Selected Poetry

Poetry from travels:
The Painter 

Random Musings:
Exit to Street 
stuck in a traffic jam after the wedding 

Verses on September 11th:
Times Like This
A Gentle Wind   

Verses from compositions:
River's Rain (excerpt)

The painter paints not

what he sees
but what he wants to.
The perfection of his art
lies in the omission of those things unecessary
And the elaboration of those truly beautiful.
                                                                                   Pavlovsk 2005

(11 September 2001)


It’s times like this
When time stands still
The air’s amiss and
Dry until
The voices come.

It’s times like these when
Thoughts begun
A search for reason
But there’s none
To be found.

Yesterday there were concerns
Now they disappear.
In times like these we must discern
What it is that we hold dear.

Yesterday things mattered;
Work, talent, Love....
Today they have been shattered
 In rainfall from above.

What was once is now no more;
What once thrived is dead.
And Future Lights in silence roar
Bring not Hope but Dread.

A homeless died with a bourgeoisie,
A doctor with a thief;
All were equal on that day
That ended up in grief
But started out as any other.

America becomes a word
With a meaning that’s unclear;
After all, it is absurd--
To our countrymen so dear.
This is America.



And should we live as normally
And to ourselves thus lie?
Or, gaze into the Storm to see
Ev’ry nuance of the sky....
The Falling drops of Rain
Living now to Die?

And should we feign an angered rage,
Like those which hover here;
Or cast out Anger from the stage
And realize that it’s Fear.
...They weren’t in control
And neither are we
And now they’re gone...
When will it be?

A goal pursued though all our days
Seem futile in the light
Of chance and circumstance and ways
That force the Fall of Night.

Tragedy and things to grieve
Fill books of History;
But ‘tis easier by far to believe
When it’s something you can see...
...Or, can’t see

And things that seemed so much trouble
Problems, deadlines, fights....
Are lost in the Shadows of the rubble....
Dark Hours help you see the Light.


What once was no more will be;
We watched our futures cast
We march on with uncertainty
And Fear the action last
And realize twenty years from now
Our Future is Our Past.

Canticle, 9.10.02-9.11.02

One year ago today
this Night was
like any other.
One year ago
Life trickled by
One year ago
I was asleep.

One year ago Today
no one stood on this Hill
and watched
and cried
but Tomorrow, they will;
Tomorrow the impact
will shake the ground
as much as It did
One Year Ago.

and a Soul
as angered and confused
and Scared
as it was Then
can hide behind a
white ribbon...

One year ago Today
i was Asleep.

That was the night
that led to a day
just as Black;
a chill in the air
a tremble in Our hearts.
And our eyes
fixed on the Site
and then after fixed
on the Sky Above.

one year ago today
i was asleep...

One Year Ago Tomorrow
was the day of Sirens
A plane?
we awoke to Tragedy
and witnessed only more
as the day went on.
one year ago Tomorrow
there were people on this Hill
trying to comprehend.

the silent catastrophe
a plume of Smoke
and It was gone.
...and watching it on television
those people---
Those faces.
then the Chaos ensued---
a frantic search for blame
and for Beloved Family.
who lost a father?
an aunt?
a mother?
we all lost a Mother.
a protective, self-sacrificing Mother
who Tried with all Her might
but could not save her children.

then there was Silence
walking outside, a pause
One looks above
as if the Last planes ever to fly
were those which
Never landed.
one year ago Tomorrow
there was a quiet, a still
and Tomorrow
there will be a Quiet as well
a silent Requiem
a silent reminder
a white ribbon
strikes the floor
with the sound of a building
Crashing to Earth.
with the sound of
all the Silent screams
all the shattered Lives.

One year ago today, I was Asleep
but Tonight
I Am Awake.

and now it is the Day.
Midnight; It has begun.

one year ago today
i was asleep
a year has passed, and
This time
I Am Awake.

but i am only awake to see
what Once was
and i am only awake to hear
the Echoes of history.

A year has passed
now i am awake

a Year has passed
Now let Them sleep

let them sleep.

A gentle wind               Sept 11, 2003

A breeze still blows
In the still of the night
A breeze still blows
The air still moves
Silently forward.

And for those who can still taste the ash
The breeze will never blow clean
The moving air shall never erase
The gentle wind shall not move
The Memory
For It is burned in our souls.

