The Silent Night Each Christmas

The silent night of holidays,
Begins each Christmas Eve…
The highway traffic silenced,
Families catch the boat and leave.

The semi drivers on vacation,
Don’t compression brake the curve,
The head-ons and the sirens,
Do not shatter each last nerve.

The Christmas celebrations,
Call the populations home,
The Penn Cove deer and rabbits,
And myself, walk safe, alone.

Diesel fumes trapped in the cove,
That signal a certain death,
Disappear for two glorious days,
When we catch our second breath.

Fickle Beauty

It is no secret to anyone who
Claims to know me, that my deepest
Source of pride and site where I have witnessed
The most beauty, is my own front yard.

There is a special magic to Penn Cove.

The rising sun each morning,
Shuttles the thread to complete the fabric
Where the ocean and the orchard,
Become mixed within the tapestry,

Of living with the wind on Penn Cove.

There are Mussels on the roof,
Dropped by greedy seagulls in a frenzy,
Rabbit entrails, eagle hidden in truck wipers,
As the rooms are draped in butterscotch.

From the sunsets of Penn Cove.

Wondrous cowering in the thunder,
Lightning mired within the fog,
Days with out electricity lent themselves
To sentimental moments, huddled with the dog.

Times often unsettled on Penn Cove.

The character of the bay changes daily
It is the will of life and time.
I see it as fickle beauty however…
Just once I’d like to think that something

I loved on Penn Cove would last forever.

Christmas Diet

I have an eating disorder.
In short I am getting fat.
I can’t get the hang of bulimia,
Or pull anorexia from a hat.

I need to purge a gallon,
Of ice cream and one baked potater,
But I never think of vomiting,
Until twelve hours later.

I eat all until the fifth serving,
Ignore that important finger…
So every doughnut and piece of pie,
Makes me grow like a fat opera singer.

I have read the Hollywood secrets,
Memorized the skinny star’s facts,
But damn I forgot to purchase,
Five boxes of chocolate Ex-lax.

Exercise is out of the question,
I am way too fat to jog,
I will start by drinking no Pepsi,
And stick with the Christmas Nog.

I will turn down all sugar cookies,
Eating only the Almond Rocha,
Dining on only Italian cuisine
And purging con mi boca.

Camera Obscura

Each camera has a shutter,
Capturing time without a lie…
Opens and shuts within a second;
The images never die.

My eye is a Sony camera,
Caching images for all time
Copy written and protected,
From deletion by time or wine.

Some lately are a pixel blurred,
Still adding images brand new,
My hard drive should be full now,
Still accepting just a few.

The apertures are open
Set to record more of tomorrow…
Trips and thoughts, more memories,
Now borrowed from tomorrow

An Athiest's Dream

I have been asked to explain the title... It is hard to believe in a god when the men who love the sea so much are taken away by the dozens.



Under the bridge the fishing boats queue
Nets folded, they head out to sea,
The orphaned sons of past fisherman,
Lose sight of the harbor, and me.

The light on their masts will signal
Locations they are fishing for cod.
Three days at a time they go missing,
Their return, is a favor of God.

I drink on the fourth night with Caleb,
Carpel tunneled, he lifts his gin…
We laughingly make plans for next week,
Knowing the ocean, guarantees no again.

Bruised knuckles and barnacled fingers,
Build houses while tied to the dock…
Their families’ homes share two features,
A view and a full widow’s walk.

Like so many a young man in Newport,
Who fell in love in the bar on the dock…
He’s remembered for all his fresh flowers,
Beneath his name on Memorial Rock.

Bird Tether

First you capture the bird you want,
Then you hold the bird inverted…
Blowing his tail feathers apart,
Exposing what looks quite perverted.

Once you have located the orifice,
Take an eyebolt of Aluminum class,
Remove the nut it was shipped with,
Then insert the bolt in bird’s ass.

You have now installed the holder,
Known as the Avian Tether…
Hitch your new friend to a telephone pole,
Or bring him indoors in foul weather.

Nine One One

The news is dripping terror,
Nine eleven, Islam, war…
My subconscious keeps on whispering,
All that, but so much more.

Bad politics and apathy,
Sights I cannot articulate…
Shell shocked and in a stupor,
Still I do not feel the hate.

The newspaper is all one sided,
Iraq’s success fills every page….
Still no mention of the people there,
Unemployment, the poverty or rage.

Politicians never mention,
Iraqi deaths lost in the battle…
I feel guilty just surviving,
Making a living near Seattle.

I grew up dreaming world peace
A place I’ll never find…
We are locked out by other cultures,
And sadly, my own kind.