullet, and filled with more dreams than the average nine-year-old had the emotional maturity to handle.