But what of the Others?
The greatest of all tragedies
Is tragedy forgotten...
What of Those for whom the breeze
Is just a breeze--
For whom the sun
Is still shining--
Who do not see the ash and smoke
--Who still see things as they always were?

Things are not how they always were--
Things are now the way future generations
Will look back and say
This is how things always were.
But for us, all of Us,
We know what once was
We watched it vanish
We watched it ripped from us
And destroyed before our eyes.
We are the generation who knows what was before
And can see what lies after.

And yet, with so much gone,
A memory remains
But is fading fast
Lost in a dust cloud
Which is carried away
By the gentle wind.

Perhaps our minds do not want to see
Our hearts do not want to feel--
What of Those who had no choice?
What if We were looking out a window
At the great skyline of New York City
With our eyes so fixed on every point
Because we knew,
     as smoke enveloped our bodies,
                    filled our nostrils,
                        and choked off our vision,
that it would be
the last sight
We would ever see?

They cannot guard The Memory--
We must guard It for Them.
We must keep It alive,
No matter how dim,
                how weak,
                      it becomes.

We are the keepers of The Light
And musn’t allow the gentle breeze
To snuff It out.

             We only travel the distance

             of our own hearts.
             Only see
             what we want to.
             And when we reach the borders
             of ourselves
             find our beginning, and go back again
             with no end in sight.
                                                          12 May 2005, Prague






Leaves can tell much about life.

Stuck in a traffic jam after the wedding
We become people again
Thinking ordinary thoughts

Seeing with dim eyes--
But just before
We were in a magic land
Saw fanciful sights
Thought beautiful thoughts.

You see, when we are presented with magic,
We become magical,
But remain ordinary
Until something rips us from ourselves.

                                    15 June 05, Moscow


I can see the guns and haze
on the grounds of the GPO
the marching nameless, and the flames
the night that brought no dawn.

I can smell the smoke and powder
and hear the shouts and screams
on the street
at my feet
I was there.

I can hear the hollers echo
the halls of the GPO
I can feel the stone walls crumble
and explode
as I look out on the street
see the shadows at my feet
lit ablaze by
the fires above.

I can feel your loss and valor
the air of the GPO
these walls in silence tell
what I now know
I see the beginning and an end
hear an anthem and a dirge
seek the ghosts and see myself
standing proudly
our feet
and our souls
in the rubble of the GPO.

            3 June 2005, Dublin

Graphic Poem / Program Note to V.49 Diffractions

is an abstract for oboe trio which is based
on the phenomenon observed when light is shone
through a diffraction grating; what was
observed as one color becomes many,
indeed every, color; and yet,
as the grating is shifted,
the resultant colors
shift; the rainbow
dances and dies,
resulting in
the one

     a l o n e.

      white light.

          Excerpt from V.99, The River's Rain

iii. the river’s rain doth fall with an upward glance
and smiles at noble passersby
we are the denizens of the night
that shine upon the window pane
the cloak of time enraptured in a chilled evening
the smoke of the light doth burn
and trickles down the river’s edge
to where our feet once were

the moon looks down from atop
his watery grave.

We are naked.

We see nothing

save the blood-black rain of our hands
upon the moon’s footsteps
soft footsteps in the Night.

we walk on
our feet and our hands
our hands hide our faces
and tomorrow?
tomorrow we’ll be free.
tomorrow we’ll be gone.
                                  Prague 2005

Original Poem which inspired V.84, Lullaby

Our Children

Their ears can hear no lullabies,
Their faces shall ne’er see the dawn,
The Autumn Evening of their lives
Has come so soon.

Voices of laughter
Twinkling eyes
in the smoke above
in graves below.

A wooden plank-a marker
for a life unlived
a time too soon.

Yet through all the grief,
who consoles them?
Who will laugh for them,
now their voices fail?
Who will greet the sun
now their vision fades?

And who shall sing them lullabies?

Who will stand and sing
through the dark, till dawn?
Who will stand, keeping watch
Till these Autumn Evenings fade?
Who will stand and sing
amid the wooden planks,
                             who were our children?                       Menu

To Lechemere via Park
Random stark, steel dresses on the street
And me
Walking, Pounding, glancing around
Riding the Concrete Way to Silken Roads
Understood, till we get there.
And where from here?
Exit to street.

Boston, 13 Sept 2006