I wrote poems for years without calling them that, without seeing myself as a poet. I stuffed them into drawers. Left them in computer folders. Nobody knew. I hardly knew myself. They didn't matter.

It began when I wrote some words as a gift to the people of Star Island NH, the temporary community of UUs (Unitarian-Universalists) with whom my sons and I spent a week every summer. I posted those words on a bulletin board there. Back in NYC I got a package in the mail. Someone had spent hours making an art piece from my words. "Unsaid on Star Island" meant enough to him to do that. Interesting.

I still stuffed my scribblings in drawers. Years of working on the Hedgebrook board to foster women writers' voices finally got to me in 2003. I was about to be 70 and no one had heard my voice. I could hear my NY editor, T George Harris saying, "Oh just bareass it, Medlock."

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Knowing I had to take my shot, I created Bareass Press and Pagemakered a book of 70 poems, calling it Arias, Riffs & Whispers, Words Written for Voices. (Still not "poems.")

My 70th birthday celebration was a coming-out party—five great actors reading from the book—it was terrifying to go bareass, letting people into that so private world.

And it was wonderful. But it wasn't enough to convince me. I was still uneasy when I sent the book to a real poet.

I can say from long acquaintances with writers that most of us, myself included, suffer from imposter syndrome, as in, “I’m doing this writing thing but I’m actually not that good and somebody’s gonna notice that and call me on it. I’m not really a writer.”

There came such a moment, in spades, after a new-found clan member began sending me poems, extraordinary poems, every single day. I researched him and found a history that stretched back half a century, his bona fides including praise from Bukowski and a cohort of other "outlaw" poets—soldiers, cops, seamen, factory workers, cons… Not a twee line among them.

So. Sending him this woman’s Arias, Riffs & Whispers was, as you can imagine, a bit intimidating. This awesome poet and I were now relatives. He might feel obliged to be polite rather than honest. I dreaded his response.

Then an email from him appeared that was not one of his poems. It opened with: “I began reading with all the open mindedness I could muster, and when you find yourself 'mustering' open mindedness, it means you have reservations.”

Uh oh. He dreaded reading the work and possibly hating it. I’m nailed. Not a writer. And then I read:

“What reservations I might have had got swept aside with the first three poems I read, in the Pseudo-bio section -- "Saigon 1960" ... "The Guy from Cap d'Antibes" ... and "Ahfrrikah", which really hit me between the eyes.

“These poems have a gyroscope that keeps them balanced, and the language is limpid. Which is fine and dandy for any sort of writing. But what turns them into poetry, and good poetry, is the way you shape this language into a living moment, carry the reader (this reader, at any rate) directly into what you are describing, and then (and this is the crown jewel), pull the reader beneath the surface into the emotional matrix of the poem, make him one with it.


“The way I identify a really good poem is that it invades me like Attila the Hun. I become excited, agitated, and my mind starts to race. I feel disoriented, like a pygmy stepping out from under his forest canopy onto a savanna for the first time. Many of the poems I've read so far in Arias have done this to me, and reading three or four in a row that have this effect pretty much wrecks my day!”

At that point I had soaked three Kleenex with tears. And it went on.

“I went from Pseudo-bio to Sisters. I didn't start with Sisters because I dreaded being bombarded with bareass feminism. Imagine my surprise when the poems in Sisters hit me even harder than the poems in Pseudo-bio.

"Christ, I love the pithy, razor-sharp quality of "Miss Ena W's Fan". This quality comes out in a number of the poems, "The Guy from Cap", for instance. I laughed out loud, as I did in a number of other poems. And this is just one end of your broad (no pun intended) perspective and emotional spectrum. You render witches as full-dimensional and vividly human as anything I've ever read. And I have never read anything that better describes drowning than "Sea Sister".

