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65 years old from USA

The latest comments that jim has written.


Water is infinitely complex, so many states, so many guises. You've caught its ever-changing, beguiling nature.

I write from the boundary waters of northern Minnesota, water-water everywhere.

Morning in Harbour

I feel the gentle rocking, hear the quiet lapping.


Cast adrift.

This is a good analogy for the situation, which you understand fundamentally, sympathetically, and realistically.

Summer in Cottonwood

This is welcome and very much appreciated. This may be current, but it takes me back, reminds of growing up in the midwest without air conditioning, and the writing takes me back to James Agee, sitting on the front porch on a hot summer evening.

In a way I miss those days. In more ways I don't, but watching fireflies rise from the tall grass after the sun set and before bed was a sweet time—then lying in bed in a hot room. Memories of running through the sprinkler, cooling off at the lake—this brings back good thoughts. The ennui was, and is, real.

Funny, we're having the same weather, and I was thinking about the three worst jobs I've had to do in this heat and humidity. Maybe there's a poem waiting to be written.

Thank you.

Ericson's Lakeside Resort

You seem to create nostalgia without being nostalgic. It's matter of fact, things change.

This is vivid. These last two poems are hitting home.

Meanwhile in Kathmandu

Wow, this is stunningly good. You've tamed the sestina, more than that you've brought Kathmandu vividly to life, all senses engaged.

Brilliant writing.


This is quietly brilliant.

The Little Conductor

This works on all levels, and ending with a touch of humor is a grace note. The sonnet form and rhymes come naturally.

I like that you are an observer. Though the poem is about the little conductor, it says something about you as well.

Well done.

Far from Tintern Abbey

This is a poignant look at remembrance, hope, and regret. Well done.

Held By The King

One may, and I am not saying I am, think there is more here than meets the eye.

Happy 64th birthday Mom by Ann Wood

Your mom and I are the same age. Happy birthday to your mother.

Half-baked Haiku

These are fully baked. The last one made me laugh out loud.

The Last Supper by Ann Wood

This is rich with images and meaning.

Still Looking

I like this. It reminds me of a surrealist story by Sakutaro Hagiwara called "Cat Town." It's a journey as well.

When I see the Moon

I often feel the same when I look at the moon on a cold night. Well written, I enjoyed this.


I think the brain is utterly dependent on the rest of the body, there is no such thing as pure thought. The gut tells the brain this or that, the brain responds, not vice versa. The brain is given far too much credit. Sensory input is the programmer, the brain is the hard drive.


All true, so true, too true. But . . . those past days WERE lived, so nothing has been lost, and like a good book on the shelf, can be read and reread. No need to live it again. Despite the obvious southern trend, there is much good to be found in a day, if only in minutes.

I appreciate this.

A Thin Place

I've been feeling the pull of Mass, or my equivalent, the familiarity, the history, the comfort of it is compelling. I suspect I have been walking on thin ice.

I enjoyed this very much.


Are you writing about your village? This is sad, the dying of way of life.

Bits of Life

Both seem right and true, personal and somehow universal. Both lovely.

ON ME WRITEING WORLD WAR ONE ((Addishans)) (Finishde)

You ask good questions, and it's natural that you do so. The war touched your family, as it did mine, and, surely, everyone's.

You've always written of conflicts, you have a good sense of history and a way of expressing yourself clearly. Those who make war might be better served to ask the questions which you ask.

It can’t be changed

Your latest poem (Je Ne Regrette Rien) is about feeling no regret, and this poem is about a lifetime of regret. I like the connection, and I like downward flow of this poem, it mirrors life itself.

What's in a Name?

Thomas DeFreitas is a noble name.

I love the unforced rhymes (I did trip over Scorsese/messy, something about the first vowels). I love this format, and the light touch (both without qualification).

I rhyme like Milton, that is to say, I don't (i.e. can't).

charity & birdsong

I chanced to read last night that Marianne Moore often began poems with a phrase that came to her, maybe not in a dream, but as something that resonated.

My Last Poem

I can't imagine how many angst-ridden teens read "On the Road," and felt as you did. Now that you're older, now that you've been around the block a few times, and you've seen where the open roads leads, maybe you can see Kerouac wasn't proselytizing, he was writing. That his imagery didn't match your reality doesn't make him a liar, it made you wiser for the experience. Give him credit for that.

