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:



The Soul Sucked Dry — a poem

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

Green Is the Grasshopper — a poem

Public Domain Pictures

Green is the grasshopper
on the sidewalk; green sidewalker,
flighty hopper, green walk signal.

Hopping mud dauber;
daubing mudder, another mudder,
a load of mud daub bobbing by.

Butter yellow butterfly; butter
flying wafting by — wafting
butter as I pass I spy.

Alliterative litter of little
bitter butter mudder hoppers
green and yellow — Oregon’s colors!

No ducks or beavers, though.




The Ill Effect of Solitude — a poem

Beware! Again I say, Beware!
Not the teeth; my teeth are not set
for thee.

And fear not to look into my eyes,
for I always glance askance. Shy
I appear.

My muscle, sinew, and tendon
are not that alone which will bring
you down.

I am alone. I run with no pack.

A sickness has separated me;
a disease most deadly —
not of my body…

of my wolf spirit.


* * *


For The Sunday Muse.

Downstream, upstream…. — a poem

image by Charley

Downstream, upstream,
Regal, Bayliner, pontoon, tri-hull,
pontoon, fisher, Bayliner pulling
an inflatable raft, children screaming,
kayaks, pontoon floating bar scene.
Jet skis racing.
A Cigarette boat slows
and turns back downstream.
The river churns.

On the bluff I feel
the agitation of the river —
the flow impeded.
Like the stream, I am
My life a recreation
of others.

Trumpeter Swans desert,
in unison they search
for peace. Eagles, shaken
by chaos, return no more.
No shore birds wade
where there is no calm.


* * *

“We’re only trying to get us some peace”

— Lennon/McCartney