In the end we are the sum
total of the effort we invested,
or conversely our failed deficiency
in that regard. With no one to
appreciate or blame, but ourselves.

“It occurs to me that I really can't remember your face in any precise detail. Only the way you walked away through the tables in the café, your figure, your dress, that I still see.”
And I can’t say it much better than that. Except it wasn’t a dress but, in fact, a cotton tee. Not the tables but the way the streetlight bounced off your jaw. I don’t remember your voice anymore or even the words you gave me. I can only dig my fingers deeply into the body of your laugh.

Haiku/Senryu

Leprechauns,
gold and clovers

Daisy's and Roses

Phantasmagorically

Become a Tanka poem

had our timelines not converged
think of the god
i'd have been fed to

she walks prospect avenue in the rain.
dead eyes, sore feet
the flowers have wilted into
the shadows of acceptance.

she finds the corner
and the last light lit,
wants a match for her cigarette.

a ****** that has found her god.
a needle and a bed of thorns.


the beep from a car's horn,
so a customer waits,
swings open a rusty gate.

and when that door

slams

shut

the prisoner of light asks,

"where have all the flowers gone?