"This all ties in with the way you pull the reader down into the matrix of the poem. What you also do in a number of the poems that I like very much is you handle a situation of tragedy and injustice by making the injustice a backdrop on which you etch the humanity of its victims; you use an injustice that detracts from humanity to enhance and fortify humanity; it's sort of like spinning gold out of straw.

"She Does Not Sing For You" totally captures what an incomplete man (and their numbers are legion) yearns for in a woman, some of which he might be entitled to if it were a reciprocal situation, and the last italicized stanza, "Vain, cold, soulless killer of good men—the bitch will pay", nails the hostility that comes forth when unreasonable demands are not met.

"In "Luisa" you again bring something to life better than I've ever seen it done–the 9-11 tragedy. I found myself inside one of those infernal towers for the first time. What makes this even more impressive is you did not (correct me if I'm wrong) experience that disaster firsthand, no more, I suspect, than you ever drowned.

"And good lord, you can be lethal with laser precision! "Spa" for instance. "Give us your tired, your rich, your/yuppie gringas yearning to/stop hyperventilating,/trying for some reason to be bonier." Shit! Wonderful!

"And "Delusion"—"The trainer of mounted police tells his men/to see rabbits when they must control/an undesirable crowd. When the cop/rides over the hippie hunched small/over her fallen child's fragility he/does not see a mother and son/he would give his life for at/any other intersection--/he is clearing a street of rabbits."


So here I thank the Poet John Bennett for blasting away my imposter syndrome, for punching my admission ticket to the world of real writers.

The poems John mentioned in his letter are hot-linked here, and I’m putting others online expeditiously, because I have things to tell you, places to take you, feelings and thoughts to impart.

May the poems invade you, excite you, agitate you, make your mind race, make you laugh out loud, blow the top of your head off, pull you into the matrix of the poem, and make you one with them.

Because that’s what poems should do. And I am a poet.

About Arias, Riffs & Whispers

"When a wise woman turns to poetry, witches become light, hills are lion women, a grandfather may be dangerous, and God's attention gets called to beauty. Join Ann Medlock in turning poetry into real life, and real life into poetry." — Gloria Steinem

"Beware! These poems stay with you for days—they affect the way you see your world and your place in it. Ann Medlock is a life force; it's rare to know one. Here's your chance." — Goody Cable, creator of the Sylvia Beach Hotel, a reader's paradise

"Ann Medlock's poems achieve an almost impossible perfection: they are impassioned and witty, profound and serenely beautiful, elegant and colloquial. Quite simply, they represent language at its finest." — Andrew Carroll, editor of 101 Great American Poems, co-founder of the American Poetry & Literacy Project.

Arias, Riffs & Whispers; Words Written for Voices is a collection of 70 poems that range from witty, short riffs to full-blown dramatic arias about war, art, heroes, life, death, God, music, love—the stuff and substance of being alive.

Author's Note: The Amazon site is saying they don't have many books. Not true. Last time I looked they actually had 90. Go ahead and order however many copies you want. Just not 91.

You can read many of them right here, with illustrations that aren't in the book. And it would also be lovely if you bought a copy. Buy several—you must have some friends who like poetry. Well, one friend?

If Amazon is still being cranky, email dromnavarna@gmail.com and you'll for sure get a copy.



  • Don't go. Don't take away the lights.
  • I wanted to say...
  • the words are locked in here.
  • I have no voice for them.
  • But I have hand, paper, pen.
  • And what I wanted to tell you is
  • my son is asleep in his room,
  • breathing quietly, singed pink and gold by the sun.
  • smudged with dirt, worn still
  • by the speed of his day on Star. ...
  • .
  • (Full poem on one page)
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  • There's a dead tiger on the sidewalk
  • in front of our neighborhood bar
  • and at the table next to the enormous carcass,
  • a French hunter cursing the missing client
  • who commissioned the kill.
  • We are not in Kansas. ...
  • .
  • (Full poem on one page)


