Poems Set For Clarinet, Piano, and Narrator



The sun settles

beneath cirrus sheets

of the pink horizon,

releasing a fading flicker

upon the tallow surface

of the moon

that sends milky, iridescent beams

into darkness diluting daylight,

guiding Earth

through midnight’s ocean,

passed celestial lumens

and compelling black holes,

where the universe floats

from star to star

after the curtailment of light.


Every night

a different message.

Tell me tonight

about the translucent bones

of icicles on the gutter.

Their tale is a disclosure

of your stalking.

You enter as a burglar

on the heels of darkness

and leave no fingerprints,

yet cleverly steal away secrets

between the elusive shadows

you create,

some darker than others,

convoluted figures

rummaging in the most remote corners

of the room.

The sleepless await an explanation

but your peering eyes

slip away

when the clouds make you blink.

If you do take something,

no one is the wiser.

The sand in your light

eventually blinds into submission

the most suspicious

who, in the morning, awake inspired

yet unaware of your intrusion,

until the icicles drip

in the rising sunlight.



Flame red,

a bouncing balloon.

Every year

the harvest moon rolls

upon the hills

on the bottom of the sky

till dusk departs,

then it floats upward,

a gold coin in the deep dark pocket,

treading heaven gingerly,

a clarinet melody

amid the starry ostinato.

The Earth attempts reply

with a subtle hum,

oaks and elms kneel in vigil,

moonlit cows, astonished,

stare as the glow swells.

Its solitary song

fills the heavens

with orange splendor,

plains of wheat respond

as flaxen fields melt.




Tonight the moon is full,

the giant, pale observer,

Earth’s amorous biographer

is a bright companion.

Tonight is the kind of night

to display your affection

under the wonder of its stare,

take your lover by the arm

and walk her outside

in her pajamas just before bed,

holding her hand securely

in the palm of your hand

as the whiskers of white pines

tickle the ashen chin

of the huge face in the sky.

You can carry her

over the thickets and stones

even onto your shoulders,

walk across the lawn

as you ingest the light,

sparking both your hearts

to burst with passion.

Lift her

toward the cratered countenance

which retreats slowly

into the night,

its mission accomplished,

then gently place her

upon a bed of mulch

and watch her eyes widen,

awestruck once again.



just hung there

slightly above the horizon

donning a wry smile

against darkened backdrop


its anemic white garb

resembled a freshly cut fingernail

found on the black desktop.

I tossed my cap


towards its lower point,

beyond reach of the trees,

landing it gracefully

like a Frisbee on a finger,



how did the cow jumped over

this slightly cocked glow

without bumping its head


on the unseen portion?

The iridescent float winked

to share such sport

but startled I turned


to watch the cat

play the fiddle

till the dish came home

with the spoon.



As twinkling stars

in florescent pencil

erase themselves

in bright morning light


the winter moon

abandoned by night

hovers ashen

in the blue cube


and casts its disposition

without assisting

in the onslaught 

of illumination.


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