View
Drifting in a summer gusty wind
Flew by the north picture window,
Turning toward the roof.Then seen again and again
From window to tall window,
Past the wedding guests
Finishing their dinners.But omens are discouraged
There are no reasons
A bird with tapered wings drifts by a wedding party.Or flies in the shapes
Of so many fluffy clouds
Rose, grey, yellow
The sun
Setting west,
west
west
Bluebirds on my Arm (response to Bukowski)
I know about my bluebirds
and they don’t hide.
They are not caged.
I keep them on my arm.
They sing to my family
and to me.
I do not cover them
in a rough exterior.
Or close myself up
with booze and smoke.
It is difficult to face my failures
and accept my defeats.
But I tell my bluebirds about these,
Sometimes incessantly.
They sing them back to me
and let me to cry.
Stoicism is a Greek concept
Buried by Romans under layers of steel clothing.
It is not our word.
Bluebirds fly freely from my mouth.
They don’t stay caged and polluted in my chest.
They don’t absorb pain
Without singing out.
My bluebirds know to soar away
When they must.
Kaddish
I awake and realize
The roaring throughout the night
was the wind.
It chills my hands
when I touch the bedroom window.
Outside, giant pine trees
and fringes of blue sky
Bend in prayer
for the dying yard
and shifting leaves
and empty branches.
surgery. He has published many scientific papers and six books on medical topics. His poetry and
short stories have appeared in Reapparition, Medicine and Meaning, Bright Flash, Of the Book,
Hektoen International, and Star 82 Review. His creative work often focuses on nature, medicine,
psychology, and spirituality. He lives with his wife Ana, and two small dogs in Skokie, Illinois.