Monthly Archives: July 2013




Conspiracy there is to think; it rains again today.
Summer’s here and’s gone and here and disappeared once again.
Nothing settles in for long, and commitments dissipate.
And who, then, doubts there’s been a change?

Dollars fluctuate and markets soar and no one’s sane
Enough to shed the price of gold; and in the pack―Queen of Spades
Or Jack of Diamonds―are priceless pawns and easy gain

And loss to fools with pedigrees to match the season’s rain.
Fire’s in the West; flood’s, the East; and as for the chatelaine,
The fevers never cease in the station of the gravy train.
And who, then, doubts there’s been a change?


“So Goliath the Proportions”

A Catalogue

“So Goliath the Proportions”

So Goliath the proportions, so small the stone
That in the hands of a single upstart
Derail the plan, the science and the art.
Just so, the protocol of all within the home
And in the workplace, and in the greater
And lesser notes of the finest filigree
Or within the bowels of a diamond. Tree rings
Record a tale of atavistic misfits and golden satyrs.
Centuries, as well sign the same glad tune
And as the planet warms and swarms of pundits chant
A melody of surest knowledge, the icebergs rant
And bellow as they roll like rune
Stones in the seas neglecting reassurances
That the truth is one and not expressed in nuances.


“And Who Prefers the Light”


“And Who Prefers the Light”

And who prefers the light to fire and lives
To breathe a word of such a thing?
Mark it, friend! To the light, the ring
Of truth; to the fire, smoke and high fives
That will evict the bees and solace thieves
Who take what they want and fling
A match to all the rest in awe of pilfering.
And who prefers the root to leaves,
The trunk to branches as they weave
Their path to victory in the midday flattering
Shadows and the midnight’s scattering
Chorus? Honey’s the proceed’s reprieve
For both laboring givers and easy takers in voices
Echoing ephemeral chance and natural choices.

“A Writer’s Block”


“A Writer’s Block”

A writer’s block is nothing more or less
Than social indigestion, a factor of isolation
From the others in the cast, and while satisfaction
Comes in lack of mass in intercourse, I confess
The situation in taking solace in a single peanut, a test
Of will, perhaps, is more or less in fractions
When compared to tolls it takes in interaction
With the flock assured within of taking all the best.
But what is servitude when what is served will never rest?
Guaranteed the greed, the caviar of avarice of so many factions
For whom taking and receiving is a mere distraction
From the thorny problem of being not the master but the guest
As souls are prone to honour the name of Cain in the fray
Between the people and the Creator of both the night and day.
For once I cannot truly say I have the thread in hand
Sufficient, taut, the monuments of the day.
But I have hopes that with these grains of sand
In contact with others held at bay,
The times will once again point out the way
To action. I have been alone too long,
And while I sought this place, I cannot stay:
The air’s too close, the light jaundiced, and the pattern’s wrong.
From the womb in solitude; I could not bear it all
Forever. And when I leave this place, I’ll sing
Again, and join the others in the hall
Who wait for me, who cause the bells to ring.
Solitude; the sirens deeply call;
But I did not make myself
nor single drops the waterfall.

“They Move So Well”

“They Move So Well”

They move so well, they troll; they stroll
From this side of wagers to the other,
“Done!” and back again, smother
Goosesteps with mother’s deep affection, roll
The wholes in one and on a paper napkin map
Contingent strategies in sporting bars of habit and choice
Their viscosities of taste and controversy, simulated voices
Registering rapt concern from teleprompters
for whom it may concern that takes the rap
When leaders do not function as they should.
If what’s within the box is not ajar,
It will be soon, adagios of alarm
As phantoms masked in mortgages, just as whales, must surface
By the waters of eternal Babylon to their height in purpose.




Awake! And off, but no one’s in the race.
No dogs, no horses, no bird flies above now.
Morn-rise! Aft-fall, and nothing stirs apace.
The council meets and nothing’s on the agenda.

And what should be there, what ingredient clouds
The page, the room’s still air, the breathless grace;
What’s missing in the interim? The brow’s

Anointed with a crown of nothing placed.
And what’s to do but wait upon the slough
Of waste while action’s usurpt and rule displaced.
The council meets and nothing’s on the agenda.

…painting by Edward Hopper…

“A Weekend Well Affords a Sleep-in”

“A Weekend Well Affords a Sleep-in”

A weekend well affords a sleep-in, and a look
At what’s not been put to rest, and in the soft
And casual stroll through halls and closets, lofts
And corners of the home, the memories ordered, books
Rearranged, and music for the soul–the sound
Of dishes, cleaning, sweeping rugs, and then,
Of course, the nagging thought that if and when
The hours allow, perhaps a treasure found,
That deliberate search for lost and oft forgotten articles
That must be somewhere in this place.
He conjures histories in dusty, mundane thoughts—erase
The past, perhaps—and in the end to shift the particles
And portions of the present if only to reinvigorate and nurture
What’s behind the doors, beneath the floors, and repossess the furniture.

Reprise: “True Enough, the Politicians Sigh”


“True Enough, the Politicians Sigh”

True enough, the politicians sigh, elections foil
Attempts to rectify the situation leaving choices
Fit for fools and all solutions moot, their voices
Shrill, and rarely if at all do waters yield and boil
At temperatures that formerly marked
The limits of glory’s shores. Even as we speak the seas
Have rushed the gates where now the rivers bleed,
And Arctic glaciers once so permanent, so parked
Reveal the reason for which Greenland was sired
And in the time of ancient Viking sagas so aptly named.
Nothing’s new that was not there before the present maimed
And mauled, reframed, and rearranged, frayed and admired
Its tasteless tableaux in conspicuous waste
to the end that no one breathes
A word who is not cursed or blessed while all the azure planet grieves.

“Ebb and Flow”


“Ebb and Flow”

Ebb and flow, the abyss, then, the night, the starry heavens,
And after all, our own sacred hearth, our home and stronghold,
A corner of the unknown, beneath the seas in sevens
However beauteous, more perfect in the fold.

If then a flaw and even less is left, the tale’s untold
If in the awful telling’s hidden a gift of leaven
For cosmic seed and gems in stone and in perpetual gold.

Past this endless strand, the elect, the unseen elevens.
A Twelfth, the Guest, Greater Cause, the Holy Grail of old,
The Prize, the Goal, the Priceless Pearl; to this end the Given.
However beauteous, more perfect in the fold.

“With Mild Concession”


“With Mild Concession”

With mild concession, I consign myself
To oblivion in the bleaching hours, the heat
On one, the rain the other morning and repeat
In each of several sultry summer days. The shelf
Is dusty, floors are masked with soiled à meld
From weeks of traffic and debris, conceit
Upon the crowns of crass procrastination and defeat
And even neo-lethal in princpio moltissimo if held
For more than seconds in the fray and din that spells
Desire or want or all that we are wont to hedge the streets
Of our unequalled Americo-Euro afternoons that lead to night.
Oh, I would have it differently, indifferent to the pattern
That I bear witness and allegiance to in virtual existence.
But decades after the discovery, I’ve more common sense
Than to suppose that there is any real escape; tight
The bonds and tighter still addiction to nocturnal lanterns.