Renaissance Man

And here’s March
jaunty as fuck
opening a briefcase
of January
papers flying
but he doesn’t care
because March is a
renaissance man
ready for anything
a handkerchief of
summer in his
back pocket and he
might use it
might not
either way
he won’t change
until he’s ready

To Return To Life

Staying awake the challenge –
the unscalable granite face
that rises from the earth
like a Phoenix each afternoon
mocking me
I clutch my coffee
shuffling and staggering to
go around through the dense
fog behind my eyes
A lake lies on the other
side if I can get there
Splash my face
Return to life

Time Enough

There is a time for grief
and yet
no depth of grief will
matter when it is time
time is all we can hope for
Time enough to pool the tears
To hold them long enough
to distill
the poem

The Poet’s Society

I inquired (most politely
too) if I might sit
with the poets?
The proprietor
said no (that is)
unless I could
give assurances
to esteem them
greatly or if that
was deemed
a (reasonable) fee
would be instituted
or, failing that,
free drinks
might suffice

Following Blind

I preferred
a lateral path
A scavenging crab
but the alleys
were thick with
abandoned flowers
I lacked the courage
to face begging for
light or a drop of rain
beneath the steel skies
I helped to create
so I went
in the
of the

They Seem Real Nice

dead and gone
They don’t cross
my mind
No fond memories
intruding on holidays
No sudden urges to call
We were family
That’s all
More a
periodically affectionate
living arrangement
Sometimes TV families
cause me to cry
It seems like it
would feel real nice

Take Heart!

You’ll all be dead soon
I presume,
in earth’s
measure of time
A wink of an eye
and I will be too
so take heart!
It will all be over
in no time and we’ll
wonder why we bitched so much

To Be The Wind

I am envious of the wind
How it travels the world
choosing its pace
Racing past the ugliness
or slowing to kiss the faces
of smiling daisies
Scratching behind the
ears of polar bear cubs
Caressing bodies entwined
in love under the moon
on exotic secluded beaches
There is nowhere it does
not reach
The breathless breath
of the ages


Hell’s roadmap
is printed
on non-recycled paper
once opened
to re-fold
and it’s old
so old
closed roads
are still shown
but not noted
as such
and you drive
and cuss
and drive
and cuss

Orchard Days (Transient Youth)

I recall the orchard days
The youthful fruit
Juices flowing
Now the bark
is noticeably gnarled
bathed in the melancholy
gold of mid-Autumn and
the breeze
once blunt and hot has
been burnished to a
clean edge by the brush
of long summer days
and it clips away what
the tree no longer needs
scattering leaves
and years