Block Island Bound

The clouds were high,
The sun was bright,
Our boat bit into
White capped seas,
In the distance,
Barely seen,
A hint,
A smudge,
Our place to be,
Our goal,
To troll
Beneath the cliffs,
The sandy perch,
Of Southeast Light,
To troll for blues,
Or maybe bass,
A good days work,
Of playing hard.
But meanwhile,
There's the wind
And seas,
Right in our teeth,
An hour or more.
As Point Jude fades
Astern of us,
We dream of fish,
And keep her straight,
And hope our reels
Will sing a song.

Scene From My Desk

The naked forest,
Rests under the harsh gray sun,
Stripped bare of its green.

Winter Scene From a Window

A line of roosters,
Peck round a fallen walnut,
January's feast.

Mountain Gardens

We grow with passion,
Our only cash crop is rocks,
Want peas? Import soil!

The End of Hunting Season

Bear Hunting is Done,
Silence reigns in the mountains,
Case that three-oh-eight.

Winter In a Mountain Resort

A town deserted,
Syria in midwinter,
A stark empty street.

On The First Snow

Snow meanders down,
Winter smiles in its late bloom,
Our first white blanket.