I live in the house I was raised in, located in Fullerton, California, with my Wife, Jana, four cats and a small dog. I have been a professional Blues & Rock musician since 1965, performing and recording in Victoria, British Columbia and Southern California. From early 1969 to 1975 I was a landed resident in Canada due to my opposition to war in Vietnam and the draft. Begining to seriously write poetry and short stories in the late 1970’s, I’ve been published in Electrum, Voices International, Big Smoke and Streetlight Press. As well, I had a short non-fiction article published in Splash of Red Magazine.

Homeless Man

I've named him Frank.
He sits on a bus bench
Near Chapman and Raymond.
He reads some book,
Maybe a Tom Clancy paperback
From the Armory book rack.
He sleeps and showers 
At the Armory,
And dreams of his daughter
Who lives with her Husband
In Colorado.
It is always a good dream,
Full of greens, and a blue sky
That is spinkled with
Pure white clouds
That change shapes
As they meander 
Into the horizon.

Frank, sometimes
Sets his book down.
Slowly gazing 
At the passing cars and box trucks.
He thinks about Chosin,
The Chinese soldier,
Already frozen dead in a crouch
That he shot in the chest,
How the shards of ice
flew like broken glass,
How his buddies kidded him
About wasting ammo.
on the dead.

It is a sunny day,
And the morning chill
 Is filtered away.
The Salvation Army 
Washed his clothes.
They are firm with cleanliness,.
It makes him feel new.
I drive past Frank
Every week,
The long way home,
just to sneak into his moment, 
His contentment
Of what is present.
I drive past Frank
Just to share
His perfect dream.

The Saxaphone Guy

Like me, 
Most sons think of Mother’s memories
As an baby wren
To be instantly protected,
As if it might be starlight disappearing
Into the cup
Of a full moon.
So, there was this snapshot;
The two-tone shoes guy;      
His rascal-slouch stance;
The snarky grin,
That photographic pose.
My guess pegged him
As the saxophone player,
Hailing from Cleveland, via Akron.
My Mother told me about him
Near the end of her life,
Perhaps, because it was okay,						
At this point,
To talk about this guy,
Because, just maybe
His hands went too far with her
On a Saturday evening,
A humid, small-town summer night,
When the crickets sat still
Beside a country road.

Canadian Beer

Pete hands me a warm stubbie,
Old Style,
And says, “We drink it warm here”, 
And everyone smiles.
It’s not completely true, but
They have waited for this provincial moment,
The rush of my wary confusion,
This off-handed baptism, 
As I feel exile in its best way;
The comradeship of beer.