Good poem, though I hate the "fuck."


Wonderfully conveyed, the sense of time and place comes through—but I am wondering what Rob the radical was radical about.

1992 is a blur for me, one more year in a string of too many years spent on horseback and tractor seat.

Chadesh Yameinu

T'hank you for this appreciation, which led me to some beautiful, beautiful, beautiful music.

I think of you

"But you are not here,
And I’m left whispering my longing
to the brisk winds,"

Your whisperings become words on a page. Writers write.


Too true, your few words speak volumes.

None of Us

Together your two poems are sweet and insightful. I enjoy them very much.

café utopia

Lots of truth here, and all good poetry, Thomas.


"every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main;"

This is a nice acknowledgement of friendship, as well the difficulty of going it alone—facing the "gale-force winds." It is also nice that community has become broadly defined, which, in my rural isolation, matters.

Returning from a long journey

Returning from a long dream, coming back from somewhere far away and not quite real, in fact, surreal, where colors aren't what they should be, and sounds are indistinct, and there is pain.

That's what the poem brings to mind for me.

Friendly Discussion

Well expressed. What D. Thomas does for you, another Irishman (of a sort) does for me:

On the beach at Fontana

Wind whines and whines the shingle,
The crazy pierstakes groan;
A senile sea numbers each single
Slimesilvered stone.

From whining wind and colder
Grey sea I wrap him warm
And touch his trembling fine boned shoulder
And boyish arm.

Around us fear, descending
Darkness of fear above
And in my heart how deep unending
Ache of love!

—James Joyce

Our holiday at the sea side day twenty by Ann Wood

A "moveable feast," indeed. You make me wish I were there.

North Shore Medical Interfaith Chapel

After reading this I read the Mi Shebeirach, with no one person in mind, but all of us.

As well as: Namaste, Starry Starry Night, Mazel tov, Love and peace, Happy birthday, Paige! We love you, Matthew!

you might your very own:

"peace and light," it would be a welcome and appropriate addition I'm sure.

64th Letter to a Poet

Very "human" thoughts to begin the new year: distaste, trepidation, hope. I suppose it's a matter of percentages: increase hope at the expense of the others.

AARP saves you money, colonoscopies may save your life. No worries. If the world is a mess, "tidy your corner of it," that was advice given to me a long time ago, and I buy into it.

Looking forward to the 65th.

On Raising Daughters

Raising a son is fraught as well. I know that good intentions aren't enough as a parent.

Good thought for a poem, raise them to be strong. Maybe not so easy.

2017 - Goodbye

It's been a nightmare, three more years of this and we won't recognize the planet. It will be a cinder.

Am I being too dramatic?

To my Favorite Fifth Grader

I'm glad you stuck with your original format, sans the stress on meter, which felt strained. This is your voice and your style, and, as always, it works well. It flows well.

Your favorite fifth grader has a good teacher.


A lovely poem, a special kind of romance.

As a Chicago kid snow, ice-skating, sledding, snowball fights, icicles, mittens, buckle-boots, and so on were everyday parts of our winter. All good.

Struck Dumb

I get the sense, strongly, of "firstness," that it's coming back. Four years is a long silence for a writer.

I will not keep asking....

i slept on it and still can't get it.

Raucous Sentiments

These words resonate (loudly), and "the constant beating of the drum" is wearing and fraying nerves.

In the country (I don't know about anything else) people have nature at hand to balance the noise. It may help, it seems to, a little, at least until we come in the house and tune in.

Man Cold

I have many thoughts about your gender breakdown but speaking them aloud wouldn't do. OTP has thoughts of her own. The two do not coincide.

Clever and good rhymes, esp. first stanza: lay/play & dire/mire, they are more than casually linked to one another.

Rose hip tea and lots of sunshine.


I love it, love it for you simple elegance, and for the memories, of which mine are rich with battle and hearth.


This is a fun use of language.

When The Whole World Is Marching...

Lovely words. I echo your entreaty. I am doubtful.

I love you by Ann Wood

i like reading this sincere expression of love.

Two weeks without you Ashley by Ann Wood

thinking of you ~