Fatherhood is funny thing. It turns a man who is well-respected at work, considered to be intelligent by his colleagues and clever by his friends, into a complete idiot. I’m not a father yet, but I’m already beginning to see that mine isn’t nearly as stupid as he used to be.

I noticed a little something different as I stepped out the door this morning. There was a crispness in the air that I haven’t felt for months. The oppressive heat that had assaulted my nostrils was gone, replaced by cool, fresh air and the scent of freshly turned earth that follows a soaking rain.

I pushed the door open with both hands and sauntered to the soda counter. Sitting on an old high stool I gazed around and took in the shelves that ran floor to ceiling. They were packed solid with merchandise I barely recognized. Trinkets, games and toys lined the walls and even fell onto the floor; the smell of mildew stung the air and I felt as if I was trespassing time itself.

I’ve found that creativity is almost a possession; the work takes over, and you’re not your own again until it’s done. For better or worse, you’re bound to culminate the idea or it will never let you be. It may sound a little scary, but it’s the biggest thrill in the world.

In 1942, Sonja Dubois’ parents were ordered to report to a train station for “re-settlement” to a holding camp in the Northeastern part of the Netherlands. In reality, it was nothing more than a stopover on their journey to the gas chambers of Auschwitz.

I was living in Switzerland on September 11, 2001. The night of the attacks on the World Trade Center, I walked the streets of my little neighborhood in a town called Sorengo. After my walk, I composed this poem.

Where I grew up, in rural Indiana, there is a very large Benedictine monastary, an archabbey, in fact. One of the things they produce on the land there is wine, which is used sacramentally, as well as being sold as part of the abbey’s self-sustaining economy.

One of my attempts at the sonnet form. As far as I’m concerned, poetry doesn’t get more perfect than the sonnet. It’s the perfect blend of displine and abandon. This poem is my imagining of a love scene that might take place inside a Van Gogh painting