When I was sentient, I knew a man
Whose hobby was to build things out of cards:
At least I think. For my attention span
Is very short, and doubtful in regards
To any but the widest boulevards
That truth or lone veracity might take
And subject to drive off, without a brake

At any rate: the guy. His steady hand
Was such that I admired, in the way
He could produce, from what his mind had planned,
Facsimiles of Paris or Marseilles,
Combining games of chance and macrame.
A balancing, precarious and wise
Of miracles set up before our eyes.

And What Am I But Hope?

A shadow in the city streets

A cipher of the darkened ways

A tree alone up on a hill

A festival of Shakespeare’s plays


A marvel I can’t understand

A question there’s no answer to

“And what am I but hope?” she asks

This nova, bright, unnoticed


P.J. —

Cute in quotes and pure at leisure,
Swirling mist and public treasure,
Sybelline but full of fancy,
Living love, and necromancy –

Sharing hopes and hiding dolor,
Few may know, but those extol her,
Spreading humor over bruises,
Thoughtful whimsy in her chooses –

Separated by intention,
Need, the sister of invention,
Going where the fates may lead her,
Architect of those who need her –

Never slow but seldom hurried,
Always caring, never worried,
Friends, and always, to the friendless,
Actions random, odd, and trendless –

Cute in quotes and pure in humor,
Swirling mist of truth and rumor,
Sybelline in reticence,
Artistry in every sense.


A character sketch.

She has gradually given bits of herself away — to her children, her friends, and now her grandchildren, each receiving portions of a beauty she had little time to enjoy when she was younger.

Beauty, of course, is made of broken things: days and hours, broken by fatigue; hearts and dreams, broken by the whims of fate and ill-kept promises — but what she spends is never truly spent.


Astrogony she’s studied long:
The origins of worlds and stars —
The heavens greet her with a song
In timeless mystic reservoirs

A dance among celestial climes,
The peace that comes at end of times,
She climbs to heaven on a string,
A girl in love with everything

(“Astrogony” (as·trog·o·ny) – the theory of the origin of stars. – Owen)