Bow, bough
Rough bark
Shade
Rustle
Shoot
Stalk
Mirth
Beware these clouds of heedless mirth
No telling what they’ll send to earth
Getting There
This night is so dark
or have I gone blind
I falter and fall
left my senses behind
I’m drunk on the spirits
that flow through my mind
This city is covered
in thorn
I stumble through streets
of every light
cast shadows of sin
on this carpet of night
I taste every sample
of tasteless delight
And die wishing I were
not born
I turn into Crescent
And look down the lane
I see many doors
there’s one that looks plain
I fall to my knees
and I wince from the pain
this journey has brought me
I’m torn
I crawl very slowly
up into the moon
Its light is so pleasant
Wish it won’t go soon
I feel so much better
My hope’s in this June
I’m through, now I wait for
the morn
The Path Ahead
The path ahead seems narrow
Beware your eyes’ deceit
It opens up to meet the courage
Of determined feet
Draw
Twelve-year-old drew this segment of our bedroom’s prairie-facing wall with incredible ease. I’ve got to get kid into an art class.
And yes, I had to write something to mark the effort.
Stain glass bowl
By itself
Sitting on
The bookcase shelf
Flanked by drapes
Aegean blue
Sheers white
All watching you
Draw them
Shut
Learning
We study and learn
Of ways we can earn
A title and salary
Letting us churn
Out words in a manner
Sophistic and dry:
What thinkers discern
Over crackers and chai
Pool of Suspicion
There is a pool in every head
Of crystal clear suspicion
Its fish are poisonously bred
And make for lousy fishin’
Hell’s Goods
Feels good
Tastes good
Smells good
It’s possibly hell’s good
Naans
Not all naans are equal
So know your naans before
Your nonchalance returns you
Embarrassed to the store
Humble Poet
Asking a poet to be humble
Is an act supremely stupid
In my humblish opinion
For what tops in arrogance
The idea that you let brain
Sculpt the wretched pulp into words
By the heat of spent synapses
There is no humble poet
Just pretenders: shy performers
Ever wishing someone will
Play out their craft for them
Basking in the applause of their genius
But if contrived verse with phrases
Like “the heat of spent synapses”
Keeps you from the snares of the forsaken
Then you
Must do
Your thing
Just be worth saving