Arnold (reaching full sail)

I wonder how Arnold feels
on the Canton docks, drying his skin
after a windy cold winter.

He will be under a new moon tonight
streets lit up with
city haze alone.
He will be under the awning of Safeway
sketchbook clutched in one hand,
bottle in the other.

“Maybe,” he says, “if I hadn’t been drunk that day
I would have met Oprah before
she moved to Chicago and I could call her now
as a friend.”

The harbor sways up to comment
but only trash reaches the dock. Far beyond,
other peoples’ boats reach full sail
into the Bay.

Old Buidling on Keith Ave. in the Canton Industrial Park

She sighs over heavy machinery, coal, ship dock hands
a headless apparition
from a more affluent era
her sequin flapper dress just
metal window frames rusted
a shimmer from broken glass
against the backdrop of a dark
modern October cloud bank
she once was someone statuesque
the men couldn’t take their eyes off.
Now, phantom, feel the wind blow straight through your spine.

Published on EveryDayPoets "Running Past A War Memorial"

Published today! Yippee! Thank you EveryDayPoets for all of your support. If you love poetry, sign up for their updates. Some fabulous pieces by poets from all over the world posted, well, every day!

The poem: Running Past a War Memorial

Inspired by my run to the Korean War Memorial in Canton, MD (Baltimore). Enjoy!

Let’s Go O’s!!! haiku

Hi everyone! As all my Twitter followers know, I’m a huge Baltimore sports fan… and today is game 5 versus the dreaded evil Yankees… sooooo in honor of the good guys, a haiku poem I posted on Opening Day a few years ago. Enjoy and Let’s Go O’s hon!
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fresh cut grass trimmed neat
my glove browned tan and beat soft
one crack of the bat…

i remember days
playing catch with my dad and
imagining that

girls could play baseball!
i remember Cal’s card in
the cereal box

added a hometown
smile to my collection, says:
let’s go O’s, let’s go!

Charles (on the corner)


A prophet
preaches to the scratched
hood of my car.
Hidden beneath baseball cap, dark wool
suit too big for slight bones,
He bows beneath
the weight of a necklace,
trinkets only he understands.
The heat a cloak over
dry and marbled outstretched hands; yet
He does not sweat.

He speaks—
prophecies, poems,
ancient secrets absolved
into Baltimore humidity
Without
any recompense. Without
any baptized soul
noticing.

(revised poem, previously posted)

Not Carl Sandburg’s Men

Our men crack Bohs,
trade tales slurring
to a pause; days spent
crawling over coal and salt hills
like Sisyphus.

If these had been
Carl Sandburg’s men,
their backs would be bronzed and
their spines made
elegant like Chicago corn.

But this is Baltimore.
Our bones are the Bay’s
murmurs; those
armed with intentions
are weak by pavement,

Oh Carl,
such danger here –
that hopelessness, even
doors stay off their hinges
too sore to do their work.

Ursula (in Fells Point)

In Fells,
her hair in short braids and
shaved sides
popular on boys in the 80s,
she stands
in the humidity that wraps
around her baggy shorts,
rolled socks, under a street lamp
that drenches her tie dye Dead shirt—

She is singing
“will it go round in circles”
guitars follow “will it fly high like
a bird up in the sky”
and the drums inside
remind me of the late hour.

She looks pleased on the cobblestones.
Her Robert Johnson voice
sings this valedictory song
to no one in particular.

(poem from 2010 republished today!)