Life Slips By


One hot and humid July morning in ‘69

Army green duffle bag in tow

I said goodbye at the Wheeling bus station

to Mom, Dad, and Saint Clairsville, O-hi-o

Two days later

courtesy of a forty-nine-dollar, one-way Greyhound bus ticket

I found myself standing in the scorching Arizona sun, wondering who I am


Didn’t take long for my hair to grow long—

Something like Carlos Santana’s black frizzy ‘fro

For a spell, time stood still—

the desert sunsets and Sabino Canyon stole my heart away

Joe Cocker, Buffalo Springfield, the Beatle’s Abbey Road streamed live

from every open dorm room door at Yavapai Hall

Missed the Doors at Hi Corbett Field, but

I was there inhaling the Canned Heat and more that fall


Life slips by—

just like the stealthful Greyhound did

during my fifty-hour trip from Wheeling to Tucson

People appear and disappear—

just like the Beatles’ lonely people

Tucson, now a memory, lingering

alongside past loves, empty beer bottles, and faded sunsets

Makes me wonder what is next


Sharing Pictures on Facebook

Every day I show you a picture–
Moments frozen in time, until
you cast your eyes upon them, unfreezing
them as newborn moments

Every day I show you a picture–
Something my eyes thought was interesting, and
worthy of copying for other eyes to see, and
bring back to life

Every day I show you a picture–
Something I wanted to hold onto, hoping
life could go on forever, but deep down
knowing life is redefined in each moment

Every day I show you a picture–
A way I can help you understand me, and who I am
as a soul peeping out, through a camera
trying to understand you

on an early november day in the woodland forest

i love how the sun so matter of factly screams through the woodland forest,
setting the leaves on fire with gold and yellow hues and tones, and
how tree shadows are painted on the narrow leaf-covered path, carrying
us up the hill and into the pure white sunlight

and just beyond lies the bubbling creek, preparing itself for winter,
once all the leaves have turned brown and fallen to the ground, and
snowflakes dance between the naked branches of the trees, as
thin sheets of ice cover the lazy edges of the creek

and even on this brisk early november day, i can imagine
the forest’s quiet whispers and sighs, as the snow buries the crunchy leaves,
and etches white streaks on the zen-like tree branches, holding their position
until the sun once again sets them free of the clutch of winter