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Archive for March, 2025

Creativity is as important as literacy.
Ken Robinson

Lower case i

Somewhere in the middle of a word, i speak,
a diminutive letter, the only one with the tiniest circle


above it, a miniature darkened sun.
In the previous three lines, i appeared twelve times.


i can’t stand alone without criticism.
Both arrogant and learned folk


declare i am too lower-case to support verbs
that indicate action. Run, magnify, fly,


create, destroy, interrogate, pierce.
All i ask in this poem is one moment’s notice.


Because—possible does not exist without me.

public domain image

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People hasten to judge in order not to be judged themselves. Albert Camus

GOOSELY TRANSLATED

Two Canada geese
settle into an angled parking space
in a Wal-Mart lot.
They take turns

sharing shreds of bun
left in a torn red McDonald’s box.
One goose eats.
The other stands watch
for danger.

A car honks,
its sound louder than any
a goose could create.
The noise interrupts their feast.
Harsh and threatening
human voices follow.
The geese flee.

From their aerial perspective
the birds agree—
Excellent volume.
Lacks style.

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Peace is its own reward. Mahatma Gandhi

Please, this is a request not to be limited by a form or definition. Let these words fit more than structure. Let someone, somewhere, speak and another listen. And the word pass along from…


ear to heart. If peace happens in the middle of a sentence, let there be no criticism that the form was imperfect. At night, if a dream…

appears, after too many hours of news, and your presence results in families fed because you offered them food even though you didn’t know their names, backgrounds, or addresses. You know nothing about them.

Come, waken. See the poor and the hungry in places five or six miles away. Open your pantry. Find what is excess for you, yet another tomorrow for a neighbor. We can become hope for tomorrow for them,


essential for change, a better world. Inside more than an acrostic of exactly 150 words.

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There is no real beauty without some slight imperfection. James Salter

Spilled

Maple syrup spilled
in the back of my refrigerator.

As I scrub, beeps sound
a warning. Close the door. Now.

A fridge’s chill skill
weakens in furnace-power territory.

Maple goo has attacked a jar of pickles
This won’t take long, I hope.

I scrub, giving no anesthesia to mechanical
cries. Yet when I waited on hold

for three-calls-ahead
at the local pharmacy

on a busy Monday afternoon,
I sighed and paced, as if

the workload of my short-staffed
drugstore didn’t exist.

A bit at a time, I say to the fridge
opened for briefer moments.

A more intensive task comes next.
Removing stickiness inside me.

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