Because we are entangled

there is a story hidden
like most stories told
in the early autumn chill
with heavy fog receding
banks offshore over the
Atlantic, solitary tugboat
moves with tossing waves
out from the port towing
furtive hopes and dreams
born for a future, humankind’s
existential quest for a life
in harmony with our home
while I, ardently watch from
the safety of this earthly shore
expectation suspends breath
as the boat ventures, tossing
seas in search of new potential.


Photo by: Steve Hench     (Theme taken from his notes)



lemonade remembers

perhaps it was the umbrella of broad-leafed banana trees that grew
so tall beside our little blue house with small pink fruit clusters
the delicate flowers that hung from the Loquat tree smelling sweet or
how the orange Nasturiums twisted around the yard climbing the wall

digging in that yard looking for buried treasure deep and loamy
and finding treasures stored away in the shed’s dark corners
those are the lemonade stand days and one dollar matinees
watching the fog roll out with sand crabs nipping at your feet

picnics with good hard Italian rolls, salami and blue cheese
while splashing the cold waves that hugged the sandy coast
we went to Switzer’s Road and camped under the stars
waking to a layer of dew that blanketed the ground and our faces

you took trips into the north mountains to see the snow 
she always spilled her hot chocolate, how we laughed then
singing in the car all those silly songs again, blue filled memories
we hold each other together like the glass figurines we collected

little animals that lined the shelves with ducks, and horses, and bunnies
they create the themes that parade across the pages of my tapering life
scented with L’air du Temps, ruby red kisses and pinot noir filled crystal
they now celebrate all that you gave us as the polished gifts of a simpler time



of what we know

it is with flying feet that sweeps the winter
blown in from higher places where echos
of what we know and do not speak aloud

the lying of the rustled sand now slips past
gone so soon into another stranger’s arms
these hurried days shout the anguished sky

leaves you sitting in the darkness wondering
how patient the seconds slip into each other
when will they turn and smile down you again



here and there

there with that loving goes

it was with an edgy silence

that they walked the green

with all that heather scented

opened into a wider space

where melon skies consumed 
the voices
that laughter lightly rose

heavy fog caressed the hills

found her curves and valleys

sways the windswept oak

how yellow the blanket grass

makes stand the dotted green

there with that loving goes

two such fragile hearts frame

a scene from Juliet’s garden

that even the moon went pale.



Dead Poet’s Society

John Keating (as played by Robin Williams):
“We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute.
We read and write poetry because we are members
of the human race. And the human race is filled with
passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering,
these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life.
But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we
stay alive for. To quote from Whitman,
“O me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring;
of the endless trains of the faithless…
of cities filled with the foolish;
what good amid these, O me, O life?”
Answer. That you are here – that life exists,
and identity; that the powerful play goes on
and you may contribute a verse.
That the powerful play goes on
and you may contribute a verse.
What will your verse be”


why the poet weeps

because it swells up and
cannot be contained
it spills outward onto the
pages, the canvas, the atmosphere
there in its purest, raw
form, the frailty of humanity
the cries of the lost
laughter of the children
wrapped in the arms of
your beloved, safely kept
whispered words forever
flow outward the ripples
after the stone is cast
and how it grows, dances
the light with soulful verses
as the play goes on.




along the trail she waits

in the gentle stillness there
come the words hauntingly
that line the water’s edge
echos of the lover’s heart
creates the music floating
only the thoughtful apprehend
where mothers and daughters,
and daughters, and sons
walk that golden thread woven
starting around the night’s fire
the robe wore like the day’s
gathering of fruits, nuts and blossoms
delicate and painful,
beginnings and endings
where tomorrow’s dreams ignite
captured in this one simple
moment’s embrace of the infinite.
– for Kristina


confined to the boxes there
create your private illusions
flourishes to bloom herbs, pressing
weeds and brewed a bitter tea

someone else’s wildflowers
became your vines wrapped legs
firmly planted immutable space
with spurious belief, internal critic

bought Birnam wood closing
round with root and branch held
once greenish constructed a prison
of what would have been beautiful.



It is
the wave
the wind
the light
the color
that flows
spreading high
and laughing
all the while
buried deep
the ground
the earth
the core
the fire
stones move
creatures emerge
solid roots
from ancient trees
catch hold
carry essence
upward to leaf
solid as iron
supple as water
It is
and always
It is me
it is you.



and of the finest
these moments
transform energy
blooms compassion
with little hands
steps aside
my fragile heart
begins a new song
with graceful
dancing smiles
along other roads
where trees
always sway
in gentle breezes
and your love
not contained
carries the river
touches bare feet
of children playing
sandy shoes
that line the door
warm cocoa memories
rich laughter
like kindnesses

little shoes


what remains

the stories that remain

Switzer’s road, the cool stream frogs’ song
camping in our homemade bags
around the campfire with marshmallows,
hot dogs on a stick found by the site
because that’s how you do it, rugged
under the stars shooting overhead
how my brother rolled in his sleep
down the hill away, stopped by a boulder

hot chocolate after playing in the snow
sledding, creating snowmen and angels
the tall pines heavy, dripping with white
visiting winder’s show weekend roadtrip
because that how you do it, returning
home where the quakes rattled rooms
how my sister always spilled restaurant drinks
laughter and the stories we told, we tell still


About 1977


defining you

before electrons firing, connecting
one neuron to another forms
pattern that you’ve felt before,
the addiction of attraction, anxiety,
stress, or fear, that form 
a chain
so many miles long, no one
can really know 
the endlessness
like Christmas lights that line
city streets at night reflected off
the muddled snow in heaps aside
one stream 
to another, fireflies
that feed your thoughts, driving to
places you have dreamed about yet
dare not go, even in sleep 
there is
no rest, it creates the reality that is you
the only 
truth that matters, your unique
piece of humanity standing the crowd
pacing the worry while holding up the trees
not to make a fallen sound, majestic
dances in the wind, and somewhere
a baby cries, 
and somewhere a woman
dies, and somewhere lovers 
sigh, and
somewhere a soldier kills, the reality
create, the definitions you told
yourself, just illustrations of the story
 are the truth no one else can own
things that were spoken and 
those that
you cling to like the lies in this bed,  

they define you, they define only you, 
only you alone in your illusion.



– Sean Peterson Schnell
(from Voyages, Maysa Peterson)


There you are again, against the wind
Walking these roads, tiny steps each day
You cut new paths through rustling leaves
Hidden beneath dark hair, against your cheeks

But you say nothing to me

Life is relentless, you said
Well here I am
Waiting for your response
I can’t just leave you here like this
So here I am
Waiting for you
And in my head    
The silence        
Yeah sometimes the silence roars

Here I am again, pushing through
Pushing through this, this stinging rain
It’s another day there with yourself
Why do we always meet like this?

It’s filling me with anguish

Life is relentless, you said
Well here I am
Waiting for your response
I can’t just leave you here like this
So here I am
Waiting for you
And in my head    
The silence        
Yeah sometimes the silence roars

Yeah, sometimes, this silence roars
On this voyage
The silence


swimming in stars


Mosquito Bay

the moon comes he says
in tones that rise and fall,
falling stars will then hide
what now circles all around
glistening water, luminescent
trails behind like wings
dark, the little boat bobs
sways the tidal dancing
direction becomes lost as
downward the upward shining
swimming between the stars
an ethereal welcoming home