(tweeted 01/27/2014)

Leaves and bark make up the dark
that no one ever sees
we shape the wood and pick the fruit
but still don’t know the trees


(tweeted 1/16/2014)

Bootless walk the muddled mess
pebbles prod, thorns prick
a blood sacrifice
mingled droppings of a generation
without distinction –


(first appeared in “The Lyric”, Volume 73, No.1  – Winter 1993)

Poor me, we cry, then wash our hands;
this world of ours makes such demands
and no one knows just where we stand
and so we stand for nothing.

For now we hold, as science shows:
that nothing is and no one knows.
Our course is cast upon the flows
of, from, and back to nothing.

We build our castles by the sea
and conscious of the irony,
ignore the tides of destiny
as if we thought them nothing.


(first appeared in “The Lyric”, Volume 73, No.1  – Winter 1993)

Awake again to tasks and daily ways;
Reluctant rise to foot the well worn soil,
the stomach calls, the spirit set, obeys;
surrenders contemplation for the toil.

Plunged from a slumberous sanctum into moil,
the mind proscribed to nigglings magnifies
each feather-weighted doing to a deed,
each step to leap, each act to enterprise.
The flesh, disdainful, strives to solemnize
the squalid thoughts which witlessly obey;
that void of sovereign value hold the prize
of sustenance for the ensuing day.

The torpid night serves only to restore
sufficient dint to propagate the chore.