• Father of the Bride ~ I wrote this poem in response to my daughter's wedding a couple of years ago. There was an extraordinary *simpatico* feeling between her and her husband that ballooned in the fullness of their cheeks and persistent smiles. I thought "this is legit" and prompted me to write. I read the early version of the poem to the guests, which I think added to the good feeling.
• Prothalamion ~ My daughter is an artist. Before the marriage she painted a compelling scene of lovers entwined, to which I refer in the poem.

I am now 72, 51 years married, 51 years a poet, satisfactorily traveled and educated. I've been successful as a poet and photographer in recent years.

Reading at Park Place Books


Thanks for coming. I like intimate gatherings.


I wrote my new poem to read aloud to friends,
but also to anonymous listeners to be thrilled.

I bet myself (a stinging wager for either side)
that reading aloud confronts an animal fear, like a rat gnawing at my ulna,
at my knee, at my toes in the dark before sleep; that I confront strangers
aware of my singularity (like a black hole?), courageous among my demons
from my dark forest to speak reminiscences in dusky cadences, to be greeted
heartily by dutiful word-fellows, all haughty heroes laden with leaf
wreathes and hurrahs that will echo through history.

And so I do this thing.
I come with felicitous words.
Such is my gift.
St. Croix, a Time Ago


Yes, I remember its eminence:
the restaurant overlooking a fertile valley, hot and humid, but paradise for
many.

I remember sun burnishing
the early evening, softening in tropical languor.

You continue to think of the steak.

For love, accept essences, commit to belief:
overwhelming attraction; rapidity of arousal; fine neck hairs vibrating to
a sovereign tempo; twined physiques that inhale, exhale in tandem. Thus can
a parent share the pleasures of love.

No question that love embraces lovers tangibly
as a spirit, proud guide with tender hand: offers no illusion, no human
indulgence. Lovers share expectation of constant discovery of
inevitability.

Wedding guests, contradict me if you disagree.


In embrace, this woman and this man sacrifice self.
She enlarges each of his senses: his eyes dilate her
beauty; his nose adores her fragrance; his ears soft shoe her melody; his
lips and tongue feast; and how his fingers every time trace her luscious
angularity, the countless curves of her female presence. A man learns the
art of love: a woman joins him in the idea.

Like Halley's recurring comet, the goal is 75 years:
paragons paired in love, truth burning our memories.