she said at least
the equivalent
of maybe
so much other
than he desired
but enough
to hint
at least
momentarily
toward a soft invitation
he wanted
but never had
(February 21, 2026)
Category: lament
-
- Climate
another warm day
too warm for February
the knife’s at our throat
belief thrives in a stasischange requires an awareness
2) Predictive Value in Metaphoreach morning we ask
after the night’s restlessness
as if a portent
one thing is like anotherthus as above so below
(February 10, 2026)
-
Our two dogs don’t like the cold rain today;
they huddle deeper into the blankets’
warmth still tangled across the bed upstairs.
I watch the neighbor’s small duck flock parade
behind his fence squawking their displeasure
with the world’s cold misappropriations.
Much farther north of here an ice hardens
quickly into a fiery discontent.
The TV weathermen predict winter storms
will settle darkly across the country
with dire warnings of icy roads to come.
We live out our lives in dangerous times:
where we must brave the cold outside to live,
but any warmth, like love, is hard to find.
(January 24, 2026)
-
I want to worry
about our dogs
barking randomly
along the back fence
at shadows and leaves
while the occasional squirrel
fusses at them
from the safety of a tree.
Instead wolves roam the streetsfur stiff with dried blood;
and eviscerated prey
muddy the snow,
while neighborhood dogs
howl through the night.
(January 14, 2026)
-
“the world is too much with us”
-W. Wordsworth
no longer the getting and blind spending
though that is still here teeming at our feet
like low-level radiation leaking
into the spongey ground we walk upon
but the powerful’s thick drooling anger
flailing curses wildly on everyone
that does not resemble their idea
of a pastoral past they never knew
this is the time I have come to live ina time where the soft smell of hope lingers
like a dusty corpse left alone at home
when to be cloaked in ironic disdain
is to disguise an intellectual
self-revulsion that equivocates death
(January 10, 2026)
-
It happens right here
in front of us:
close enough to feel
the blood splatter;
close enough to hear
her lungs wheeze;
close enough to smell
the rusty wet iron.
We shrug and move on.What’s there to do?
But scream,
and point fingers;
then wake up to start
another day in America.
(December 25, 2025)
-
storms rage without rain
like shrouds across the dry earth
trees drop their dead leaves
each night grows longer
one more minute of light less—
incremental death
i’m tired of trying—
too cynical to pretend
darkness has not come
it is ironic
with the weight of centuries
nothing can be done
the sycamore’s branches fallI fear spring will not return
(October 21, 2025)
-
My world, which Words have created,
has fallen into a deafening aphasia.
Increasingly,
as if rearranging letter blocks,
I misread words in the poem
Like “words” for “worlds—”or
“worlds” for “words—”
Just an aging typo of the mind.
Like a sailor blown overboard
into a raging sea, I cannot
swim within my thoughts,
cannot ride the wave’s surface
without tumbling into the foam
to drown without a lexicon.
(August 28, 2025)
-
The adage goes
To save for a rainy day,
But the rain doesn’t rain much
Anymore. When it does
I watch the grass, trees,
And flowers left dance,
A hollow ghostly dance.
I look around the circle;
To see ritual filled eyes
momentarily hope. We are
Lost. The moment’s all
That is left. Tomorrow’s
Too late. It rains
For hours. the air cools,
At least ‘til morning.
Nothing’s changed;
All is as it has been. Yet,
The streets dry quickly,
And the earth cracks
Open like an empty kiss
Bestowed upon a corpse
As a last blessing.
(August 22, 2025)
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