File for Future Reference — a poem

image by Charley

Outside the bars sunrise flashes
an indelicate orange-yellow. Birds cheer-
up the advent of day, take wing grasping
manners of clouds once sequestered
in the night sky.

In my cell, mindless of fluorescent “day,”
my self drags, somnambulant, through gloom –
ever night. Ever night.

A family of Sandhills promenade
past the bars of our back fence.
They pause to converse with inmates –
urge flight. Ancient, primitive they
know better than to build for themselves.
They know instinctively the boon of liberty.

As daylight dies I return to the wings
I’m making out of hours and shortening of breath.
My workbench is a classroom, my tools my frustration.
A timesheet keeps watch, a laptop for restraints
August through June…Devil’s Island, Alcatraz.
The Sandhills just brought me a birthday cake.




Thank you to Terveen Gill, Editor of MasticadoresIndia for publishing one of my poems.

Dark, dark the wood through…

Dark, dark the wood through
which owl shadows soar
in and between
the canopy leaf.

Fleecy cover veils
a dour moon,
visage of distaste,
more likely disregard.

We fly in dreams
and change not the world.
Our night chills
do not the tides increase.

Yet, waking we are changed.

What matters
when deer and possum and gators rest;
but our fevered imaginings
prowl the nightmare terrain?

Our thoughts play
at nocturnal hunting.
We come up empty,
bleary-eyed, drowsy
with the blood-red sunrise
out of the roiling waves of slumber.

Our prey each morning slips
through us like spray-laden fog.

‘n Boots — a poem


hep cat stray cat cool cat spray cat
a feline felon flinging four-letter foulness

a tip of the hat gads I’m hatless drat
my name? W(ill) C(atch) Field(mice)s

I strut I hiss I spit and sputter
to come out alive pull fur with another

and now adieu
I go seeking a sunny window

…and perhaps a little nip before a nap


* * *


I blame The Sunday Muse.



A Question of Geometry

Then the dragonfly flew,
squaring the corner, came
up the ramp toward the door
of the portable classroom —
a low, hovering student enrolled.

She pivoted suddenly, shunning
my handshake and greeting;
sharp corner before flying
back over the sidewalk.  She measured
the smooth cement squares
length by width, squaring
her corners to match
the edges and cracks
between the regular, regimental

Settling in the sun, stunning
emerald and gold, pondering
our angles —

considering the human need.

* * *

Thanks to Terveen Gill at MasticadoresIndia for publishing my poem!




Seen better days… — a poem

Seen better days.

            Scene. Bitter days…

A lot of rot
about what makes
a home —
a home life —
a home like the one this has been.

            Enter. The father, worse for wear. A has-been.

What is left
when whitewash
won’t cover
what ate away

A key truth
in all this
is my failure
our love…

            Exeunt all but REGRET.

the door ajar.

            No Fanfare. No reentry.


* * *

The Sunday Muse

Under Cover — a poem

With half our face obscured
we cease ourselves to be
with others.

are we — made less by lost

                       No smiles come
through paper or cloth. Saving
our lives we lose our souls.

aside by a veiled, threatened
ill, our ability to interrelate

        under cover.

Speed Chess, Central Park — a poem

“When the men on the chessboard

Get up and tell you where to go….”

— Grace Slick


“…it’s time in time with your time and it’s news is captured….”

— Jon Anderson/Chris Squire

The rules have changed since the time
of chess club after school; a game
of speed in the park.


Staunton laid aside, no more draws,
by FIDE — NewChess has become
Calvin Ball.


It’s my pieces you’re swiping
when I’m not looking — erasing


Threw the looking glass ‘cause of untruths;
it’s lying now, in pieces
on the floor.


“Red Queen’s off with her head”
in the clouds, perhaps —
or elsewhere.


Not much for current events gone stale,
mate! Let me play the classic rules.
If we tie, we tie.


* * *

The Sunday Muse #181

Scilla found her head… — a poem

Scilla found her head over the dress,
not the original — battered, discarded —
one eye juttering… too much stress.

Plop onto her mannequin neck bone,
skin color doesn’t match, you see.
Can’t have it all as a dollyhead clone.

Joan of Arc sleeves, celebate knot
at the waist — calls for alteration.
Wonder… is chastity something that’s caught?

Scilla found her head and her call.
Scilla found purpose in a monastic robe.
Scilla found herself surprising them all.


* * *


The Sunday Muse.

Actual image for The Sunday Muse #170: