Could there be an
imperfect snowflake

Photo by Dan Fraser

Suppose a record was made
from nothing
but the sounds of moist rose buds
cupped in the fingers of spring
Imagine softness
as white curls of warm sand
with a daybreeze across
a fairytale beach
gently laughing waves
in turquoise waters
over sun soaked skin

Note: I have been intending to go back over my early writing and see if some of them might be suitable for the blog. This one comes from 1968, when I was 19. I revised a bit, of course.

The dry well

Photo by Dan Fraser

The ghosts of water from the dry well

are rich in the fumes of memory

but do not satisfy the thirst of today.

Dry voices from the past

retain the riches of their knowledge

for those who can draw the wisdom

from that well.

The news today


There is a moment

when the newsperson

looking directly into the camera

and speaking with rapid intent

takes a tiny breath

between jetstream words.

You cannot hear it

unless you listen very carefully.

In this moment

all the important news is delivered.



Photo by Dan Fraser

Surrender is the soft joy
of letting go
knowing the universe
wraps you in loving arms
nothing you can lose
was ever yours
the most precious gift
that you could hope for or dream of
you cannot own
it’s already hidden within you
it is love
it is what you are made of



Darkness is the place

light comes to

it doesn’t wait for an invitation

that’s what it does

Small choices

Photo by Dan Fraser

When I finally accepted

that I do not control my world

not the wind

or the particles of dust

or the shape of trees

I realized how important

my small choices were

I could smile when the rain falls


as it must

I could smile when the sun returns

as it must

I could try to smile

when everything that begins

comes to an end

as it must

Spoken words

Photo by Dan Fraser

Can spoken words be heard

in the absence of sound

are untethered thoughts

listening at the border of the mind

are heartbeats felt

in the fingertips of time

is a frozen tongue softened

by the heat of burning eyes

The party


Photo by Dan Fraser

Afterward I thought

I might have asked

if anyone at the party

had felt my eyes

or heard my voice

they have gone missing

perhaps they went to a place

where the eyes and the voice

that seek them cannot go

lost or found






What if before I start

my next poem

I wait for a truly original thought

and the appropriate words

worthy of this thought

would my wait be long

would it be very long

would it be forever