This is my first published poetry collection.  It contains poems and song lyrics from a 15-year span in my pre-"trying to be a real writer" days.  Just compiling this book, I felt the catharsis other poets have described in their most inspired moments of writing.  It really sparked my imagination and got the juices flowing for another ambitious undertaking: a "Diary in Verse", which is a collection of 365 "speed poems", written one-per-day for a full year.  The work is still ongoing, but will be available for purchase upon completion.  Below are some excerpts from both works.

Buy this book at Amazon.com
or
Buy this book at CreateSpace.com

Quiet light filtering in through lace-capped panes of glass
A puddle spilling silently across hardwood floor boards
A tiny hand making shadow puppets, graceful arm swan-necked, quacking
Dust spinning in whirlpools of invisible currents, mottling the pond
That was not there.

My daughter smiles with sleepy eyes as her hand mouths the sounds
A floating menagerie in light and shadow
Her dreams beginning early as her body battles the darkness
Unbroken animals call filling the space between waking and sleep,
As daylight fades.

Dust ebbs and flows around a perfect arm floating south
Her eyes slowly draw the blinds on what is left of daylight
And her dreams continue behind closed eyes, mind drifting
On that invisible pond, swan pulling her further below the surface

And she sleeps.

--excerpted from "Sanity is Boring", (c)2009

She reads of teachers, incompetent, racist,
Paid for years by tax payers’ money,
Unwilling, unable to teach for their own
Empty heads and hearts.

She laughs that sad laugh, knowing our children
Will soon enough Feel the icy
showered baptism of man’s schooling,
Not knowledge, facts.

She reads of signs, slaughtered English,
Printed reasons for foreign views
Of America the Beautiful,
The tired, the poor, the nescient.

She sits quiet as the magazine
Mellows in to a less chaotic thought train,
Its passions subdued behind higher word count,
Meanings filtered, stretched

And I filter my own written words
Through years of life unlived,
Days of hours lost, of minutes squandered,
And wish only to crystallize the sound

Of thoughts shooting through fingertips
To keys then to cursor, then back again,
To linger a quiet moment inside
Empty heads and hearts.

--excerpted from "Sanity is Boring", (c) 2009

Should I confine
In drops of time
The gifts received and undeserved
It would, I think
Comprise a drink
To quench the fiercest thirst
To satiate
And fill the plate
Of the most insatiable appetites
To gently sting
And spread my wings
To lift on borrowed wind, to flight
May I recall
Before I fall
The liquid that bubbled life
And heartily share
That blessed snare
The devoted warden formed, my wife

--excerpted from "Sanity is Boring", (c) 2009

Fish-tailing on the Thruway, I have time to think:
What did I do this morning?
    Why did I say that to you?
        I could have said it gentler.
        I could have kept my anger inside.
        I could have breathed in for just one second.
    Why did I leave like that?
        I could have waited a moment.
        I could have let you turn around.
        I could have closed the door slow.
Will you forgive me?

Rolling over on the Thruway, I have time to think:
When was the last time I said I love you?
    Why do I always assume you know?
        I could have opened my mouth.
        I could have said it quickly
        I could have pecked your cheek.
    Why do I assume I'll have another chance?
        I could have gone to work late.
        I could have finished my coffee.
        I could have held your hand.
Will you forgive me?

Dying on the Thruway, I have time to think:
Will you forgive me?

--excerpted from "Diary in Verse", unpublished.

This same alarm clock shrill disrupts the remnants of the last difference
This same gray road of cars speeding to places no one wants to go
This same lot filled with self same cars and trucks and vans and frowns
This same elevator pausing unnecessarily to delay the inevitable in agony
This same hallway pocked with coffee stains on carpet, with smears on paint
This same block of fabric-lined aluminum holding up the tools of boredom
This same call or e-mail or memo or meeting or emergency or disaster
This same call to home, “fine, and you? Be home by six. Love you too.”
This same swollen, tired conversation over coffee, water cooler, conference table
This same rush hour war to be the first to make it to the red light, to the slow down
This same quiet crunch of gravel as the headlights sweep the front porch of my world
This same yawning, pain-suppressing, drink or book or laptop or television
This same setting of the alarm clock to make sure it disrupts the remnants of the last difference.

--excerpted from "Diary in Verse", unpublished.