The waltz of warmth

That dances in and out

Of each year

Is played on instruments

That seem sturdy.

Their change of tone

Takes place in increments

Masked by melody.

Here and there a note

Slides glissando, squeaks

Like a scratch on glass

To leave the ear insecure

As to the intent

Of the composition.

We discover that we waltz

Out of step, beset

By dissonance.

Crops fail. Vengeful winds

Pull and render

Dwellings into shreds.

Famine swells baby bellies.

Floods and avalanches

Rise crescendo

To match the harmony.

We have fiddled with

The rules of composition,

So, must learn to dance

To a different tune.







The first god, perhaps,

Thrust out of the black

Star filled sky

As a fist of fire.

It thumped the earth

With nickel iron

And set the field aflame.

Men puzzled eyes into its surface

And a mouth agape.

A clever carpenter

Grew a body for the head.

Very quickly, an interpreter

Discovered how to tell

Its nickel iron thoughts.

Good interpreters translated well

And men thrived.

Mad interpreters made men

Do strange things.

It took centuries for good sense

To see the god as stone and wood.

Men missed this god,

So a clever carpenter

In silicon and plastic

Is putting one together

More satisfactory.






The surface of the sea

Chipped into hollows by the wind

Waves whitecaps back at me.

I am fixed ashore, pinned

To a static spot to watch the dance

Of liquid edges roiled in ecstasy

At the caress of the air to glance

On surface sensitivity, emoting fantasy.


Below this infinite quadrille,

Untouched by playful atmosphere,

A steady blue-green note does fill

The drowned eye and the ear

With the silent sound of the deeps

Wherein shadowed predators

In lazy body twists and snakey leaps

Exert the rights of conquerors.


Shoals of shining scales flash in this night,

Coordinate in disciplined precision.

Edge on dim, then suddenly all bright,

In single mind decision.


More alien than something from the stars,

A nest of tentacles makes its way on bottom sand

To touch and test all fissures. Nothing mars

Its intensive curiosity, the tentacle more agile than the hand.


Shell arthropods on needle legs with pincer tips

Troop in pizzicato caravans,

Antennae waving gaily in swoops and dips,

Surveyed from above by hungry clans.


Outside the traveled paths

Beneath the gloom of submerged cliffs

Far in time and space from human wraths

A pirate skull stares at underwater riffs

Which play and replay quantum terrors.

Doubloons in dotted lines scribble on the sand

Tales of violence and greedy errors.

Now lies in peace beyond desire and demand.




My Love



My love has eyes the blue of skies,

Her hair a golden cloud.

She sits inside a tight pink skin

Which bends where it’s allowed.

This happens mostly at her joints

Where two bones have a meet –

At neck and shoulders, elbows, wrists

And hips – to make a seat.

Between white teeth a reddish tongue

Articulates in spit

Which dribbles down inside her throat

And lubricates a bit.

Her breasts and buttocks (nicely hung)

In dynamic interaction

Bobble when she walks and talks

To make a main attraction.

Within, a meaty working system

Begets organic fluids.

Parts (too numerous to list ’em)

Process ingested fooeds

Liquefied to meld with flesh,

Proteins, lipids, sugars, gases,

Letting organs mix and mesh

Pumping up curvaceous masses.

But parts internal, sorely needed,

Aren’t where desires are rooted.

Indirectly are they heeded

While shapes outside, convoluted,

Convexities and concave

Are clearly touted, toasted, tooted

Making all my glands to rave

And rationality all muted.


Hurray For Evolution



My great grand daddy was a dinosaur

My brother was a monkey.

I came from what had come before.

I think one was a donkey.

A relative of long ago

I’m sure once was a frog.

With certainty my fam’ly tree

Had a fuzzy wuzzy dog.

For we are life and lively be

And won’t accept we’re done

For we’re constructed of

The stuff of stars

And we’re still having fun.

My babies will be molecules

That leap empty space.

They may be cockeyed cyborgs

Or perhaps the human race,

But crazy be or lazy be

Matters not a bit

For the universe

Would be much worse

If we’d ever quit.

Three cheers for evolution

And life that jumps to Mars,

Whether it be rabbits

Or living autocars.

We’ll last as long as we can change

And dance and sing our songs.

We’ll leap across the galaxy

And bang the stars like gongs.





It is quite conventional

And not at all contentional

To rage against the age when we decay.

For the progress of the regress

Generates the anger to express

Our grief and our powerful dismay.


One by one all the incisors

Succumb to the advisors

That excision is the desired way.

Then the molars follow suit

For a lot of dental loot

To finish us as toothless as a jay.


We are soon bereft of hair,

Fallen out, I can’t say where

To give our tops the surface of a ball.

We retain our brows and lashes

While our shaving still leaves gashes

So our hairlessness is not complete at all.


Our muscles get much weaker

And our macho very meeker

While our memories are never very sound.

We totter and we twitter

‘Til we need a senior sitter

And finally we tumble to the ground.


Let us hope the end is calm

Not a quirk, not a qualm

When we slip into our final dreamless sleep.

Let’s be blessed with no recall,

No memory at all

And no problems with counting endless sheep.




Ragged Magic


He appeared

Tall and thin.

Tall and thin with a grin.

An ironic smile, with guile

To permit an opening. Friendly enough

So that approach might coach

In anticipation a reciprocal



I saw him in the subway station.

No one else about.

In this city late at night he might,

Considering his dress

Evoke panic, shouts, distress.

But no.

He seemed harmless enough

Made of funny friendly stuff.


“Hello,” he said. Shook his head.

“Sorry about those.” Indicated ragged clothes.

“I am, in this moment, at these dates,

In dire financial straits”.

“I am”, one eyebrow rose, “a magic man.”

He pinched his nose. “I can produce wonders.”

He curled his thumb, touched his chin

To indicate he would begin.

I heard distant thunders.


“Watch!”, he said, and a red

Balloon popped out from his palm.

Without a qualm he twitched his nose.

The balloon arose.

But on his toes he poked the thing.

It sprouted, first, one wing, then another.

Tweeted. Then flew down the tunnel.

“Look!”, he cried, produced a funnel, out from which

Poured golden streams. He grinned and from his eyes

Sprang glowing gleams. I leaped back.

With a “crack!” he shook his beard

And disappeared!


I peered behind a nearby post.

There he stood, most delighted

At my surprise.

He winked his eyes.

I wished him luck.

Gave him a buck.