Category: Poetry

Killing Time

I have no Drafts awaiting revision
so I must think anew, fresh 
out of the grey box

The space behind my eyes
settles into the space
before my eyes, contentedly

I hear a bird, perhaps one-hundred yards away,
that sounds like a French police horn,
all treble, no punch like the real thing

Sitting forward in my chair at the edge, I pop the back
of the seat cushion into the air, but it settles down
when I plant my feet squarely

The tiniest of gnats, perhaps birthed 
of the late-season green tomatoes,
navigates the menu bar of my blog 

Good name for a band - 
Ladies and gentlemen, The Late Green Tomatoes!

Fucking gnat wants to enter one of the orifices on my face

Returning to center, to a silent calm that hadn't been there
...witness this moment's slip to the next, 
I glance back then ahead - look both ways before 
not crossing at the green, not in-between
the time that falls like rain

My father once told me he could weave through raindrops 
and not get touched - stay dry even in a downpour

They say that there are laws of conservation 
at work in the universe.  Where do the good 
energies go when they die?

Chagall 2020


Moments undone,
time's breasts exposed
fanfare follows 
a drum-roll
will her 
slow down, please 
will you
implore you, beg me
call you - summon others

...reflect in you
so that a kiss will heal...

in time

Chagall 2020

Bonne Soirée

I realize now
I would have loved 
a rainhat to wear on summer walks 
beneath warm downpour

As I would 
one to wear 
on solo strolls 
through the rain within

Everywhere droplets, 
streaked windows,
strings of pearls  
of rose-colored glass
still tinted

cats on fences
meow everywhere
and lovers kiss
in silhouette
beneath beachball moons
while wonderfully-arced melodies play

when the rain begins to fall that night,
I - without a hat - feel the need to retire

who'd have known?

Chagall 2020

Trite But True

Never lose a child's sense of wonder and discovery.
Revel in life and the air that you breathe.
Ponder that we are at all.
Live to live.

cc:CC 2020


In puddles I see 
bubble rainbows,
rainy autumn day
droplets gather and sputter 
down the run of my gutter
to the spout where out come
slick sleeves of gold orange leaves,
these ride the tiny waves 

And I, like the rain (like my heart),
am a steady patter on the tin roof,
on the tent flap, the storm out at sea
that brings wild salted air, invigorates
the Fall and the fallen

And I shall name her Hope
Hope smells like Autumn air
Each morning I seek Hope
Early sun is everywhere
I am the Autumn air
Perhaps I should name her Autumn

Strange, how Autumn smells like 
I remember Hope

cc:CC 2020


I withdrew
a beautiful 
chunk of dream
from the bag,
enough for two
for a week

cc:CC 2020

My Routine

I push the thought 
until there are no words

perish the sound
except for birds

in flight,
not ever to alight

not even once

You never turn to see that I wave
every day that you leave

Chagall 2020


in a world of proctologists
all is ass-backwards

go analyze that

Chagall 2020

Twice Empty

Another's sadness
makes me so sad

Chagall 2020

Half-Penny Opera

how fluidly the flow shifts
one day a single mamba dances
before there was hyphen-nineteen anything

how easily mandalas fold

fingers are supplicants
to the mind and heart
and should only do good

be good,
chew nice

give Mother Gaia a hug, 
rub her back

old Mackey is back in town...
Jenny Diver, whoa, Sukey Tawdry

Chagall 2020

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