Enter Home Planet News Page 1 of featured poet Paul Pines
Paul Pines page 2

Click Table of Contents

Click page 1

Click page 2

Click page 3

Click page 4

Click page 5

Click page 6

Click page 7

Click page 8

Click page 9

Click page 10

Click page 11

Click page 12

Click page 13

Click page 14

Click page 15

Click page 16

Click page 17

Click page 18

Click page 19

Click page 20

The Blog Bog

The Mag Rack


Clouds over hills that roll
from my window
into the sea
                     gold finches testing
the empty feeder disappear
become sun-lit pieces
of memory
                   like Chilmark chocolate
                   ripening on my tongue
                   even in the grayest
                   of times

I think of you
my love
               and lobster traps
bound by ropes still sound enough
to pull their weight
from the bottom

imagine the heave
of your breasts against my chest
as weather settling over us
which in the very stillness
of its season
                      rises from



The cardinal back
in the crabapple tree both
blossoms into song
his red body
on branches full of red berries
form a single moment
that defies
                    the probability
of such a match
in nature randomly

of correlations
that cannot be measured
or replicated
at regular intervals
under similar conditions

the cardinal's song
is not the same as the berry
his red a different red
but they seem to indicate
some harmony
within a construct

that cannot be
determined from
the variables as presented
how does one control
for the angle of sun
wind direction and
                  cloud density
and previous rainfall
none of which
account for
                    this threshold
created by a bird singing
on a branch
                    that opens
                    into the whispered
                                   of absolute


Hide-'n-seek sun
on my way to Gay Head
a restless sea beyond
the dunes
                              to Tony Frusella
                              playing "Tangerine,"
                              another junkie hornman
                              lost to the 70's

his lines follow me up the cliff
to point overlook
                              a winking lighthouse
                              on one side
                              ocean on the other

a patchwork of blues bounded
by an indifferent
                 that has nothing to do
                 with limits but
                 an edge
                              (more frightening
                              than true
                                                against the smugness
                                                of numerical

                                                                I fall



Driving north on Palisades Parkway
glad to be alive in July
after a month of heavy rains
the greens are tropical
my garden
                    in Glens Falls
                    lush with yellow squash
                    three weeks ahead
                    of last year

after talking
with Bernie
                     about the anger
                     he harbors
                     at his fear
                     of dying

in which he locates
the whole
                     of Buddhist
                                             the terror
                                             our species imposes
                                             on the world
                                             will bring
                                             about the next
                                             dark age

but realize one
may as easily die
into love
                   the heart at last

                                    and fall
                                    through years of grace
                                    with my wife and daughter
                                    into the heartache
                                    of my childhood
                                    dissolve happily
                                    into the closing lotus
                                    of my mother's
                                             a garden growing