Monthly Archives: December 2012




Glimpses, yes; we all know what’s coming.

Oddly moments when no matter

what the antecedent or the outcome.

all gives way to single purposes

for which goals are distilled to purest beverage

in vanity and perceptions reconnoitred,

consumed within themselves, steeped in jaundiced convalescence

to suit the audience and placate the afterbirth of ordeal;

one breathes but one breath before another and then another.

In such a blend in time, thoughts recur,

“I might have died then and there,”

is whispered, but of course, “I didn’t,” and,

“where once I gained, now I’ve seen the cost

and find rewards and consummation wanting

while I am next to nothing in the wake.

I can not recover

what I never had

and did not want.”


Paintings above by Bobbette Rose

“I Spy”


“I Spy”

I spy above me a mountain and as if nothing  stand watchful;
I have no way of understanding how in insignificance still
Do I the mortal gather mortal tailings, talismans, knowledge, some earthen will
Immortal, A leaf-blow natural gift receiving freely in a myriad thoughtful
Moments, as if I, a grain sand, am a sometime summit. Beneath I live;
Here am I, so briefly as my eyes are drawn to majesty’s deadly gaze.
The image of that old and wizened mount, as my journey’s respite, raise
From the river to the summit defines the lines of Whose I am and how I live
Drawn, now from ancient treasures in the ever-moving light bestowed,
Now, perhaps a nod, a gentle wave, or possibly a smile,
If not, a certain seal, concealed to all but they who walk a pilgrim’s mile.
To these  just short of pleasure, every odd refreshment yearns to bear the load
To lay, as I have―needs and deeds, and life’s brief breath―
Beneath the loam of beauty’s comforts to the denizens of the blind and deaf.

“The Culprit”

Woman 2

“The Culprit”

And, who culprit is, no one’s supposed
To know, but with a little leisure, and a warp in time,
The cable networks and the latest hits provide a hint in 6/8 rhyme,
And we have nothing but our mental clothes
To keep us from the simple joys of greater clarity in clues,
And but a slight turn of the screw if we so stubbornly refuse
A brief but potent midnight skinny-dip through all the themes, the views,
And kindly invitations to festivals and banquets draped in hues
Of healing, beneficial breathing, tokens, memories,
Fond remembrance of what was so entirely wonderful
About the atavistic clarity of childhood.  Maudlin luxury’s  unfurled
In this and other worlds and then so cruelly cut along with all the weeds
Of infancy when on the wall in inconspicuous dread above our beds
Is nailed the inscription reading, “Road’s End; Straight Ahead!”…Oh, now I get it! I’m supposed to guess
The who of you today, forget the what
You did just last night – in no time flat,
Be quick about it, lickety-split, and, yes!
Get on with life.
“Relax!” you say and you’ll be back,

…And soon. After all, you’re on the run to catch the sun,
And just perhaps this very afternoon you’ll choose the one
From whom all your blessings flow. You’re on the other track,
The narrow gauge, and if I’m on my toes, I’ll catch you there–
Wherever there may be–in the subtle marble nuance of some sweet hour.
You’ve got to go, at any rate; the minutes noted, the hour devours
The damsel in the tallest tower with the golden hair but spares
The prince, the frog from anywhere and multitudes will gladly pay
To guess just who they are and who the fruitcake is today.

Woman 1

Paintings above by Pascale Pratte

“He’s Half Tempted”


“He’s Half Tempted”

He’s half tempted to let her know what’s on his mind,  

                                                 But then again he knows what she’ll decide
To do with it if he pops the bubble. The ride
From wonderful to doomsday’ll remind
Her of the last time she saw Paris and that tiny bar
Where she said she’d be when all this
Blew over. He’s set some token goals, a list,
Perhaps a simple meal to celebrate how far
She’s come since when they never heard of one
Another. Yes, it just might be tonight’s the night
He lets the cat out of the bag and sheds some light
On just what’s so light between them. We’ll run
With this, and seal the deal and get the record straight,
As if she’s never heard the song and never’s not too late.


Sculpture above by Natsu

“Simplicity In Children”


“Simplicity In Children”

Simplicity in children delights
As does the bud or sudden blush, the burst of bloom,
The delicate spring denial of all the winter’s gloom.
Brightened eyes, these thousand butterflies in flight
As clouds of passing thought survive a single, urgent wish.
It is as tender in the early morning breeze
As with the fragile toy sailboat that so easily will please,
Encouraged with little urging over wide-eyed goldfish
Captured in the city park within but one of several chaste
Enclosures, ponds that serve as captive seas fed by purity in springs.
They’ve been there since we don’t remember when―these rings
Round which laughter flocks―where innocence and youth taste
First blood in what nature’s natural wine can give; we have survived,
Be still! In winter’s rage the end is nigh;
in spring, his children’s dreams are still alive.

“It’s In the Weakest Hour”


“It’s In the Weakest Hour”

It’s in the weakest hour the heart shines.
Visions through a tainted glass, cultivated cultures of bliss
To no one else suspend the grosser elements of company missed
As darkness glories in the rite of guidance in the rhyme.
The inner rooms shuttered, moonlight withdrawn from judgment refines
The dregs of syllables of opinion to defy all vain comparison
And render witnesses moot in battalions, their orizons
The stuff of nuance and innuendo only; criticisms  their lobbyists and spies.
Who among us shares so great a burden
As the head of one’s own state that will not be governed? The weighty brow
And scepter of personal sovereignty bears the blood and thorny crown
Of singularities, responsibilities and some vague ideal catalogue of earnings,
Marination in existence here and now before the final call.
A man who governs seconds in himself must first surrender thrall
To hours that are his.  Imagine, then, what I might do were I
The man you think I am and had the time,
The inclination, funds and synergies aligned as planets with crime
The open the goal so many miles above the sty of compromise,
Or the abyss of mere addiction to the accidental end;
The coffin but the obverse to the metaphor of birth,
Entertainment, then, a whaling of the hours in the Dead Sea’s dearth
Of integrity, the bribe and kickback to the entire caveat. My friend.
Imagine, then, that you are on the menu just as much
As any other fool who happens to survive,
As much a “just in time” as any other morning drive
Along the grey-lined riverside. Yes. allow for it. But then, as such,
There’d be little reason to take a bus or book a flight,
And you’d be flattering yourself to take your own sweet time.
“Your poetry is scary,” someone said, and while I thought,
“So, too, are you,” it came to me how strange that what I take for granted
Can be seen by others as so much unnecessary fluff. But planted
As I am so firmly in the soils,  so many disconnected letters yet at ought
With no one, no thing, no one’s one-way journey to the scaffold boards
Before me,  I am no weighty history, no past mystery to haunt
The halls, no hasty holograms of lasting variations on a theme to vaunt
Because there is no Paganini in my world. I bear no sword
Of imitation inveigling common sense nor thoughts alloyed
With pain to balance vanity with circumstance in value sought.
And yet, there’s room for doubt with what
I’ve written in the main. I look to what I’ve made
Of all I’ve seen or what has passed these many hours
And see indeed the seed is separate from the flowers.