After trade school
my father was a printer
in the day of massive three-story presses
hand set with heavy metal letters
from magic wooden drawers

My father was charming and ethical
he revealed himself to possess a talent for sales
admiring businesses trusted him with their printing
in the day of being true to your word
and sealing deals with handshakes

My father was an entrepreneur
creating his own high-end printing company
in an era when advertising came of age
his insights, his judgment, his trustworthiness
rewarded him with success and reputation

Despite the dizzying ride of good fortune
envied luxury cars and posh social circles
he was grounded — then and always
you see, he never stopped being a printer
donning a tradesman’s apron after supper
he’d head for a small old press in the basement

when he paused the press to
tuck me in and kiss me good-night
he carried with him into my bedroom
that wonderful aroma of printer’s ink
he died when I was twenty-three

A decade later I was getting a tour
of my new employer’s facilities
after the travel office came the print room
where trade literature, service manuals, and brochures
were being printed, cut, and bound

it smelled of that same wonderful aroma of printer’s ink
and no one understood why I started to cry

Why do I love writing poems
on yellow legal pads, you ask?
let me count the ways

First, that yellow color —
it’s truly perfect paper sunshine
and when you have a yellow legal pad
who needs Vitamin D?
each sheet is a sunbeam

Second, modesty —
the pads sit, unassuming
on my cluttered desk
amidst half-empty diet coke cans
and bowls filled with pens

Third, the size —
a veritable Goldilocks of tablets
not too big | not too small,
just enough space for poetic genius to flow
but not so big as to imply expectations

Fourth, nostalgia —
sure, word processors or virtual assistants
I know, but where's the fun?
there is no tactile magic with a screen
the ink must flow from brain to pen to paper
and when you hear the scratching of a poem
it’s the echoes of Shakespeare and his friends

Fifth, ink-stained fingers —
it seems holy to bear the marks of writing
on one's hands
a poet's stigma if you will
a symbol of our suffering
writing is bleeding

So there you have it —
like a faithful birthing coach
it is a witness and a midwife
encouraging me as I scream
and push with each poem's birth

after every verse is titled
I kiss my yellow legal pad in thanks
and pray that she and her kind
endure forever

THE YELLOW LEGAL PAD
IS MY MUSE

We face the chaos
your steadiness beside me
as we find a way to cherish
the triumphs and tragedies

our hands are open
and you cradle mine gently
reminding me that generosity
is a gift that nourishes us both

when fear grips us
we find courage
confident no matter the outcome
knowing to thrive is an act of will

in the midst of uncertainty
your love is steadfast
a constant presence
in the calm and in the storms

you are the artist
painting our pages with purpose
I am the storyteller
decoding the plot twists


although we don’t know how it unfolds
one thing is certain
we will be there for each other
with unwavering love

as we create our book of life
our love is on every page

Wyoming
what evidence have we got
that it’s a real thing?

have you met anyone who claims to live there?
it’s a government implanted fake memory
a figment of our collective imagination


have you been there?
no you haven’t
you thought you were
you were in canada

don’t you read the subreddits?
or the urban dictionary?
it’s a distortion of spacetime
use your head and look at a map
it’s a freakin’ weird rectangle
clearly a cover-up

and if that doesn’t convince you

that it’s a glitch in the matrix
wyoming is Italian for
no state here

(Note: This is a real online conspiracy theory).

where there is light
there is always darkness
where there is happiness
there is also sorrow


we create judgment and suffering
instead we could hold opposing ideas together
accept the complexity of a grey universe
end the reign of dogma and dualism

humbled by the realization
that answers are beyond our grasp
we understand we have no choice

without closure or resolution
we must live inside the mystery
and feel our hearts crack open

They were seduced
by the warmth
it led them to crash
through thawed ground
frantic to see the sun

in wisconsin february
a small patch of tiny lily sprouts
escaping winter’s darkness
reaches for heaven

as they shiver in the wind
even the fresh snow
that shriveled their new leaves
could not shake their faith
lilies believe in miracles

I built them a church
with a clear diet coke cup
overturned
pressed into the unyielding ground
to shield them
I believe in hope




“Even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.” - Matthew 6:28-33 (KJV)

At first this was a tiny brain
with a spoonful of thoughts
just enough 
for suckling and tears

but now
so much hair in the brush
strands of lost thoughts
falling out of this cranium
overstuffed with a lifetime
of synaptic baggage

too little scalp 
for so much hair

some thoughts were passersby
others made camp along the
posterior cingulate cortex

they pan for gold
just beneath 
the depths
of the medial temporal lobes
thoughts laid in veins
precious ore waiting to be discovered
waiting to become a poem

You take breath lightly
until you’re under water
and feel its power

as you choke and gasp
you remember forever
he who carried you

you know now
only the saved
can feel salvation’s
transcendent love

a brush with death transforms life

We all face crossroads
choices that shape
not only our character
but our future

he stands on the precipice
of choices each day
his talent is undeniable
but will he take the easy route
basking in the accolades
or choose the path
of virtue and challenge

for him the answer is always clear
he opts for the hard path
he sees challenges not as obstacles
but as opportunities for growth
knowing that true strength
is forged in the fires of adversity

when faced with tough competitors
he sees it as a chance to hone his skills
to become olympic-class
through sweat and determination

he doesn't shy away from challenges
he seeks them out
knowing they are the crucible
in which his character is forged

with humility respect generosity
gratitude and courage
he navigates life
he understands
iron sharpens iron



A long time ago
in a land so green
lived a clever fae
with a plan quite keen

she danced through the meadows
in her eyes was a gleam
on the previous eve
she’d had a grand dream

with a wink and a giggle
she vanished from sight
she was feeling inspired
to bake through the night

she mixed and she stirred
with her love in each fold
and she fashioned a cookie
to a wee pot of gold

she took out her wand
and gave it a shake
she invented the cookie
now grannies would bake

she said magic words
and the grannies obeyed
pot of gold cookies
in unison made

that St. Patty's morn
children woke with delight
to the smell of fresh cookies
oh, what a fine sight

magic cookies they squealed
and inside there was gold
they gobbled them down
now the tale has been told

so go to your granny
and give her a kiss
ask for the cookies
and taste Irish bliss

she’ll know how to bake them
like all Granny’s do
the pot of gold cookies
baked just for you

If you’re wondering what got me started writing poems, you’ll find the story here. Or, if you’re wondering why this collection is called Slender Stalk, click here. If you’re wondering where you can read the past issues of Slender Stalk, click here. If you’re wondering where you can read more of my poems, check out my website: Life at 240.

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