Thank you to Terveen Gill, Editor of
for publishing one of my poems. MasticadoresIndia
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.
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.
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 slabs. 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.
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 “us”? A key truth in all this is my failure turning our love… Exeunt all but REGRET. Leaving the door ajar. No Fanfare. No reentry.
* * *
The Sunday Muse
With half our face obscured
we cease ourselves to be with others. Diminished are we — made less by lost transparency. No smiles come through paper or cloth. Saving our lives we lose our souls. Cast aside by a veiled, threatened ill, our ability to interrelate rots under cover.
“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 squares.
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
A Picassoed frame
of reference — still a compact truth — lips over eyes except before cries… or sighs.
A snapshut case
of paradigm missed shift. Double clutched in a clutch; doubletimed. Two-timer in a clutch.
You don’t see things
* * *
Ekphrastic response to image posted for The Sunday Muse.
How mean, uncomplicated our days;
How bereft of salt and savor. What matters that we accumulate, should living lose all its flavor?
Between ant and sluggard life exists – why?
Existence on a spectrum of vibrant-to-bled dry.
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:
Photography by Artist, Jasper James
The soul is sucked dry!” she cried.
“But who needs a soul in the city?”
She looks out from “a place… dry
and dusty*.” Ironically, the 15th floor.
She has been away from her home
so long that the city is integrated with her being, her thoughts. City- molded, but not city-fed. It feeds upon those who stay this long — eyes stop investigating, brains stop reflecting, chips swallow braincells — a uniform diversity has absorbed her originality.
The last time she left, went home,
she had forgotten the language.
Warmth, welcome and humanity
had driven her back to the hub, the tower. Steel, concrete, glass. Traffic, litter, loneliness… safety.
What once was discordance,
grate, jar, screech, is lullaby — the hum of humanity’s machine.
* – Juan Ramón Jiménez, “Author’s Club”
* * *
The Sunday Muse