Poems and reviews of mine have appeared in issues of Boston Review of
Books, Connecticut Poetry Review, English Journal, Iodine, Poetry, Poetry
East, Rosebud, Tar Wolf Review, The Alembic, Hurricane Review, Tears in
the Fence (UK) and are forthcoming in Snake Nation Review, Gray’s
Sporting Journal, The Pedestal, and Poetry East. My new chapbook of
poems is Greatest Hits 1980-2006, (Pudding House, 2007).


Additionally, I edit and print Adastra Press, which specializes in hand
crafted letterpress limited editions of poetry.


When not teaching writing at Springfield College, or printing, or writing, I
am most likely found standing mid stream of some small river fly fishing for
trout.











A BIRD CALLED



Washing and drying my car, counting

all the dings a hundred and twenty

thousand miles bring when I heard

gare-wee    gare-wee    gare-wee

and stood up, glancing around as it sang.

The hollies and rhododendrons squatted

by the front stairs, no stones fell from

the house façade, roof shingles intact,

everything was in place,

the neighbor’s house still white,

gare-wee    gare-wee    gare-wee

Pomeroy Mt. slept across the valley,

summer clouds drifting overhead,

the other neighbor’s Buick waiting across the way.

gare-wee    gare-wee    gare-wee

repeating from the trees.  How long the bird

had called I don’t know, but when

I stepped a few feet onto the lawn

toward the tree belt, it stopped. And so did I.

The silence a slap across the face.

Another step forward and a robin flew

from the trees, an ordinary, everyday bird,

except it knew my name.

I tried marking its flight but a cardinal,

like a flaming arrow, darted right at me

and I ducked as it veered

and vanished into the same trees.

I put the car away, then stood

on the driveway, searching

the trees, the darkening sky,

the silence stinging.










JFK 1956




Father opened the door inside
the Peter Pan Café and from
that thick, boozy darkness the noon
sun exploded—a white flash larger
than the door. Father pulled me by
the hand into that bright and blinding
afternoon. My eyes squinted and
watered. We bumped into a man
there on the sidewalk in the center
of town. The two adults talked and
shook hands. The stranger tussled my
hair. I could see my father’s palm
patting the other’s lapel where
his American Legion pin echoed
my father’s. They joked and
pumped hands. I couldn’t see the man’s
face in the sky glow. His voice was
odd, warm and nice. Turning to go
the man took my hand in his—even
larger than Father’s—and said,
“Young man, be a good son. Mind your
father.” As we walked to the car,
Father said, “I’ll be damned.” When we
drove off, Father said, “I’ll be damned.”
I said, “What about the shoe store?
Mother will be mad.” Father said,
“They only have those I-talian
shoes. We’ll go to the other side
of town, to the factory, and
get Made-in-America shoes.”
On the way there Father said, “I’ll be
damned.” Driving home with shiny,
black shoes stiff on my 9 year old
feet, Father said, “Someday that man
will be president. And he shook
your hand. Remember that.” When
I wake in the night years later, drunk still,
I finally know what the President said.







SITTING IN THE WOODS WITH MY SON


The leaves were waving to no one.

Some turkeys walked by and draped the rocks

with the cool shadows under their wings.


The rocks were pleased in that moment.

The thunder turkey feet made

on the dry mulch shook the dust

from slumbering mushrooms,

who winked and went back to sleep.
Gary Metras