Threadbare and Raveling — a poem

Both sides are a frayed
mess — this comforter past
its use — so old, glory faded, left
out too long in harsh light.

Perhaps the center still holds;
perhaps something smaller
will suffice. It will never return
to what it once was.

                                  It won’t hold

Stitched together, created
wonderfully, of many separate
pieces. Now beauty undone,
                                undone, undone…

united no more.


* * *

Written some time ago.

Before someone misinterprets this poem as “hankering for the Good Old Days,” let me say that I don’t believe in good old days… or bad old days. They were and are no more.

What this poem can mean is many things depending on your mindset — a new unity, a return to civility, a desire to not see the ship dismantled while we’re still on the ocean…. Many things. You are free to read into it what you see. I’m free to laugh and shake my head… while we can still claim that this is the land of the free.

Crow Moon Song — a poem

I drink from a pool of full moon
light that I may sing to the sun
three crucial verbs. Human tin
ears cannot conjugate music,
hearing only “caws.” I enunce
Kah – kuh – koh distinct, clear.

We who sing cannot control
what those who listen hear.

* * *

…and yet another trip to The Sunday Muse.

The Church of Whatever — a poem

Welcome to the church of whatever
floats your boat. No sermons, no guilt,
no liturgical monotony. Baptism never!
No redemption or Christ’s blood spilt.

The church of happy thoughts always,
and our fellowship meals are catered.
Musically blue, the word is paraphrase,
our deity diverse is patered and matered.

Welcome to the church of whatever
gets you through the night, thank god!
We won’t judge your quirks, never —
but accept you as long as you’re odd.


* * *

The Sunday Muse #161

Down the Rabbit Hole — a poem


Imagine a rabbit nibbling grass
out by the portable classrooms
of a city high school —
the students, raised on technology,
immersed in STEM curriculum,
staring blankly at what clearly isn’t
AI and what doesn’t fit into the laws
of probability, unless you account
for an infinite number of variables;
perhaps chaos theory enters into it.

Many of the students will glance
but not perceive. It requires too great
a paradigm shift to observe and recognize.

But then there is that one student
who sees, smiles up at me as I hold
my classroom door open, and says,

“A bunny.”

That child will suffer greatly in this
world and conceivably become a poet.





My Response to Will Shakespeare’s 18th Sonnet for Mrs. Johnson’s English 4 class — a poem


My girlfriend is not all of that.
I mean, she holds her own against the weather in June.
The heat and storms ramp up in May big time,
And they just go on forever.
Sometimes you step outside and the sun will knock you over —
                for real!
Other times you go weeks under clouds and rain;
And they call it The Sunshine State!
But yeah, my girlfriend’s better than the weather here,
And she’s always fresh, you know?
So, I’m writing this so others will know,
And maybe spray it on the wall that surrounds her neighborhood —
Make her immortal like.
Maybe I’ll get an “A” for this, you think?




A Natural Source of Nitrogen for Plants — a poem

A Photoshop/AI truth,
whether city or flower
or humanity’s wisdom.

A sad reality we see
and believe no matter
the lack of honesty.

Crack in the façade
overlooked, jumped
over, for the agenda.

Should a flower bloom
in city center, a sprout
unwanted, then blame

the fertilizing BS spreaders.


* * *

Another quick response — unexpected and unintended — to an image on The Sunday Muse. I never know where these things are going to take me.



Process of Elimination — a poem

photo by Charley

tell the truth
but tell it by saying what it is not
rather than what it is.

from “EGGS” by Matthew Sherling


It isn’t that I started out by being a hermit;
or that I discovered a deep-seated distrust
for my fellow human beings — really.

It wasn’t that I felt the need to escape life
as I had lived it, casting off technology,
time, and ever-pressing deadlines.

It won’t be that you’ll come upon me smiling,
looking like years have been peeled away,
in better emotional and physical shape.

It all turned out to be necessary, though.



Ode to the Cha-Cha Salt Life — a poem

“Dance with yourself with all your heart and soul, and occasionally others….”
                                                                                                                                                                     — Homily, by Jim Harrison

“…if I in my north room
dance naked, grotesquely
before my mirror….”

                                                                                                                         — Danse Russe, by William Carlos Williams


I tripped

along the razored

stone, high above pounding

waves, baptized

in sea spray.


by ecstatic solitude

I performed

charismatic obliques.


by the Spirit of the deep,

I sprang

into an arabesque joy.

When you entered

the sacred dance

floor, we wedding-marched

down onto the soft-shoe

sand and began

to jitterbug

our love, acknowledging

the applause of our adoring

crowd of breakers.

* * *

I owe everything I know about writing from Jim Harrison prompts to my favorite poet, Jilly.

The Lost Vermeer Rediscovered

An ekphrastic poem with a twist — it’s based on a forgery of my own making.

Life in Portofino

The boy walks out of the canvas.

He looks directly at you from under
the shade of a hat, misshapen –
whether from the poverty of material,
the torment of Dutch seasons,
or the disregard of paupers and youth for fashion.

His eyes are what first arrest
you – a clear glance formed
using ultramarine, smalt, a touch
of bone black for the pupil, a swipe
of lead white and lead-tin yellow to highlight.

They peer out from under the shadow
of his hat, under the fringe of dirty
yellow hair.

His face is stern, thoughtful.
Dirt teems around tight lips, nostrils flare
in the cold, reddened by much wiping.

About his neck is tied a white rag
aping a scarf.

The costume of this waif is black peasants’ rags,
noticeably fashioned to appear unclean
and worse for wear.  His feet remain in shadow
as he comes out of the…

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How We Ended Here — a poem

Kristof Ven

Yes, my child!
O, yes, we once
were civilized.

In my lifetime — sadly
not yours — we were held
together by a glue
of, if not love,
at least feigned concern
for one another.

Truly, though, little one,
it was a veneer — a fake

What happened, you ask?

My child, my child!
We allowed our true,
instincts to escape —

Pandora’s chest

or Pandarus’ ploy? 


Here’s a fact, little one:
We weren’t engineered
to get along — we strive,
we grasp, we hate. Trust
no one, little beast —


especially not me.

* * *

Another image was dropped into The Sunday Muse that would not let me be.