Flowers burst into colour/ beautiful little flowers;/ bright, pretty/ whimsical, temperamental

Of course, people tend to forget all the dreams about outer space/ colonized by multihearted beasts.

The dwarf flyers dogfight,/ Emerald backs edging/ To buff, figure eights and/ Double barrel rolls

Outward light, but the curtain’s too heavy for sun—/ In this hotel room we sit because the chairs back

The closest color/ to the stolen pot of gold/ isn’t indigo.

If you walk to the village of Porthgain,/ as much a cluster of cottages as village/ (although it has a very busy

Around midnight I had finally given up trying to turn the stale words and phrases on the screen of my

I’ll write a verse about my love tomorrow./ The moon gloats tonight, glowing in its fullness

This poem is the bowl of my sorrows/ Woven in a cascade of doom/ When I was dancing to the tune

Realized his house was not level/ when he cooked his sunny-side up eggs/ their yolks staring back at

Outer space images,/ flying fractals,/ exploding stars,/ reach sharp shards/ into me, bursting/ through

Why in gray December/ when my windshield is frozen/ are there robins with red breasts/ on the

This is not a full stop/ Like mumbling inscriptions at bus stop/ Where dictators wheel our heels till tears

An old world sparrow flew/ over the river Brahmaputra.// Emotions battling under/ its chestnut plumages.

My grandson skids down the metal slide/ and across the wet grass, trailing bright/ green laughter. When

One dark night, I lost my lovely,/ fell into bed, bereft,// and slept a dreamless sleep./ By light of day

The Plateau is blanketed./ Pines, silent in the snow at Advent, are witnesses/ beneath the stars.

I found a used piece of chalk in/ The mustard yellow--green box/ Tucked in the bottom drawer, of

A hummingbird approaches, hovers, darts/ away, the red-red feeder left untouched./ I check the recipe

Like a woman mourning/ her dead baby, the wind/ whines, wails and waves/ the branches of the birch