Alfred Nicol

I asked my friend, the poet,how she was getting by.“Work and tears,”came her reply. “And listening,” she added,“in silence, to be sure.I listen closernow than before. It is a lot like reading,a thing I loved to do . . .What book felt likefirst love to you?” “It was in French,” I . . . . Continue Reading »

Give to Caesar what is his,namely, everything there is.I see a lot of eyebrows raised.Let’s check the books. You’ll be amazed.An x. An o. A hug and kiss.Render unto Caesar this.Render unto Caesar that.His the dog, his the cat.Render up your reading time.Render, too, your reverie.Render up the . . . . Continue Reading »

for Herbert ClanceyLike the signature in maplewood of sun-splashed rain,this man’s bright pattern must remainbeside the workbench where he stood smoothing the grain.Deprived of work, he would not rest for . . . . Continue Reading »

The Skunk (Psalm 23) I am anointed too, brushed with his broad mark. He leads me safely through the alley in the dark. The Mockingbird (Psalm 98) Hub of the whirligig, he is my perch and poise. I pour from a high twig a round of joyful noise. The Sheep (Psalm 119) Tepid, woolly, I stray, leaving . . . . Continue Reading »