  • A tree buds, blooms, leafs, molts, buds
  • in a single week.
  • Say it right – Ahfrrikah.
  • Afternoon sky leaps from blue to black,
  • converting air to down-falling river.
  • Stops. Goes blue again and steams the ground.
  • All in minutes.
  • Ahfrrikah. ...
  • .
  • (Full poem on one page)
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  • Ena's burgundy velvet, her sister's white satin
  • welcome the touch. You can see the pulse in
  • their young round arms, shoulders, necks,
  • feel the press of Betty’s wrist at Ena’s waist.
  • One, two, twenty certain strokes and the fan
  • is in Ena’s hand, ready to conceal a foolish whisper.
  • “Mr. Sargent is so handsome.
  • Do you think he’ll stay for dinner?” ...
  • .
  • (Full poem on one page)


  • Far down the stone passageway, a key turns,
  • a heavy door is pried open and shoved shut
  • as the passageway funnels to our acute ears
  • a woman's scream
  • reeling high over the deep imprecations of our jailors.
  • It is time. They are coming.
  • The uncertainty ceases now,
  • the not knowing when they will end this. ...
  • .
  • (Full poem on one page)
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  • She hears the ship splinter and crack.
  • It shudders and is pulled through the seatop
  • out of the known world
  • down into some other, terrifying realm
  • where air cannot fill its sails,
  • where weight and darkness rule. ...
  • .
  • (Full poem on one page)
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  • To Donne who yearned to heare,
  • Yeats who pursued,
  • And Eliot who was right...
  • Glittering, curving, unknown
  • to sky, land and flame,
  • she pauses in her confident progress
  • through her realm and circles you curiously. ...
  • .
  • (Full poem on one page)
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  • I was looking uptown, the day so clear I could almost see
  • my building there, in the Bronx,
  • way up the A line, and the school.
  • I was saying a prayer that the first day of second grade
  • was going well for Eduardo, when I saw the plane.
  • The sky was always full of planes,
  • but this one, this one was all wrong,
  • not flying where the others did.
  • Help them, Madre de Dios. ...
  • .
  • (Full poem on one page)
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  • Tecate’s women cross the grounds,
  • smooth warm clay in motion,
  • sculptures down from their pedestals,
  • moving to chambers booked solid for the week.
  • Tecate’s women will soothe away
  • the wrinkles in pale fuzzy skin,
  • unclench muscles wound tight by
  • infighting on the fortieth floor,
  • by alimony battles and Junior's
  • third involuntary drug rehab. ...
  • .
  • (Full poem on one page)
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    • He hears a pachink when the child falls.
    • Another for the grandfather. Louder
    • yet for the clean shot at the pumps.
    • His head rings like a neon arcade
    • triumphing the points of his kills
    • as real blood warm pools into
    • living schoolyard grass onto
    • the gas station macadam to
    • swirl with the rainbowed
    • oil spills. It's virtual, man.
    • A game with losers
    • and a winner.
    • .
    • (Full poem on one page)


    • We look out at green hills
    • worn round by centuries of feet and rain
    • from the terrace of a Tuscan house
    • cracked, weathered, moss coated,
    • new once, in the days of Galileo,
    • inherited by generation upon generation
    • of Strozzis then Geradescas
    • born within its welcoming walls.
    • (Full poem here)


    • Stucco falls in irregular patches,
    • mold sees chance and soon attaches.
    • Velvet chairs bald here and there,
    • recording forever who sat where.
    • Silver patina holds the light,
    • old forks enriching every bite.
    • Soft wood floors show our passages,
    • each generation of new menages.
    • (Full poem here)


    • White mass passes to starboard
    • grazing our hull,
    • but there is no rending of steel
    • and we do not sink from the sky.
    • The mass is benign, insubstantial,
    • water not frozen but inflated,
    • a jovial mountain of fluff.
    • (Don't stop. There's danger ahead, in the full poem, here.)


