Pompous men with secret aims
Gather in the shadows
Hoping to create some sort
Of Panacea for the masses.

One that won’t serve to curtail
Their journey on the gravy train
That stops in oh-so-many-places
To take on endless loads of moolah

All too often soaked in blood
From someone else’s children.
Trying hard to find a salve
For wounds that never heal.

Hoping to placate the mass
That thunders at the door
For just a hint of common sense
And a tiny touch of honor.

The recipe is hard to find
There’s always re-election
Pointing up the need
That overshadows all concerns.

So generate some platitudes
Write rules to be ignored.
Write laws that will not be enforced
Then pat each other on the back
And head back to the shadows.
              ljm

Lost - reality in multicolor shatters
Scattered by the breezes from the sunrise
Gaping holes with ragged edges
Filled with swirling mists of sadness

Perusing maps of certainty
The tick-tock of the day grows louder
But the tide washed out the roadway
And the darkness didn’t leave at dawn

There is no clay for making bricks
So nothing will get built today
And the penny found along the walk
Will only buy a feckless dream

A can of worms not good for fishing
Sits atop a dusty shelf above
A dog that wants more petting
Than you or I have hands to give

The echo of this joylessness is deafening
And there’s no reason to go on.
      ljm

Gnarled words from crippled fingers
Inch their way across a crumpled page
Never sketching anything that’s real.

The burden of the thinning air
Makes casting sighs more difficult
And the wounded heart beats faster.

Yearning turns the morning purple
And the ache consumes the sunrise
While the symphony packs up and goes.

Letters from the alphabet form up
In arcane ways that somehow never
Say the thing that crowds all else out of the room.

Eyes that drip with longing blur
And try to focus on what’s left behind
When that tiny drop of blood is gone.
         ljm

I wonder what she’s doing today
In her life that I have no part of.
Does she ever wonder what I do all day
Or how often I may think of her.

Does she go about her day
An orphan by her careful choice,
Getting what she needs from friends
And free from my side’s family tree.

Does she meet the mothers of her friends
Comparing them to me
In the distorted image I hold in her mind
That paints me as some toxic monster.

She says I chose this husband over her -
I thought that I could have them both.
It seemed that way at the beginning
A little anger and then peace.

But then a shrink came on the scene
And everything unraveled.
Her every ill became big issues
And I was made the villain.

She said she’s getting married
I’ve never  met the  man
I know I’m not invited
And she has not told me when.

Her day of celebration
Will be my day of tears.
Another piece of heartbreak
To last me through the years.
ljm

The Lilac trees were bushes then
In the front yard of where I grew up.
Their perfume filled the small front room
Of the tiny little house we lived in.

Across the yard were Holly trees
One for each of us three kids
Who loved to push each other
Laughing, onto their sharp leaves.

Three Lilacs and three Holly trees
All planted by my mother
And all of them were tiny shrubs
Just like her little children.

The kids and bushes grew in sync
As days and years meandered by
Until the kids were grown and gone
And left the bushes growing there

To mark the passing of the days
That added up to childhoods filled
With  perfume in the afternoons
And sometimes thorns into the fingers.
ljm

In trepidation pain and angst
With three hitch-hikers on my back
All making progress difficult
And pushing writing off the track

With orders firmly in my mind
I pick up pen and go to work
I scribble letters on a page
Exactly like some office clerk.

I’ve monumental things to say
But they must only be in rhyme
That’s not my style....so i’ll just say
It will not happen at this time

So I will be the lesson dunce
Atop a stool in pointed cap
Because I couldn’t rhyme this once
And only turned in total crap
ljm

I’ll never be a track star
Because I cannot run
That doesn’t really matter
Because I have a gun.

I’ll never win a medal
For something I’ve achieved
But I’ll be long remembered
By everyone I’ve grieved.

I’m always sad and angry
My life has not been fun.
But I know how to fix it
With my brand-new shiny gun.

A bully said my *****
Appears to be too small
It’s bigger than the trigger
That will blow away them all

I’m longing to be famous
But my triumphs total none
I’ll aim for bigger numbers
When I unleash my gun

An AK forty-seven
Is the answer to my needs
And I’ll become a headline
Because of my next deeds.

I’m heading for the school now
Where I’m gonna awe and stun
Gonna mow down all the children
With my brand new shiny gun.
ljm

Seranaea told me I should
Write the skeleton of a poem
And wrap a scarf around it’s neck
And hang ornaments about it’s ribcage

If only I could do that
I’d plant Hollyhocks around it’s feet
And sprinkle glitter over all
And fire up background music.

