Gull and clouds


Scooting on a breeze,


Of every puff of errant air,

This feathered engine

Rides the atmosphere,

Delights in flights

To utilize its gear.

Piercing through its silent soar

With needle screeches,

Sharp cat cries, thrown before.

It loops and swoops

And then,

With smug ease in aeronautics,

Disdainful of earthbound men,

It hangs, nailed

Into place,

Congealing time,

Freezing space.




Evanescent Dream



Sing a song of whimsy

Baked in a sigh

Smiling slightly to itself

Mumbling”Oh my!”

Thoughts like powdered butterflies

Sail through mild depression

Avoiding flakes of nervous shakes

Which promulgate confession.

If I hum or gently strum

The strings of light psychosis,

Subconscious things with hairy wings

Can initiate a stressful itch

Leading to thrombosis.

So never praise those thoughtless days

When sex and spiced salami

Fulfilled all yeas and doubtful nays

Through fate and fascination

To dreams of honey, pots of money

And excess of origami.






Rabbit Habits

rabbit photo

My rabbit has a passion

To chew upon my shoes.

The straps are castellated.

The tips are not good news.

My sheets have ragged edges

And bite holes in the middle.

The tips have cutout wedges

And she likes to fiddle

With eyeglasses on the table.

She flings them in the air

As far as she is able.

She leaps into my lap

With a heavy flop

Demanding that I pet her

And bites me if I stop.


The Muskrat


“Here!” my older son had said,

And thumped the plastic bag on the bed.

Inside I saw the brown-red thing.

Small – rabbit sized.

Carefully I washed away the blood,

Dropped sugar milk into his mouth.

He lived.

He lived with me one summer through,

A muskrat, slapping with webbed feet

Along the hallway floor.

Nosing back behind my books

Playing, like a kid, at secret passageways.

In the yard, he paddled in a water basin,

Gnawed bananas, raw fish and clams.

He returned my gentleness in equal measure.

Autumn, influenza took him off.

Why do these extra human crossings strike so deep?

It is, perhaps, that mute eye

Behind the closing door

That would, like me,

Prefer a moment more.






The consequence of Wednesdays

Parented by Tuesdays

Enchained in turn by Thursdays

That parse our times and lives

Assigns the rigid order

To package star events

That nestle in our minds

And join to make us whole.


Birthdays and deathdays

Stand resolutely planted

In foundations of our soul,

The anchors of the scaffold of our thought.

From these string ropes of continuity,

Hang bright colors out of gay events

Suspend black rags of tragedy

So that we run, along these lines,

The finger of our memory

To say,”Thus it was, and how.” And wonder why.


Over morning coffee, our ruminations push

And shake the rigid past, the bottom line

That says who we were and are and why it came that way

Because one scalpel minute, one fractured second

Of one assassin day.




Birthday cake

This round plate

Sits on my kitchen shelf

Staring with its broad red rim

And bright central floral eye.

I have kept a bed in five nations,

Seen the sun arise at odd times.

I must probe with blind fingers

Into memory to feel origins.

Birthdays at age two and six and eight

Saw my mother pedestal my cakes

On this very plate.

It gives me history.

One glance, one touch

Confers personal mythology

On crockery.



In Gratitude



When I am made young again

To endow the world with glow

Of golden morning sun

So a normal day will go

With all the joy of baskets of ripe oranges,

When sound will crash through moments

Like clean fresh water splashing

Over mountain rocks that clack

And tumble into chasms to a cataract,

Then shall I know time has been reborn,

Mind will yawn and shake itself awake.

Then will sharp eyes snare the small industry of ants

Who bear breadcrumbs in triumph

To succor busy fellows in necessary labor.

Each small bird will be marked in eagerness

And hopeful gaze for offering as I walk by.

The multitudes of leaves will strike silent lightnings

Of jagged blue sky as loving winds ruffle their green.

And I will know the goodness and the wealth

Of this, my Earth, who made me.