    • The spirits of Los Muertos fly in, millions of them,
    • as always, right on time for the day of the dead,
    • knowing their way three thousand miles
    • home from their annual exile in el norte. ...

    (It's way longer...on one page here.)

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    • In the Valley of the Moon, the mountains are women.
    • They lie serenely silent, protecting us with their gentle warmth.
    • Lion mothers with golden hips, breasts, shoulders, calves,
    • all coated with golden grass whose waves chart the wind’s caress.
    • Live oak trees line their folds with green-black softness.

      (Full poem on one page here)

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    • There were promises, sincerely made
    • in the grip of love,
    • children borne and cherished,
    • but a promise is a promise
    • and he has broken his,
    • has spied upon her private
    • meeting with her oceanic self...
    • (the rest, the full poem on one page, here)



    • Didah’s skeletal fingers hummingbird across the loom,
    • pulling bright threads through metal eyes.
    • Her head darts from drawing to threads,
    • translating one to another.

      [Full poem here}



    • Her lover moves across the room
    • easy, slow, focused,
    • still damp from the shower
    • ambling toward the closet
    • where his soft clothes hang.
    • She can feel the corded arms
    • that frame his long, sculptured body
    • as she watches from the pillows, smiling lazily. ...

      [The full poem is here.]

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    • Seaglass eyes in the desert
    • green fear glaring forth
    • above a defiant mouth.
    • Russian bombs have fallen
    • in range of those young eyes,
    • have orphaned her, sent her
    • to walk through snow to the
    • camp where the foreign man
    • asked, “May I take your picture?”...

    (The full poem is here.)

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    • Rainey steps back into the spotlight,
    • bright dots of sweat
    • shining on her clear skin.
    • She cues the combo
    • and moves into the mike.
    • The set is half done,
    • Ellington, Loesser and Kahn
    • the elegant fabrics
    • she’s laced in, around and over. ....
    • (Full Clergy on one page here.)

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    • An urgent search
    • a plane to catch
    • a Ford to dump
    • we’re out of time
    • the map’s no help.
    • Semis blare
    • neon blinks
    • tailpipes belch
    • tempers burst
    • words burn
    • planes ascend with purposeful, on-time roars
    • but the missing rental car lot refuses to appear.

      (More about this, on one page)



    • Clouds pretend to be mountains until
    • they move, revealing their massive joke.
    • Petals fall from the cherry unblemished and
    • play in the wind, as if they were detritus.
    • Lizard says he's rock, chortling as
    • we pass, missing him completely.
    • Water laps benignly then reforms as
    • tsunami, biting off the beach and
    • all the pretty houses.
    • Mountain stands serene in snow
    • and silent, curving symmetry,
    • enhancing views and property values,
    • until she tires of the charade and
    • claims her true volcano self.

      This is the full poem. You can see it on one page, here.

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    • He's bested bullies in schoolyards,
    • dodged descending barstools,
    • maneuvered mine fields,
    • lost eleven buddies in the Gulf,
    • heard a hundred women
    • howl the deaths of their men.
    • Decades of evasive action leave him
    • wary that his luck won't last,
    • weary of adrenaline bursts,
    • yearning for tranquility. ... more
    • (Full poem on one page)

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    • Elastic in her veil squeezes her head, the tulle scratches,
    • stockings crawl foreignly over her spindly legs.
    • She hopes that Sister Eulalia will click the cricket soon
    • so she can stand and the garter belt buttons will
    • stop digging into the backs of her bony thighs.
    • She looks up at Our Lady smiling down and asks,
    • "How do women wear these things?"...

    (Full poem on one page here)



    • We're the Crusader, out of Petersberg,
    • bound for whaling grounds.
    • Creaking, dipping, rolling with the sea's heaves
    • till we enter the still, flat Sound
    • as guests.
    • Will they accept our presence, receive us?
    • We wait, attending their decision. ...
    • (Full poem on one page here)
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    • You grew up seeing the pictures—
    • fierce men in fur hats, standing on Lenin's tomb,
    • the Kremlin's fortress wall behind them
    • and before them, marching troops and missiles
    • poised to kill you.
    • .
    • Now stand here, a guest of the new regime,
    • both feet dead center of Red Square, August 2000. ...