But I am store-brand verse and prose
Arriving in a plain brown wrapper.
I’d be a good reporter, so they say
But what would that vocation do
To the kaleidoscope that is my soul.
ljm

Waves of deep pure shimmer in the background.
A muffled roar of anger rumbles in the distance.
The white gardenia in a clear glass bowl
Doesn’t smell as sweet as memory recalls.
All the wight of merely being is a burden.
The cuckoo clock is running slow
And needs to have its chain pulled down.
The shutters on the windows are all closed
And the walls are painted in a cheerless hue.
The tablecloth is cluttered up with  nothings
That demand attention but give no reward.
The painting in the attic slowly ages
While the face seen in the mirror stays the same.
The creaking hinges of existence
Slowly start to close the door
And all the butterflies are left outside.
kjm

My bags are packed
I’m ready to go
I’m leavin’ you now
But you should know

My pen has ink
And it will flow
Soon I’ll return
With a happy glow

It’s only for
A 2-week trip
Then I’ll come back
With newfound zip.
ljm

The Good son died, a victim of fate.
The Other cashed in and created a state
That cost their father who loved them dearly
Everything….or just about nearly.
ljm

Gentle susurration of the gathered
Moving aimlessly in patterns of fantastic
Symmetry that no one planned.
Music in the silence between breaths
That energizes inner computations
Of the reasons for assembling.

Unexpected rustling of wings
Fantasizes outlines in the air
Creating something very like a blackboard
Waiting for explosions to appear.
Whereby the peacock fans its tail
And turns it to the flock of doves.

Voicing cries of strident self esteem,
The proud bird struts and preens
Which terrifies the doves who turn away
And skittle into corners
With their feathers all tucked in,
Forming cautious circles in the maelstrom.
ljm

Springtime rain pays no attention
To everything that might get wet.
Yes, it stresses comprehension.
Springtime rain pays no attention
Rain creates a new dimension
And gets most everyone upset.
Springtime rain pays no attention
To everything that might get wet.
ljm

Hollow days and painful nights
In the itching sweat of illness.
Photos of another life
In sunlit fields of memory
Are glued to scrapbook pages
And the book locked in the cupboard.
Broken teacup on the floor
Dropped or thrown - who knows.
The Ferris Wheel no longer turns
And the Hurdy Gurdy has gone silent.
Effort does not pay the rent
That ratchets ever upward.
Blood and tears are valueless
And the race is almost over.
         ljm

I’ve learned to live without you
More and more each day.
I try to put a poem up
But get a Bad Gateway.

When at last I get on site
My write goes straight to ‘draft’.
Trying to get it on my page
Takes every ounce of craft.

Is it even worth my time
When everything’s a struggle.
When I can’t post the words I pen
I feel just like a Muggle.

Other places on the net
Will post the things I write
So I just may go over there
And tell Hello, Goodnight.
       ljm

I don’t think anyone will miss me
The one who should cry the most
Will feel relieved of burdensome love
That came from genetics and little else.

The other one will follow soon
Unable to survive the grief
And find a way to carry one
Without the recipes for life.

Who will remember New Years day
To send a Birthday greeting skyward
Or will it be overlooked again
Lost in last nights partying.

Who will touch the things I loved
And wonder who once owned them,
Purchased at a reduced rate
From One-800 merchants

Who will trim the weeds that grow
Across the stone I helped design.
The power mowers of Valhalla
Will caress me once a week.

My words will be stacked in a closet
Or perhaps into a bin.
No one will ever see or read them
Only God will know their lines.

My candle’s flame will flicker once
And with the sundown disappear.
ljm

If only I could just forget
The woman I once was
Maybe I’d be happy with
The woman I am now.

If maybe I could just forget
How much I could do then
Perhaps I could accept how
Much of it I can’t do now.
ljm

There is nothing
All the jars and cans
Sit empty on the shelves.
There is no hope for more.
The roads to everywhere are closed.
And Greyhound doesn’t stop here any more.

Everything is nebulous.
The equipment is all broken down
And rusting outside in the rain.
We ordered from a catalog
But never got a shipment back,
And our check was never cashed.

There is nothing in the pipeline.
The doorbell doesn’t seem to work.
The screen door has a hole in it,
Patched with pages
Ripped from next week’s calendar,
And the phone declines to ring.

