footprints haikusnow textsnight-time comings and goingsleave little footprints
Life Is ShortI haven't the patience to read long poems anymore,however beautiful they are.The most of my life is behind me,and there isn't much left ahead.My mind's in high gear,and everything flies by in a blur.I grab what I can along the way,saving it for a future that will never come.Like all the books on my shelvesthat wait to be read,turning to dust before my eyes,their pleas unheard.
2015 New Years Renga Tree: 6.30 a.m.winter coldchamomile and lavenderscents the air
Facebook Kerfuffle.I understand.I get my knickers in a twist sometimes too.I posted something in annoyance.You didn't like it.It wasn't addressed to you personally,but you sent me a private message saying I shouldn't post such stuff.That's what hurts.I can forgive.You'll never know thoughbecause you unfriended meover one silly post.
UntitledGratitude Chokaalone in my house,with your undelivered mail,I hear the washing-machineclean the clothes you left;the dust gathers in your roomalong with the silencesand the absent firelets in the winter's chill,but I think of you and smile.
wind chimesone bird on a wire,two birds on another -wind chimes
Dullsome days the rainenvelopes time,stamps the pavementwithout a soundthrough the window passing.I, en-chambered,not waking but sleepingat the post,receivingunwritten messages.
Fish and Frog.A Frogologue.Frog is sitting on a log that is lying across a small pond. Fish is swimming around in that pond.Frog: We are all objects moving through space and time.Fish: You are not moving; you are sitting. Neither am I moving through space; I am moving through water.Frog: Mere quibbles, Quibbler. The water and the log are both moving through space as the world turns, and because you are in the water and I am on the log, we are moving too.Fish: I object.Frog: Why?Fish: You said I was an object so I am objecting.Frog: Ha, ha, very funny, Tiddler.Fish: My name is Fish.Frog: To me you are a tiddler. I am old and wise beyond your imagining.Fish: You have no idea of what I can imagine. Besides, there's a lot I don't even need to imagine, such as pompous frogs on logs.Frog: I rise above you, in
Behind the curtain.maybe it's good to be depressed because:all the tawdry rags you've worn make sense;you don't have to believe in finery anymore;you can see that all your friends are fools;that the biggest fool is you,that you are me.
How Time Changes UsThere once was a northern-raised south'r,Who for years, awaited his brother.Yet to his chagrin,Though the skin that walked inWas the same, the mind was another.
GuiltStop passing the buckAnd finding others to blameFor all you’ve done wrongShould be your own shameYou need now to be honestAnd to make those amendsIf you really want to changeStart by making us friends
The Guilt of ManGuilty men of shallow conscience,Whose lives are sore and plain,Would have you guess your sanity,And have you dub them sane,Guilty men of blackened heart,Who stare at ember hearth,And think their thoughts are good and right,Their thoughts of ridden earth,Guilty men of smaller minds,Who split and label ‘wrong’,Would make you stand at guilty justice,And judge with happy song,Guilty men of reddened eyes,Whose single mind and heart,Would send you back from whence you came,They’d send you back and laugh,Guilty men of quicker judgement,Make matters culture, skin,But know no pain nor true, right justice,Yet always seem to win,Guilty men of feet of shadow,Who taint an earth so bright,Whose cups are full and conscience clean,Forget all other’s plight,Guilty men of records clean,Whose hearts know not warm blood,Are blind to hardships and despair,Whose complaints do flow as floods,Guilty men of whip lash tongue,Too quick to insult others,Whose
star shaming.not that one, honey, it's dying.
Flawed PerfectionI love midnight, the eve is blissI live for only darkest pitchWhen I can’t see, absent is sinThe light, though, eats from outside inIt shows my fellows how I’m wrongIt tells of disgrace, what I’ve doneLust and disease, dreams turn to sandYet these things are waht make me man
What Dreams Are These?What a beautiful thingTo dream each night.Like a little movie in your headPlaying to your delight.Anything can happenAnything at allBut the movie always endsWhen the Sun comes to call.Some dream BIGWhile others dream small.Some have happy endingsAnd others do not.But it’s always a surpriseEach night come roundSo enjoy while it lastsAnd let your dreams astound.
BlueSapphire, oceans—question marks are afloat:Underneath the rock-pond is a conch shell,Sounding the foreign call of icy Hell;Am I the heron, stuck inside this cote?Am I the ersatz dove, not known to doteUpon the darkness of this fledgling spell?One look into the cave where starfish dwell,And I cannot describe what I wrote.Define structures with just one marble handBy chiseling my fingers in your name,Drowning in the crevasse deep in the field;Blending into you, into the hot sand,One whisper breaks through my momentous scam,And all I want to do for you is yield.
Recipe for DestructionOne cup of anxietyThree tablespoons of greedTwo pints of regretSix gallons of need½ cup of thoughtfulness¾ cup of meansMix all together, with no care at hand.Anything but chaos would make it taste bland.Don’t cook this for more than what’s neededThat’s 375 degrees, make sure to preheat it.This should take no more time than it takes you to eat it.
Plaster Masks Although I smile,I remember a mile,I walked alone in pain. They all recall,When blood did fall,Like so many autumn leaves. All eyes did gaze,My crimes ablaze,Like a candle at night. My darkened past,The scars still last,But what use is clinging? I left it behind,Daring to not find,The darkness dwelling within. So, I paste on a grin,Not letting them in,This is the mask I've made. And it works quite well,For none do tell,Of the animal behind the grace. This mask I wear,The burden I bear,It is all just a façade.
april seventhtimepresses onwardsIam flattened