      (Full poem on one page)

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    Take a look at the fountain in your youth.

    You won't need it then

    but remember where it is

    so you can find your way back.

    Bathing suits optional.

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    • After decades
    • of donkeying,
    • of moving
    • solidly,
    • bearing
    • whatever
    • cargo
    • needed
    • to be moved,
    • the load
    • is lighter,
    • the bearer
    • weaker,
    • the hooves
    • placed
    • far less
    • surely, the
    • old balance
    • not what it
    • once was,
    • y’know. ...
    • (Full poem on one page)

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    • Burrowing, bulging, it—no, they
    • move against her, within her,
    • gnawing nearer to things
    • she cannot live without—
    • organs, bones, synapses,
    • memories, senses, clarity.
    • .
    • "Pray that it's swift."
    • .
    • I do. I sit beside her,
    • praying to these agents of death,
    • Move quickly. Finish what you've started. ...

    (Full poem on one page)

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    • I’ve brought books of stories I can read to her.
    • My brother has come with her favorite tenors
    • and a new CD player. There are things we want
    • to tell her, about the new great granddaughter
    • who carries her name, about the fine apartment
    • where we’re moving Dad. We want to tell her
    • how amazed we are by the miracle we’ve found
    • in her accounts, the safety net she’s woven for him
    • with her thrift and savvy. Important things—
    • we think—for us to say, for her to hear, before she goes.
    • Her deaf ear is all she offers, her hearing side
    • deep in the pillow. The nurses gently turn her head
    • back to listening position. Instantly, resolutely, repeatedly,
    • she clamps the good ear down, reclaiming the silence. ...
    • (Full poem on one page)
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    • She brackets his world,
    • her love, her daily work
    • the uprights that wall away the void,
    • holding in what good remains,
    • keeping him fed clothed cosseted,
    • safe within the bounds she sets
    • as old echoes drown out current voices,
    • familiar doors and furnishings move themselves
    • to confusing, bruising positions,
    • memory invades present time to make
    • her pale, white-rimmed face
    • not that of his freckled, red-haired wife
    • but of some frightening stranger. ...

    (Full poem on one page)



    • Sabe donde este patio es?
    • The merwoman has come to San Miguel to find it,
    • to rest in the warm shade of this loggia
    • and feel the breeze, hear the birds,
    • to reach out for an orange and peel it,
    • inhaling Valencia. ...

    (Full poem on one page)

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    • This cannot be Dunkirk.
    • Dunkirk is where Stukas strafe
    • the beach and water as Tommies
    • wade out to the trawlors and yawls
    • that have come cross channel to take them home.
    • There cannot be changing cabanas
    • and soft drink vendors at Dunkirk.
    • Arbeit Macht Freiis still above the gate
    • as we are urged onward
    • not by SS officers or sondercommandos­—by tour guides. ...
    • .
    • (Full poem on one page)


    • Each pane of the old window
    • framed a different crag of the range.
    • On the days when she was there to see them
    • she knew he was somewhere on one or another,
    • too far to see or hear, yet she saw
    • his scarlet parka marking his location
    • sharply against the snow,
    • saw him kicking spiked boot toes into a wall of ice,
    • saw his long legs pistoning him over a crevasse,
    • heard him jangling his gear and tackle, laughing. ...
    • .
    • (Full poem on one page)


    • Now let us sing to praise our God
    • for all the manly things,
    • for the laugh that’s bass,
    • for the lofty view,
    • for the headlong juggernaut moves;
    • for taking up large spaces
    • and yearning toward new thrills
    • on the pinnacles of mountains
    • while we favor soft, gold hills. ...