Everything is over now,
The happy times
Are past and gone.
All that’s left to us is weeping
And the Kleenex box is empty,
So the tears make puddles on the floor.

All we see through tear filled eyes:
Another day in paradise.
            ljm

On a front-row-center throne
The Would-be King relaxes.
             Besides him rests his Lady-Queen
             In tsunamis of green satin.

He’s enjoying all the accolades
In the Hallowed Halls of drama
Surrounding their appearance,
                         Where the monkey trio entertains
    And fashion marches to and fro
    Clutching heavy bits of tinsel.

All is merriment and joy
Until the Jester makes a jape
   That earns a queenly frown
   Which stirs the King to wipe his smile
And stalk onto the dais
         Where he
                         slaps
   the Jester on his cheek,
  And wearing traces of a smirk
Marches back down to his throne.

The Jester lofts a lame response
Into a sea of stunning silence
      Then the air turns shades of Royal blue
                              And American TVs go deaf
                                               For thirty-seven                                                 ­                                     seconds
While across the seas the
  Audience enjoys the
    Braying of a *******.

Believing he’s impervious
Or maybe he is Sampson
         The King pulls down the ancient walls
                   Of cherished film tradition
Reducing what was dignified
           To a rank back alley rumble
Then later makes a fake obeisance
Awash with phony tears and snot.

                   All hail the King of Hollywood
   They should take back his golden prize
        To penalize his hubris -
                And let him know rules still apply.
And cause some real tears in his eyes.
           ljm

I’m so tired I could drop
But I mustn’t go to sleep.
Vicious dreams are hiding
Just behind my pillowcase,
Waiting for the perfect time
To tell me I’m inadequate
And guilty of egregious sins
That doom my frantic efforts
To create a perfect life
And move across humanity
In ways that make things better.
ljm

TRADE IN

I hate all this business
Of trying to do
What I want to do
And hampered by a
Creaky old body.

It ****** me off
When something hurts
And gets in the way
Of doing the things
I had carefully planned.

I want to complain
And go pound on God’s desk
And ask him for a refund
Or at the very least
Refurbishment.

I haven’t got time
To fall down in pain,
I’ve got hills to climb
And rivers to swim.
I can’t do that if I am crippled.

So dig out the warranty
Read the fine print
See how to get
Some replacements
So I can continue
To conquer this world

As the force of nature
That my Mama loosed            
On creation that
New Year’s day
Eighty-three long years ago.
     ljm

The tide goes out, and comes a little further in.
The tiny waves don’t make it past
The pebbles in the sand.
They just sink in and disappear.

The rubber ball mistakenly
Tossed out into the churning sea
Recedes and then it reappears
Always just a little out of reach.

Teasingly it comes and goes.
Soon it becomes invisible
Amidst the foaming of the brine.
And likely is forever gone

Unless it manages to journey
To that far and distant shore
Where little hands will gladly grasp it
And the end turns into a beginning.
             ljm

Am I the only one who:

1.  Finds every write I post sent to drafts first, and requiring my           wrangling it back out onto my page in order to be seen.

2.  Encounters error 502 not only on trying to post, but on switching    from home screen to messages.

3.  Never sees  half of the comments posted without going back to    look up the write in my index and bringing it up again.  I'm thanking  people for nice things they said over a week ago.  That's not right.

4.  Who has no way to get to anyone else's page unless I see their        
name in a comment they made somewhere else, so I can click on it    and go to their page.  What happened to the index/directory we
once had.

5.  Finds my carefully arranged layout changed when posted, thus
requiring complicated editing to get it back the way I want it.

6.  Felt it necessary to stop my monthly donation to HP because of the way the site has declined, and the refusal of Eliot York to respond
to anyone's e-mails - ever.

Am I to die with you still hating me
For something I never knew I did?
Has nothing I have done for you
In these last thirty-five heartbroken years
Earned me a tiny bit of your forgiveness?

I am old and sick and growing weak,
And life’s a struggle every day.
Your anger is a load almost too
Heavy for me to carry now,
But I can’t put it down because

My love for you has never wavered
And I nurture a small flame of hope
That some day you will realize
That I did the very best I could
With what I knew of parenting.

That I tried with all my heart to be
The television mom you longed for
And to master all the rules attached
That were impossible because
I couldn’t get past being who I am.

