This collection is inspired by Patrick’s residency in New York City and Long Island. In a great many ways, life is but a long island in the way that we experience and participate with the world. 

Nunc Aeternum

A moment in time—

Timeless however

I was overtaken—




Covered in Light and Shadows

Which lead me to thinking—

‘Where do they end?’


‘Where do I begin?’

So I asked them—


And this their gracious reply—

“No beginnings”


“No endings”

“Only now”

“Always now”

“Forever now”


In deference—

I bowed my head in sweet submission.




11 September 2020

Nineteen-years and counting


In those days we stood together—

We held each other up.


Party didn’t matter—

Nor did state lines.


We were a country—

Before all else.


What changed?





Good Friday

We just can’t get beyond it

And onto Holy Saturday and Easter

And Resolution

And Resurrection

And New Life


Instead we remain up to our necks

In Selfishness

In Greed

In Ignorance

In all that keeps us from pressing forward


Onto that Saturday

To observe a holy pause

To Repent

To Renew

To Reset


That we may Rise and Rush onto the verdant fields

Of that Sunday

Of New Beginnings

Of Unbounded Joy

Of Forever Peace




Saint Mary Oliver

I just know we’ll be friends—

     in that which comes next.


A pair of whistling swans— 

     enwrapped in rapture.









Nothing should’ve been built on it in the first place.


Take fear—

     Take greed—

Take hatred—

     Take racism—

Take violence—

     Take pollution—

Take deception—

     Take misogyny—

Take transphobia—

     Take homophobia—


Take all that filth—


And let it dissolve into the sea of history.








Sometimes it is easier to view the world

in its softer reflection

cast upon my glass-top desk.




Always cool to the touch.


When I can look no more

on its multi-layered stupendousness;


I drift through

and escape

to the reality

of my feet.


Planted comfortably but firmly

on the herringbone floor

of my self-imposed






is where—

     my heart is

is where—

     your heart is

is where—

     our heart is

is where—

     the heart is






There are no part-time Poets.

You cannot be a Poet—

If you are not living a poetic life;

There are easier callings.


There is no half ass-ing it in this realm—

You are either all-in or all-out;

There are no part-time Poets.


The versed vocation is both lens and vessel—

Through which you instinctively interpret the world;

And your treasure sails the hallowed ages.




The Dune Grasses of 1910

The dune grasses of 1910 are

as they always were:

Each new season pushing through last year’s


The warm invitation of solstice,



The dune grasses of 1910 are

as they always were:

Held in place by ancient roots anchored

into sandy lairs;

Filled and refilled by each heavy cloud

passing overhead.


The dune grasses of 1910 are

as they always were:

Leafy standard bearers of summer

humbly holding court;

Over drifty realms—loyal subjects 

of their whispy whims.


The dune grasses of 1910 are

as they always were:

Forever past, present and prescient

a nexus of life;

Memories like breezes blowing through

blades that lightly purr.


The dune grasses of 1910 are

as they always were.





We All Own The Inhumanity

There is no US and THEM—

only a perpetual

and penitential,



No matter how extreme the circumstances—

it is always

and regrettably,

YOU and I.







I’ll not raise the flag— 

Till every body is buried.

I’ll not raise the flag—

Till each bullet mourned.

I’ll not raise the flag—

Till that gun is outlawed.

I’ll not raise the flag—

Till love topples hate.

I’ll not raise the flag—

Till peace supplants war.

I’ll not raise the flag—

Till joy checks fear.

I’ll not raise the flag—

Till many become one.






On my pre-freeze knees, hunched over a makeshift hole in the wall with  my forearm finagled inside to turn-off the outdoor water supply.


Each year I forget how stubbornly each turn of the valve proceeds.


The skin of my increasingly weathered hand just barely gripping the knob worn smooth from its four-score biannual adjustments.


With each Herculean twist of seeming progress, I mourn each month of the seasons gone by.


It’s as if this valve was purposely tampered with by the Fates to force a moment of strenuous pause.


On the final turn, I release a sigh and replace the makeshift wall covering, pondering our next encounter—and all that lays between