      (Full poem on one page)

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    • “If I was that ugly, I’d at least stay home with it.”
    • The child laughs, thinking it’s a joke, but he is glaring
    • at the women passing the porch where the old man
    • and his Yankee granddaughter rock.
    • “The Levelheads, I call em,” he says loudly,
    • so the women have to hear. “Look at em.
    • Heads don’t go up and down when they walk.”
    • .
    • (Full poem on one page)


    • Everyday she writes another one,
    • the flimsy little sheet that folds
    • into itself to make an envelope.
    • What can she find to say when
    • she just wrote to him yesterday?
    • She writes the address that doesn't
    • mean anything, doesn't say where he is
    • ComDesWesPacFor FPO SF Calif
    • .
    • (Full poem on one page)

    R & R

    • Frantic laughter drowns out fire fights
    • last week next week an hour away by PanAm.
    • Tinny band nasal Suzie Wong attempting
    • Jumpin' Jack Flash. Failing.
    • Hands slide into side slits in red cheong sams
    • knock back mai tais and straight shots
    • pound tables to give the band the beat.
    • It's a gas gas gas. Don't you get it?
    • It's a gas gas gas.
    • .
    • (Full poem on one page)
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    • Over four centuries of this nonsense
    • is quite quite enough.
    • Our Lady. Her picture on
    • Cuauhtlatohuc's robe.
    • Roses in December. Castilian roses.
    • Mary, Queen of the Americas. Mary.
    • .
    • Listen and listen closely.
    • .
    • My name is Tonantzin, mother of all the Aztecs.
    • (Full poem on one page)

    TWO COFFINS 1968

    • Just days ago the calloused feet,
    • unlike the hands, free of tubes,
    • moved weakly to the echoes
    • of a schottische playing across time.
    • Tonight generations circle the open casket,
    • the lipsticked face letting them know
    • they are no longer orbiting Mama.
    • .
    • (Full poem on one page)


    • In his eighth decade he stands here free,
    • emerged from the caged years, from
    • the unintended monastery where reckless
    • fire became the molten gold radiating now
    • in his gaze, his voice, in the hand
    • that holds Graca’s as he turns to
    • leave the room, still guarded by
    • blond Afrikaaners, surrounding
    • him, glaring menace at the eager
    • crowd, pressing against us to
    • clear his way to wherever he wishes
    • to be. ...
    • .
    • (Full poem on one page)


    • The brilliant lines and
    • shapes take form,
    • grain by bright grain
    • as orange and burgundy
    • robes border the table.
    • Golden hands infinitely
    • precise and certain
    • put down tiny trails
    • the colors of cardinals,
    • jays and cockatoos.
    • .
    • (Full poem on one page)
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    • The deep white pack eases down the steep warm roof,
    • revealing red metal at the roofline.
    • The pack curls down, far over the eaves,
    • cold trumping gravity to hold there,
    • seemingly unsustained,
    • ending in improbably long tendrils of thin clear ice. ...
    • .
    • (Full poem on one page.)


    • Express shots from earth to God
    • bold straight trunks, our branches
    • fragile afterthoughts useful only
    • for briefly collecting snow which
    • we may or may not let fall
    • as you pass among us,
    • if the wind visits,
    • if the temperature rises a degree or two,
    • if the weight begins to annoy.
    • (Full poem on one page.)


    • Startling late arrival,
    • forgotten in long absence,
    • Sol has sneaked south,
    • ducked beneath the weight of cloud cover,
    • darted through small openings
    • in the thick black trees
    • to paint gold shafts down long dull trunks,
    • to pleat them all light dark light dark,
    • to prance right through wet foggy glass,
    • to point warm fingers at
    • a yellow chair here,
    • three tangerines there,
    • to prod us with a, "Look, how beautiful."

