Wasted Month

March is the maddest month, breeding Gators from the South regional, mixing Golden eagles and Buckeyes, stirring Bulldogs to close wins. Harvard surprised us, coming over New Mexico In a shower of threes. I watch, much of the night, and wager on Duke. . . . . Continue Reading »

Lies and Lethargies

A couple of lines from Auden’s The Age of Anxiety: A Baroque Eclogue (W.H. Auden: Critical Editions) have been sticking with me: “Lies and lethargies police the world / In its periods of peace.” Start with the cynical substance of the lines. Lies and lethargies don’t corrupt . . . . Continue Reading »

Morning Sacrifice

“Think about hamburger,” I said to my daughter. She was holding her nose against the acrid smell of warm manure. The man pulled faded yellow waterproof overalls over his narrow hips and snapped the fasteners on his black rubber boots. He hooked a chain around his waist. A knife . . . . Continue Reading »

Worlds without Winter

What do worlds with no winter do, Not burned pure by visions of light, No clean slaughter-knife of cold Carving away concupiscence? What do worlds with no winter do, No crystal branches, fairy-white, No silky folds in the landgown, No fallen stars flashing underfoot? What do worlds do, always juicy . . . . Continue Reading »

Santa Fight Club

A little Christmas fluff, inspired by a 2008 NPR report. Thanks to my son Woelke for pointing me to the original story. Act 1 Phone ringing on an empty desk. Enter Santa Jeff, dressed in a red jacket and wearing a white beard. He answers the phone. Santa Jeff : AORBS, Santa Jeff speaking. Pauses. . . . . Continue Reading »

Boston Public Park

Washington, Augustus on a prancing horse, sword pointing toward sunset. Over the pond, fringed with ice, droop the weeping willows. And what I miss most in the pine-blanketed West: leafless trees in cold sunshine. . . . . Continue Reading »

Feeling poetic

I’m no poet, but sometimes I feel poetic. What’s that feel like? It feels like, “I wish I were a poet so I translate that to language.” But there are a couple of other things going on too. One is a desire for explanation. When the spring breeze comes through the window of my . . . . Continue Reading »

Petreides’ Hamartia

An epic poem by my son Christian. Sing goddess, of the procrastination of Peter’s son Christian and its devastation, which put pains thousandfold upon his GPA, hurled in its glory to the house of hated C’s, and his strong soul of a hero quailed at the thought of the righteous punishment . . . . Continue Reading »