Soup in Spring

I ate three bowls of soup tonight

The best ham and beans and broth I have ever tasted

it reminds me of how I wooed my wife, one autumn,

With poems about the comfort of mom’s

Winnie- Ther- Pooh tomato soup recipe

and that in turn led me to ponder:

What is soup? It’s not food and it’s not drink

it’s Something in between I think

So in the spring and in the fall

I like soup the best of all

It’s in between the great extremes

It’s not just food, it’s made of dreams.


So I read it to her, and she says “hmm, kind of cliche. It’s an everyday poem.”

Then she kisses me.

Cliches can work, sometimes.





The madman walks past stiffly, quickly, down the broad avenue of packed dirt, (we are in the middle of the middle of Africa) and he is talking to himself,



invoking the Creator.

“Bonjour,” I say, being as friendly as I can. Twigs in his hair, eyes bloodshot, perhaps he slept in the forest, where he may have spent the insanely hot night



invoking the Creator.

His eyes see me for a moment, a flicker of recognition crosses his face (there’s one of the whites who is crazy enough to be in the middle of the middle of Africa). But

The fool does not reply, he simply goes on his way



invoking the Creator.



Thailand, 2016, Poem #2

A bricklayer on his scaffold

Drops a plumb line from the topmost brick

To set it just, just so. If it is straight

His wall will stand and stand.


A poet drops a plumb line from her head to heart to find her voice

Setting her words just, just so. When it rings true

The culture she builds will stand, and stand

And stand.