      (On one page)

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    • You grew up seeing the pictures—
    • Fierce men in fur hats, standing on Lenin's tomb,
    • the Kremlin's fortress wall behind them
    • and before them, marching troops, and missiles poised to kill you.
    • Now stand here, a guest of the new regime,
    • both feet dead center of Red Square, August 2000. ...

      (Full poem on one page.)

    Screen Shot 2021-04-21 at 3.35.58 PM.png


    • The writer stares at paper,
    • moaning for his missing muse.
    • Nothing will appear until She does,
    • whispering the perfect words in his ear.
    • It will be his name on the book, the poem, the story,
    • with no mention of how he happened to hear those words.
    • .
    • (Full poem on one page)


    • Giancarlo steadies himself with one hand
    • against the fabled ceiling
    • as with the other he gently wipes away
    • the veil of centuries,
    • incense and wax, sneezes and coughs,
    • all that has turned
    • the Master's exuberant palette into elegant gloom.
    • They have been here for months, reversing time,
    • while the world debates the dangers, the proprieties. ...
    • (Full poem on one page.)
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    • Annually the doe brings her fawns
    • to the feasting table that is our garden.
    • We begin as City Folk, charmed at the sightings,
    • become Locals in exasperation that "tall rodents"
    • have once again decimated our roses and our parsley.
    • This year she stepped out of the forest
    • with the smallest offspring ever,
    • one that fit under her when she stood. ...
    • (Full poem on one page.)



    • What do you know, Joe,
    • after all that study, all that tracking
    • of humanity’s search for the sacred,
    • for import, for course coordinates?
    • A veritable Harpo of revelations
    • he pulls from a vest pocket “Natural Music”
    • and tells us that Jeffers got it right: ...
    • (Full poem on one page.)


    • The formula for perfection, not created—found
    • by the dissectors, the analyzers—
    • observing, measuring, discovering
    • to their astonishment that the number
    • is everywhere, from the galaxies to our DNA,
    • hidden and visible,
    • in a beautiful face and a fiddlehead fern. ...

      (Full poem, on one page.)



    • "Gentlemen, set your frames.
    • This here dance starts simple
    • and gets tricky real fast.
    • Your lady cannot do
    • the necessary turns and
    • flourishes if you do not
    • give her frame.... Full poem here

    Screen Shot 2022-01-31 at 4.16.25 PM.png

    MARCH ‘79 WEST 83rd

    • The merwoman leaves the bistro,
    • bids goodnight to her companions,
    • and turns the corner for the short walk home.
    • Rapid steps behind her
    • blow sets her reeling
    • briefcase, bag ripped away. ...
    • Full poem on one page

    Screenshot 2023-01-22 at 1.52.10 PM.png


    Golden cedar, steaming stones,

    Gleaming skins, searing air,

    the vent a tiny frame for the scene out there—

    black pine, white roof, flakes falling fast.

    The radio said Two feet by nightfall.

    I’ll roll in it if you will.

    (This is the whole poem, but here it is on one page.)

    Screenshot 2023-01-22 at 3.11.28 PM.png

    IN JAPAN 1955

    • A tunnel made of scarlet maples,
    • overhead, underfoot.
    • In the opposite season,
    • pale blossoms float and swirl around us.
    • (Full poem on one page here)
    Screenshot 2024-03-23 at 5.06.41 PM.png


    • Your win my loss, the fence around a couple,
    • a family, a circle of friends, a class of schoolmates,
    • holds in an allotment of good,
    • says there is just so much to be had
    • and the score must always be kept,
    • the dabs of luck, the dollops of joy
    • meagerly dispensed within each closed encampment.
    • Don't get too much now—
    • Keep your mitts off my share. ...
    • (Full poem on one page here.)
    Screenshot 2024-03-24 at 12.56.35 PM.png


    • Moon silvers this bed
    • Far below an ocean breathes
    • I feel your presence.
    • .
    • The year's longest days
    • Spent on this blessed ground
    • Are you sure we can afford this?
    • (This is the whole poem. It's on one page here.)