A Study in Green

Green is the dream
of the desert and
green is the lush
growth
growing
over the
graves of
the brave
war dead
and those
freshly printed
American bills
filling the coffers
of defense contractors
and green is the envy
of the plenty held firm
by the few
and the color of the eggs
and the color of the ham
in the simpler world
of Sam-I-am
but green isn’t green at all
to a colorblind man
so . . .
what of it?

Winter’s Child

How I love the cold air
as it caresses the bare
limbs of November’s
dormant arms
amid the caws
of distant
crows carried
carefully through
the bright crisp
rays of the brave
winter sun
unfazed
by the
shortening
of its days
The spirits
are nearer
The veil
is thin
My path ahead
is clear again

Who’s On First?

I write in the
first person
mostly
Odd
since I’m not
the first person
More like the third
observing
the actions of an
intimately close
stranger who is
entertaining
at times
I’m not even the
first person
I’ve known
and sitting alone
I still don’t know me
Dropped from the sky
into this pound
of pre-named flesh
and told to drive
Not from this place
Not from this time
Being a third person participle,
dangling,
I speak the first person’s lines

Gustave’s Lady

I visited Paris once
Treated her fine
Took the time to
savor her dark espresso
very respectably
in a sidewalk cafe
yet she spurned me
as an insignificant thing
Just another foreign speck
with dreams of mounting
her Eiffel Tower and
telling everyone
how it was
I got halfway there
then changed my mind
From a distance those
long legs looked fine
but up close I feared
I would see worn thighs
from all of the guys that
took the ride
to the top
before me
So I never did
the Eiffel Tower
I only admired her
from a distance
Her elegant frame
still chaste
in my mind
Dressed in
alluring lights
Piercing the
night sky

Fog Advisory

Events that have
passed into memory
are no longer real

Absent the moment,
the visceral
blood and guts
of being there
they are reduced to
colorful shades of air

Smog

Vapor

Yet we choose
to live there
Lost in their
misty miasma

The Call

I overheard in a dream
that he was seeking me
and I feared it
in the beginning

Such is his reputation
as one intolerant
of failure or weakness
What need has he
of one such as me?

He has not forced
the matter, he’s
let me be
But even though
I cannot see him
I feel he didn’t leave

He’s watching

Always near

Tomorrow I believe
I will try to
speak with him
Know the purpose of his
insistent lurking
then decide if he
should stay,
or go

if I have a choice,
or have been chosen

Election Day

The ambiance was
stuttering
down at the diner
A wraith-like fellow
in flannel arguing
to an indifferent other
as the children played
with their food
An older lady looking
every bit a banker,
dressed to the nines,
quietly enjoying a slice
of homemade pecan pie
while two rotund deputies,
the town’s finest
I presume, ate
for free in
a corner booth
What message would
I choose from this broken
run-on sentence?
“Over easy”
I said to the waitress
as I watched a
brown dog
pee on the
red hydrant
across the street
sipping my coffee

Horde

A dragon prow
pierces the shroud
of mist to
imprint itself
upon history’s
virgin pages

With bludgeoning fists

With axe and roar

The body of the leviathan
is the Viking horde

The grapes of their
wrath are forged of gold
reaped through blood
with the edge of a sword
they send the faithful
to be with their lord

Without regard for
the Christian’s hell
their victory comes
if in death
they die well
and the skalds
gather their children
their glory to tell