I so regret my imperfections
And the moments when I failed.
I’d give the last years of my life
To have a chance to try again
And maybe get it right this time.
          ljm

I’ve always had this fantasy
That if you die and go to Heaven
You’re not aware of earthly things
But if somebody left below
Should think of you, a bell rings.

A bell that only you can hear
With such lovely tinkling sound
A bell that tells you someone cared
That someone’s thinking of your smile,
Remembering the times you’ve shared.

Other Angels all around
Are doing what the angels do
Then one will stop and tilt her head
And you know that she’s hearing things
And smiling with the joy it brings.
ljm

Harlan never ever died.  
His words still burn like ******,
Scalding minds that revel in their rut.

He saw behind the curtain long before
The Tin Man or the scarecrow did
And he shouted out the travesties
That everyone refused to see.

His acid pen made pages boil
And much of it splashed over him
Creating scars that in my gentle fingers
I could never heal.

He created mountains where none were
And scaled them to the accolades
He made it known that he deserved.

I rode the wind with him for just a while
Though he offered me forever
It seemed too shiny for my eyes
And I blinked and turned aside
To stand and watch his comet soar.

He one day met a flameproof soul
And lept into the multiverse
With sound and fury as his steed
And her his tether to civility.

I  loved to share his meteor
As it began it’s wild ascent
I thrilled to watch it blaze the years
And see him tear the strictures down.
And even as his comet died
It took a bit of me along
To the place World-beaters go
When it is time to take a rest.
                               LJM

Feral winds blow through my mind
Creating mists I can’t see through
The road leaps up to trip my feet.
And when I stumble, all the pieces
That are me, get shaken up
And settle in a different way.

Flailing arms at foes I cannot see
I battle memes that have no name
And promise to report me to the boss
Who somehow didn’t turn out to be me,
And I am left to put my time card in the slot
Which sets the bells of checkmate ringing loudly.

Promises that were not made
Are broken in the headlong rush
To be the first one up the steps to no-place
Where the doorknobs all are putty
And the Sandwich man says
Have one more.  And this one isn’t poison.

The calendar has learned to dance
And practices a fox trot as
The pages dip, then glide away
And soon it is the next decade,
But I don’t have the taxi fare
And guess I’ll never get there.

I think I’ll never see one hundred.
That’s my fondest wish from childhood
But it reads backwards in the mirror
And the wind keeps blowing shut the door.
I saved my pennies for the ticket
But I’ll never get to see the movie.

Here I am with ball and jacks
And no one knows what they are for
I probably should pick them up
But that would mean I’m going home.
The streetlights haven’t come on yet
So I can stay and play some more.
           ljm

The drums of war pound once again
While war hawks screech high overhead
In a very crowded sky.
Goliath Rolls it’s heavy tread
Over David’s hapless sling
And doesn’t leave a spatter on the soil.

The Evil One puffs up in pride -
Him of the sly and snake-like eyes -
He didn’t break the Olympic Truce -
A tiny sop to salve the hatred
Roiling in frustration and despair
At lack of the ability to stop him.

The watchers huddle breathlessly
With wringing hands and hopeless eyes
Threatening to take away allowance
If one more tank should rumble over
The chalk mark on the wounded landscape
That denotes the aspiration to be free.

The great unwashed pray to Dow Jones
And check the prices at the gas pump.
Worried that the Safeway may run short
Of toilet paper, beans and Spam
And merchants will hike prices higher
And how will this affect our road trip.

Hoping that the promise holds
Of no boots on that foreign soil
We take our children to the airport
Sending them to Germany  for
Seats along the 50-tank Line
Praying that the game gets called.

People who report the news
All turn the volume up or down:
“It’s just a little foreign scuffle”
Or “Oh my God - it’s World War Three”
Neither of them are on the mark
And we must sort it for ourselves.

And all the while their windows shatter
While rockets flare across their sky
And children who can’t go to school
Must take their naps in subway tunnels,
Cradled by their fearful mothers
While their fathers shoulder guns.

The Great Bear of the East is Hungry
And Ukraine smells like frying pork chops.
ljm

My how the staid and tradition-bound
House of Windsor has changed
When an avowed harlot is to be crowned Queen Consort
To rule beside a ****** co-conspirator on the Royal Throne.
Princess Diana must be spinning in her grave.
Not to mention Princess Margaret.
                              ljm

Only 15 and branded a cheater,
How did she know what they told her to take -
She did what they told her and practiced her axels.
The ice was a carpet embedded with magic
And she rode it into the stratosphere;
Graceful, athletic, and lovely to look at
How could she know that a little round pill,
From the multitude that were her daily fare
Could puncture her dream as sure as a saber,
Sending her crashing to that icy carpet.

