Snapshot: A Woman on the Bus

The days are hard,
She’s tired, and
A better life —
For so long, now,
She’s waited —

She’s more and more
An animal
Who’s sessile —
She’s sui generis
But not
That special —

The scenery
Goes by, and she’s
Reflecting —
Another day
Of talk without
Connecting —

A worker’s job –
A crier’s tears –
Authentic —
So much alike
That sometimes they’re

The Moon Is Not A Terrorist

The moon is not a terrorist; in fact,
She often visits both the poor and sick.
Although she has a schedule that is packed,
And often deals with clouds that can be thick,
She’s regular. And knowing that’s the trick:
The moon is true, not subject to caprice,
And that should bring no fear, but only peace.

The moon is not a soldier or a spy;
She does not aim to kill, or try to steal.
The moon’s a corporeal lullaby,
A friend, though far away, who’s very real,
Who gives your very goodnight a words her seal.
As children know, once sung their fav’rite tune,
It’s time to sleep when they hear “Goodnight, Moon”

Love the Moment, Feel the Wind

Love the moment, feel the wind,
Make believe you never sinned,
Saying words you can’t rescind —
Love the moment, feel the wind.

Wear your glamor like a prize,
Wrap it all in silk and lies,
Interlaced with alibis —
Wear your glamor like a prize.

Once, you were a fair man’s daughter,
Now you lead the weak to slaughter,
Laughing, leaping, like an otter,
Preening for the watching eyes —

Love the moment, feel the wind,
None of this on you gets pinned,
You the ranks firsthand have thinned —
Love the moment, feel
The wind