Improvised Reeds

Improvised Reeds

It was my mother who taught me to cradle a

Blade of grass between my thumbs

Cuticles aligned and haunches pressed together

Creating the reed chamber


The first time she fashioned this magic

We sat by our hickory tree

The rock-hard nuts would sound off on any car

Parked too close to the cinderblock wall


My mother and I shared a penchant for silence

When we were among the fall leaves and branches

She plucked a broad grass from between us, blowing

Setting it loudly aquiver, shrill as a clarinet


Startling miraculous sound!

Please, yes! Show me how it’s done

It was then my mother taught me

The pleasant nature of patient curiosity.


If Your Art Doesn’t Sit Well, Good!

How to Neutralize Haters: E.E. Cummings, Creative Courage, and the Importance of Protecting the Artist’s Right to Challenge the Status Quo

Greetings fellow writers, poets, artists —

Here’s a fine article from a blog I follow (and you should follow it too!) – enjoy the read, then go create something kooky or subversive.



The Poet Lives Long

The poet lives long but observes,

ill equipped for stating grace-

In gracelessness concedes her ignorance.

Of all that passes eyes unseen,

here the poet lives for these-

These graceful, awkward blunders manifest.

She takes with no thing given back,

eyes set down upon a world-

One never ceasing to amaze her now.

march 19, 2015    —-   ~TH~

The Vicarious Tightrope

This is a poem that was inspired by an illustration from the New York Times ARTS AND LEISURE section, March 1 2015.  The illustration (by Alessandro Grassani) shows a man walking an invisible path, spanning a mountain range.

I am intrigued by the ‘bleed through’ images that occur as I read a reed-thin paper medium like newspaper.  Here we see a ghostly image of Sarah Goldberg from the following page.  You can see her face as an ephemeral image hovering on the left, just above the mountain peak.

For this poem I took extra care with the imaging.  I edited and re-scanned the image to get just the right feel I wanted, then typed over it.

Large thanks to the New York Times for your continued inspiration in both your writing/editing, and in your tactile facility.  ~TH~

click image for enlargement

The Vicarious Tightrope

The Vicarious Tightrope


A new landscape presents itself upon waking.

Places that were dreams drift outward.

Past becomes present; stars earth; flight, a grounded stride.

I might assess these thoughts as if I have a choice –

as if I might climb back into slumber; reestablish a cloud,

reshape a fog already escaping.

Thoughts of coffee with cream creep in,

old latticework mends itself even as I try to stop it.

“Reality, it’s not for me, and it makes me laugh.” Ha.

FUCK IT.  May as well shower and get on with it.

Yet along the drive, my mind keeps wandering…

Will I ever catch that dream again?