2017 : November

I do not seek events, but things that say
The things I need to hear and feel and know;
Like how sometimes, when thankful, we tell lies,
Or why we stop when it is time to go.

A month ago, I knew I needed help;
And so I sought to understand my ways,
And found there, as I started to explore,
Some parts of ardor, others of malaise —-

And standard things that many folk go through.
The wondering if I’ve already been
The best I will be, or I ever could be,
Another nameless man among us men.

But this I know: however bright my light,
I still can love my own, and do what’s right

2017 : October

falling time, dissembling and melting,
tore along the drift across the plain;
our cabinets were full, our wagons loaded,
a caravan of camion and dray
beneath the clouds of apricot and gray.

we lost some people, maybe, back in kearney;
we lost a wagon, surely, out in blair —
but far away from anything like distance,
we slept beneath a tired clump of trees
whose only friends were random bits of breeze.

a chill first, then a storm across the prairie,
we hunkered down to weather, best we could,
for seven days and nights the anagogic
swept across our wagons and our heads
and tore our feeble canopies to shreds.

and then one day, i rose: the camp was empty —
for all had turned, and headed back for home —
amid the ponds and puddles of the after,
i picked up pans, and scraped off pork-and-beans,
i gathered what there was of spare canteens,

i loaded up to keep our westward way,
no one to hear whatever i might say —

so creepy in the silence, ill-at-ease,
but free to do whatever i might please,

i placed some towels along my head for screens,
to prove i was a man
a man
of means

2017 : September

September loved me,
Claimed me for her own;
Her gold-and-orange
Scatterings, well known,
Were strewn across a trail towards the sun,
A trail towards the sun, and hidden things.

September beckoned,
Heeding, then, the call,
I gamboled or
I gambled into fall,
The difference is great, when all is done,
And I was tangled in the hidden strings —

    For when the curtain fell,
    I was alone:
    September moved
    To claim me for her own.

What is it we
Give up when we give in?
Why’s there no end
To what should not begin?
Why do the days and months turn into tears?
And why are all our hopes mixed in with fears?

September knew
The answers. Being coy,
They stayed beneath
A canopy of joy,
That covered up, quite perfectly, the score,
That thing we seek, when are seeking more —

    And so, across the autumn,
    Came a cry:
    From trees that wither,
    Leaves that fall, and die,
    That though September loves us,
    It lets go:
    It’s all there is,
    Or all that’s ours to know.

September claimed me,
Took me on the cheap,
A waking horror
There, beneath the sleep;
But only those
Who’ve felt the light can know
About the burn that’s there
The glow

2017 : August

The living rain was pulsing through her veins;
Each breath, an understanding of the way
That life itself unfolds after the rains,
And why she then to water must give way.

For storms are made of life is made of storms —
A paradox in word, but not in thought —
Resetting paradigms, her precious norms,
She recognized with what her life was fraught.

She stepped into the downpour, saying loud,
“Though some may fail me, I won’t fail myself.”
A promise made, not playing to the crowd,
But so to take her own life off the shelf

From whence, within a jar, it once had sat:
Not anymore. The storm had seen to that —

2017 : July

Waiting for the waning
Of the smog of sorrow,
Feast of what we’re feigning
Least of all – tomorrow

Burdened in the building:
Debits, damned, debating —
Gunny sacks for guilding,
Wondering and waiting

Once upon a lonely byway,
There, a long-forgotten highway,
Walked a boy who wasn’t certain,
Certain about many things

Once impassioned, now embittered,
Garbage from the past had littered,
Littered all with grief, and hurting,
Hurting laced in everything

There a palace long abandoned
Sat half-buried in the sand, and
Tumbleweed and force decaying,
He walked by without a look

Once upon a life worth living
Death came young, without forgiving,
Giving any chance of staying,
Staying here, within the book.

To your days, then, now attend:

All must leave us, in
The end

2017 : June

The dying of the empty street,
With yet the flag that grimly waves:
The short success, the long defeat.

The bricks were laid, and eaves made neat:
So soon to see, these same enclaves
The dying of the empty street.

Each ledger, and each balance sheet,
Once-busy stores that turned to caves,
(The short success, the long defeat)

Of nails and screws in size complete,
Of two-by-fours and barrel staves
(Now dying is the empty street)

An ever smile, never cheat,
For all who pass these architraves —
Still short success, then long defeat.

Why do I mourn the obsolete?
I’m one who sees, not one who saves —
The dying of the empty street:
The short success
The long

2017 : May

One evening, we
Ate dinner by the river;
The weather, warm,
The sunset, pure and bright —

And after gruyère shrimp and grits,
We wandered,
And watched the city
Slowly turn to night.

We spoke about our parents’
For me with music,
You with dress design,

Of how those closest to us
May not know us:
The turns and dips in every

As we held hands,
The riverboats below us —
The distant sound of dam
And waterfall —

You said, “a girl who’s unsure
Of her father
Will look most anywhere for love
At all.”

“I guess the same is true
Of boys and mothers.”
You spun away,
And did a sort of dance,

I saw you silhouetted
By the sunset:
A girl again
By way of random chance.

No matter how we age
We all are children,
Still trying to
Establish who we are,

As night fell on
On a steamy river evening,
Two lovers joined
By one lone

2017 : April

The Spring is seen from up above,
The Winter from below;
I couldn’t say just why this is,
I only know, it’s so.

The sunlight shone upon the door
That lead me to your room;
The day was bright, as I recall,
The fields were all abloom —
You greeted me with such a kiss
As few men ever get:
As your cat watched with interest our
Unfolding minuet.

The Spring is like a Mondrian,
The Winter like Van Gogh;
I couldn’t say just why this is,
I only know, it’s so.

We played a game of skipping-jacks
Upon your bedroom floor;
The stakes were high, the tactics low,
I lost my shirt, and more —
The sun came through the gauzy drapes,
And we could feel the breeze
That brought you to the April brink
And brought me to my knees.

The Winter’s like an ocelot,
The Spring, a calico —
I couldn’t say just why this is,
I only know, it’s so.

We drank the cup of many vines,
And savored every drop;
We then had tortes and eclairs, with
Some whipped cream on the top;
We used each part of both our tongues,
And fully knew each taste,
For April would be all there was;
We had no time to waste.

And when I tried to leave
You bade me stay, and took me in;
The cat was on the countertop,
And there was quite a din —
I think some dishes maybe fell,
And shattered in the sink;
Although I really couldn’t say,
And couldn’t really think.

The Spring is like an opening,
The Winter’s like a close,
Though we get lost in wondering
Where youth and passion goes —

But everytime is still the best
We’ll ever have, or know —
I couldn’t say just why this is,
I only know,
It’s so