The Night She Didn’t Come Home

Perfect Dinner

The night she didn’t come home
He had made her a perfect dinner
He had rehearsed his apology over and over
He was going to make it right

Her favorite food
Her favorite wine
Ready at the time she would normally be home
Watching the time

He knew he had been wrong
So he texted her
That he had a surprise for her when she got home

But that night she didn’t come home
She never came home again
By the time the state patrolman knocked on the door
He was beside himself with worry
Then, with grief

The night she didn’t come home
He had made her a perfect dinner
But nobody ever ate it
Nor drank the wine
Nor heard the apology

And the last angry words
He had said to her
Still ring in his head
Where the wind sweeps restlessly
Beside her silent grave

The Song of Summer

Summer Song

Sing again to me of Summers gone by
When careless winds blew through flowing hair
Sing to me of time spent in admiration
In laughter, and in the music of new souls

The song I still remember
But I need to hear you sing it
Do you remember the tune? The words?
Do you remember Summer’s fragile kiss?

And whenever lovers play
Where the sea meets the sky
Underneath a drenching yellow sun
The song is still remembered
Still sung

Sing again to me of Summers gone by
When love burned wildly on our shoulders
And every night was spent
Only when we were

Monastic Order Taking

When I was all of twenty-three
I thought to join a monastery
To free myself from earthly strife
And lead a contemplative life

I truly, deeply did aspire
To rid myself of my desire
For women: those that pained my heart –
And so, I vowed to live apart –

But failed to get all the way there
And start that life of work and prayer.
Instead, I found one like it here
Except, I can keep my wife near.

Celtic Isles
Skellig Michael monastery, off the coast of Ireland.


Cat with a bunny hat

For now, I’ll pause and think a bit
To find a word that seems to fit

And although it will take some time
I guess I ought to make it rhyme

For sometimes, rhyme’s the harmony
That locks in musicality

In rhythmic tones of spoken verse
Be they expansive, or be terse:

Be they profound, or be absurd —
What’s needed is a rhyming word