When Claudia Castro Luna sent me her poem, In Sommerlicht Schwebend, where "love [is] a champagne fueled badminton birdie," I…
Shut-In You want me to leave the house. I think it will work, this ambition, but I’m afraid to try.…
Digging Lindbergh's Grave In Kipahulu on the wet side of Maui, where waterfalls and streams run down to the sea,…
Our Second Year. The River. After The Mulberry swelled under April rains, rose over its rock islands and brushy willows…
City Boy Sleep won’t come surrounded by the country quiet rasping against my closed eyelids. The hush that comforts philosophers…
Bubble Man He did not drive the 1987 big green Lincoln. Stationary, stuck in the corner of a parking lot…
An Evening, Late September The light through my studio window, beckons. On my swivel chair, I stare onto the old…
Geese --after Alan Shapiro How did it begin? We were in a rowboat. My brother and I. The moon full…
Finding Direction David Felix is a youthful septuagenarian English visual poet who lives in Denmark. For more than half a…