He was never one

for talking much.

For affection

he’d offer

a joke or two.

Then     the stroke:     bro-

ken sentence chunks       unglued syn-

tax   poured from him


times laughing and I

smiling     with his smile


times crying, and well…

Now  empty of words.


I wish him

power of syntax


lithe words to

reinvent his life     to speak

to his wife “love,”

to boggle grandkids

with boy tales of

unleashing brash verbs

upon Hutchinson, Kansas.

Then to play with words:

swing them and slide them,

to monkey around,

barring nothing,



his poetry,



who’d read only

the paper



Published by


I've been writing mostly poetry for many years and have gotten a number of works accepted in publications and anthologies. I'm most interested in communicating with poets for whom craft is a high priority. I enjoy finding and commenting on poetic gems in other people's work. For my own work, I welcome polite comments, whether positive or critical.

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