Only 15 to hoist such a burden
And wear it forever like sack cloth and ashes
Doomed by the powers that only love metal
And mining it on the back of a school girl
Pushing for her to spin ever higher,
And land on the legend-filled pages of glory.
They set her up to bring home the trophy,
But had to take steps to make sure she’d succeed.
In the end what they did was discovered
Which only succeeded in breaking her wings
But they sent her out wrapped in scandal and shame
And tore her to pieces when she couldn’t fly.
          ljm

Brace yourself for a juggernaut, for I’ve a tale to tell.
I’m not out to bamboozle you, for that might send me to Hell.
I’d love for someone to collaborate on this lugubrious tome,
But I’d need to check your bonafides to let you in my pome.
I must admonish all readers to jettison schadenfreude
And accept my obsequious garble as a meaningful factoid
I’m careering about in my Websters, like a disheveled maniac
But I am fastidious in my yen to to give something useful back.
You may think my view is myopic, as I meander to and fro,
But my outlook is homogenous, as you already know.
This write may be intemperate, but I’m not a reprobate,
It’s actually a billet doux that’s a day or two too late.

The love of words is in my soul and swimming in my mind.
I kept a log of every challenge word that I could find
I tried to use them in a way that didn’t change their meaning
Even though that goes against the humor in my leaning.
I owe a lot to BLT for setting up this game we play
And hope I’ve written up enough to get me through this day
ljm

Waiting while the white ball spins
Hurry - I’ve got other stuff to do.
So many corrections yet to make.
Why didn’t I type more carefully
Rushing through some new ideas
Throwing words out like confetti
Only to be scattered by the wind
That never seems to take a break.

Watching while the ball still spins
Pounding mental fists on walls
That make the labor twice as hard
As Bragi promised it would be.
Breaking up what’s newly writ
And stomping on the pieces
That turn sharp and cut my metric feet
Which then bleed through my stockings.

The ball will never end its spins.
The buffering goes on and on.
I might as well go dig a grave
And bury all the honeyed words
And clever phrases I created,
Fighting iMac all the way.
Their use-by date was yesterday
And there’s no hope to salvage them.
The buffering has done me in.
ljm

Being mocked by empty tablet paper
Whose blue lines lead relentlessly to nowhere,
I wonder where the hollyhocks are blooming
And why there are none blooming in my mind.

Surrounded by the raucous crows of failure
I long to hear the song of nightingales.
Instead I’m treated to the sound of weeping
And the ripping of the veil of prosody.
               ljm

None of this will really matter
Building castles on the tide line
Lacing up the running shoes
Going through the motions of a life
Knowing it won’t mean a thing
In the final tally of the universe

Scratching marks on paper
Too stiff for use as **** wipes
And unwanted in any other place
Killing trees in order to not die alone
Wrapped in grief and
Sitting 3 feet from despair

The reach is just a bit too short
To push the final button.
       ljm

She sent three thousand mother’s daughters
Up the Church aisle to be married
But the Wedding Director’s only daughter
Slinked off to Vegas and was married by Elvis.
ljm

No son-in-law and no grand children.
One more half-empty glass on my shelf.
One more sign that I failed as a mother.

No fancy house, no brand new car.
Not much in my bank account.
Another sign I failed as a mogul.

No accolades, no published works
A folio relatives said was dreary.
A very clear sign I failed as a poet.

All those years and all that sweat.
And everything came up a cropper.
At least I can say I excelled at failing.
ljm

An enclave of vast differentness
From almost everywhere.
A place where
The mainstream has diverted
And left a backwater
Of rebel flags on pickup trucks and
Department stores that
Don’t sell any ladies dresses.
A place where t-shirts loudly shout
“It’s my right to make you sick -
The Constitution says so.”
A place where thinking’s so alike
It could be called homogenized.
Where rumors suddenly become facts
And checking them anathema .
Where tennis shoes are worn to church
And cargo shorts to weddings.
A place bathed in self righteousness
With tolerance a myth.
A place that’s situated
On a small but mighty river
That ebbs and flows
From day to day at the whim
Of men in shirtsleeves
Who control the dam,
And leave their trucks parked just outside
With the flags still proudly flying.
                   ljm

No time to Shilly or to Shally.
No time to Dilly or to Dally.
If all you’ve got is Tittle-tattle
I’ll just up and go Skedaddle.

