Open: Journal of Arts & Letters (O:JA&L Featured Writer for May 2019.)



The Sentinel


Now I Lay Them Down to Sleep



“I sink my knife deep into the skin
of vegetables—eat the light hidden

in the tomato. The slow horse of my heart
clopping as if it has nothing better to do.”

“Knead” Moon City Review 2019

“…This house

that shelters you—   

sometimes it carries

you away in a net.     

Sometimes you put

your hand on the faucet

just to watch cold water

rush down the sink…”

CockcrowMom Egg Review 2019

     “…I had a mind.              


I had ideas.        And a beast seeps through unweaving


me thread by thread,          turning  its bundle


of claws— I was I was I was.”

“Elegy of Signs”

Atticus Review

“Star Grace” -co written with Paul Marion

They Said: A Multi-Genre Anthology of Contemporary Collaborative Writing

"The Birds"  Inklette

 "Never To Be Told"   Yes Poetry: Special Feature

I would never blame myself.

"Breakthrough"   Featured in Five:2:One Magazine Lit Style

"Crow Funeral"  Semi-finalist for the Tupelo Quarterly Poetry Prize

The crows scold loudly as if to say look:
look at one of us fallen, see the danger,
feel how it hurts—the dead crow sizzling

in the pavement like a fallen roof shingle. So nothing,
so gone this thing we have lost.

"The First Gunshot"  Doug Holder: The Sunday Poet

"Mill City"Mass Poetry

"Godless"  Mass Poetry: Poet in the Spotlight

It is easy
to remember this kind of stillness.
I want it on my skin
like a tick. I want to lie down
like a dog for what it might give me.

"Majors" Harpur Palate

"Dear Lowell" Poet Lore

"Letters" Richard Howe blog

"Woodworker" Wilderness House Review

You promise me
we do not bore each other
and run your plane along
the cutting edge, stripping
down to the smoothest point.
This is how things are done.


Along the Riverwalk,
refuse skirts the southern bank.
White foam pools below
the cantilever.  I've come here
because I don't expect to be found.
Dear God:
what should we make
of what has gone wrong with my life?
All day I could watch
dead water. I'm in love
with a lunatic,  I drink too much,
and I no longer believe in recovery.
I want back what disappears
into the crook of the canal.
Dear God:
this is my persistent letter,
my pinched bead,
my hymn that tolls and darkens,
this is my church bell shaking
off the birds.

Mid Drift copyright 2011

Loom Press

Loom Press