Devil’s Dream — a poem

Lead ‘em astray.

A twelve-string in the hands
of a blind man dressed
in a big city business suit,
black glasses, fedora.
They tap their toes,
but the reaper will come.

No mercy, no mercy!
Finger and thumb –
let him preach away.
The gospel won’t cover
the blues man’s beat.
He’ll strive for the heart,
but I’ll capture their feet.

Lead ‘em astray.

No mercy, no mercy!

A twelve-string bible
in the hands of a man
dressed for business.



The Sunday Muse

On the Cultivation of Fireflies — a poem

Eeek out a place
for yourself deep
in the woods – far
from the burr
of highways,
street racers,
the din of air termini.

Plant yourself
some tiny white
lights set
                  to blink.

Sit up in an unlit
window – watch,
                 with childlike expectancy.


* * *

A memory from a recent trip to Upstate South Carolina, staying at a vineyard, where each night we were visited by the fairy lights of fireflies.