Got no time for Hugger-Mugger
Won’t put up with Argy-bargy
Rigamarole will have to go
Outside to eat yellow snow.
ljm

I’m slowly being driven to drink
In a shiny brand new Uber car
That I can’t afford to pay for.
The driver wants to sing Karaoke
And ask me trivia questions for cash.
Is this my lucky day or what.
ljm

When I was young,
A reckless car
Careened into
A lampost.
No one was hurt-
They were just drunk.
My father
worked at his career
As  a dentist.
A sober family man,
He never went
Careering into
Any kind of post.
Somehow in the
Ensuing years
Those different words
Got married and
Combined their meaning;
Putting occupations
In the closet to
Be brought out
Occasionally, as needed.
ljm

Scissors roam my hallways
Cutting through the spindly legs
Of things that want to harm me-
Things that wear a different face
Every time I meet them.

Hammers gather in the yard
That’s overrun with trouble,
Ready to march up and smash
The jagged rocks that trip me
And would ******* me forever.

Saws line the bedroom walls
Where nightmares lurk in corners,
Hoping to devise a way
To spring to life in daytime.
But the saws keep them at bay.

The scythe hides in the garden shed
Keeping watch for dangers,
Waiting for the purple moon
That signifies the time is right
To sally forth and take me.
ljm

Having finally climbed the ziggurat
Known as Bank of America
Customer’s-Non-Service
I was able to order checks.

Not the ones I wanted - oh no -
Somehow ‘they’ wouldn’t let me.
‘They’ being a recorded voice
That said I’m allowed four digits.

But my checks always need five
You cannot order those online -
You somehow have to phone it in.
So, resigned to this, I called.

After clicking one through five
Another robot lady’s voice
Then told me I can order those
By only going back on line.

I tried this several different ways.
It always ended up the same.
No matter which I tried they told me
I had to use the other way.

At painful length I gave it up
And ordered checks with just four numbers,
Starting at quadruple seven
So I can tell them from the rest.

Yesterday my order came
I opened it and felt despair
The checks were not the size I’m used to
And useless to me in my work.

2
Back to the phone’s robotic voice
To stumble on a lucky click
And get Patricia on the line -
A person who could help me out.

Telling her my tale of sorrow,
She promised to replace the checks
With ones in the requested size.
Then as a bonus offered me

Checks that count up in five digits,
Starting where my last ones stopped.
Oh Hosannah in the Highest -
Patricia’s now my Patron Saint.

Banking is a trial by fire
Though they shout convenient
All they’ve done is make it harder
With the loss of human contact.
ljm

I’ve always overtly admired
The poems I don’t understand;
The ones that others rave about
And praise with honors and awards.

The ones that seem to me to be
Random strings of fancy words
That don’t create cohesive thought
And leave me searching for a meaning.

I wondered if it all was real
Or some arcane bamboozle
And I was the yokel suckered in
By the Emperor’s new tuxedo.

Deciding I would test it out
I scribbled nonsense on a page
And posted it for all to see-
It was such fun I did it twice

To see if I’d be recognized
And called out for my shammery
And taken to the woodpile,
But  just the opposite occurred.

The plaudits soon came pouring in -
My ‘talent’ newly recognized.
My bamboozle fooled them all
I laughed, but then I had to cry.
ljm

• Empty vases that will not hold water
Hairline cracks across the floral surface seep.
• Pain that waxes with the moon
And can’t remember how to wane.
• Heavy air that cannot transmit sunshine
But also refuses to permit rain.
• Lotteries where no one is the winner
And the tickets cost a fraction of your soul.
• Detour signs that take you in a circle
And bring you back to where you were.
• Silence where the music used to be
And left behind is just one broken Cello.
• Pieces that don’t fit together
So this puzzle can’t be done.
             ljm

I seem to pass by largely unnoticed.
My foot leaves no marks in the sand.
I carry the burden unassisted
And do not receive thanks in the end,

The things I create are admired
But too often my name is detached.
I float through the view of so many
Who don’t recognize that I’m there.

A zephyr, a whisper, a phantom,
A shadow that fades with the Sun;
I’ve been and I labored and managed,
But few people know I was born.
ljm