See the News section of this website for the most up-to-date publication announcements.  The list above will let you see all the places where my work has appeared, and I will be working to keep it updated with links to get you to individual poems on the Internet.

My Chapbook:

Published in 2004 by Pudding House Publications.  You can order from the publisher or contact me, if you'd like to order a signed copy.

Go here to read a review (you'll need to scroll down; the review of my chapbook is the second review).

Here are two poems from the chapbook:

Modern Abolitionist

Two hundred years ago, we would have stitched
cloth, hung our quilts on the line to give guidance.
We would have sung songs, whispered directions,
left lamps burning in strategic windows.
Then, as now, we would have helped with the herding north.

Now we hang flags of blue plastic
above water stations in the desert. We patrol
these tanks to make sure they never run dry.
Dryness means quick death for those who make the daily
dashes towards freedom. We position
these water stations in national parks
under telephone poles that stretch high above, a sure sign
even during dehydration induced hallucinations. The flags whip
in the wind, a dry rustle above the rattlesnakes.

I keep extra food and water in the truck. When I see
parched refugees, dusty and sunburned, I offer
these meager rations. I’m not above
giving folks a ride. There’s no Fugitive
Slave Act to make me cower in fear.

Some mornings I find a few of them in the fields
or huddled against the garage, the barn.
Unlike my neighbors, I don’t threaten
them with my gun or call the law.
I’ve learned enough broken
Spanish to invite them to breakfast.
Eggs and toast translate to any language.

I wish I could fully claim my Abolitionist
heritage, instead of just dancing on the edge of lawlessness.
But I am no Harriet Tubman to safely lead
people out of slavery, no John Brown
to plot uprisings and raid munitions bunkers.
Alas, I don’t have the eloquence of Frederick Douglass.
All I can offer is a glass of water, a bite
of food, substandard shelter, and a ride north.

Pies in Heaven

She would complain about the taste of pies in heaven.
And I would be that angel, so desperate
to please, bringing her slice after delectable
slice. Crust, light and flaky as clouds;
fillings, sweet and full as ambrosia.
She would find fault with them all,
and I would collapse, crying celestial tears.