country: United States of America 
My work has appeared in 70 plus small press magazines to date, including PLAINSONGS, POTPOURRI, and the PARIS/ ATLANTIC.  I am newsletter editor for the Des Moines Area Writers' Network(, Senior Contributing Editor to the Poets' Porch, Poetic Village and the Odeum and am in Who's Who In America, 2002.  

Here is a poem which has just been published in Lyrical Iowa, but I feel that it has a relevance for the entire world and would like to see it have a wider audience than is possible with a local publication like LYRICAL IOWA.  


This may bring out the best ... and the worst in us.
We stand on the brink of a precipice,
Boldly expounding our views.
We've ignored the things poverty brews
In our mad rush to own ... and possess.
We want only the best, and won't settle for less.
And the rest?  Who cares?  They're not here.
We've got TV ... and big cars ... and beer.
If someone somewhere is starving and poor,
What matter?  He's not here at our door.

We must find some way that Earth's treasures
Can be portioned in more equal measures.
But wait.  What's that noise that I hear?
It's a clamor of outrage ... and fear.
"The bombs bursting in air" may return
For an encore, and cities may burn.
While we're flocking to see "Harry Potter",
They may bomb us ... or poison the water.
"No man is an island", they say in disgust,
As they seek to reduce our proud cities to dust.


Since freedom is a delicate thing,
It takes nurturing and defending.
It's a state of being and state of mind
Requiring detailed and devoted tending.
It thrives on human sacrifice
And swells like a river in flood --
A veritable psychic vampire
Nourished on martyr's blood.
Those denizens of darkened dungeons
And occupants of unmarked graves
Are the few sacrificed for the many:
Blood-price, as it saves ... and depraves.
Each of us knows altruism
Is mostly contra-survival;
And patriotism's a religion
That grows with each bloody revival.
The "much" that we owe our lamented dead
We forget in our daily existence,
While we grope for material possessions
On a level far more than subsistence.

                      Published LYRICAL IOWA, 1999


There's a shadow hanging ... dark across our futures.
It may presage the twilight of our times.
We can't close the wound with bandages or sutures,
It's a lesion, open only in our minds.

The Four Horsemen wait impatiently to ride
And the darkness presses closer all around.
Testosterone-crazed, the madmen hit their stride
As corpses rapidly pile mound to mound.

It's the age old story, come again --
Old men sit home and send the young to die.
Most religions say don't kill, as that's a sin:
But "We can win"  becomes the battlecry.

Wars come, fueled by demagogues and hate,
Before each storm, though, comes the pause,
The final chance to stop 'ere it's too late.
If our cause is right --  what IS the cause?

Survivors write the histories you see,
And seldom give a thought to those now gone.
We think no one's of more value than are we,
Yet our boys may march to meet their final dawn.