Distant trains still sound alarms,
Blinds are drawn, people yawn,
It's time to call the day.

The sun's turned off,
The moon's turned on,
The stars like pinholes
Blink till dawn.
The animals are bedded
On the farm;
Beneath the counterpane
I'll find no harm.

Today's work is done,
Tomorrow's not begun,
But tonight I'll sleep
Like the seventh son.

Ponderous, the moment
When all superficiality is lost
And the enormity
Of the great everlasting
Weighs down
On my utter insignificance.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ

as a broken mirror
I can’t see clearer
as my eyes, nose, and ears
aren’t aligned in the tiers.

Shattered
as a battered locomotive
running at high-speed
falling off the tracks
crashing on impact.

Shattered
as a rock thrown
through a window
smashed to smithereens
along with all my tattered dreams

Shattered
as a flying bullet to the brain
I stain white walls
with splattered blood and
red cat calls

“A poet's qualifications include common sense, knowledge of character, adherence to high ideals, combination of the dulce with the utile, intellectual superiority, appreciation of the noble history and lofty mission of poetry, and above all a willingness to listen to and profit by impartial criticism.”


Ars Poeti a (ll. 295–476).[10]

Take a deep breath in
Claiming the moment
of Life
Quiet and listen

I have decided "It's All *******!"
Try buying something on line
or using an 800 phone number,
you wait on hold forever and can't
speak to a real person, or maybe
finally you reach a living breathing
human, but quickly discover they
reside in a land far far away, you
can not understand much of what
they are saying, it's all *******!
Try to get waited upon in a store
by someone that actually knows
something about what they are
selling and where the hell it is.
Watching the news on any channel
with all those opinionated, over
explainer talking heads, desiring
to come away smarter or better
informed than when you turned
on the set, but you don't, 'cause
generally speaking it's all *******.
Watching and listening to the endless
line up of politicians, of either party,
as round and round they go where
they stop nobody knows, 'cause it's
all confusing, incredibly redundant,
solves no problems *******!
Try to talk to almost anyone you
meet or even know, good luck
'cause it's mostly half truths and
jaded off the wall opinions and
unbelievable unreliable *******!
He said, she said, they said, way
too much misinformation, in the
end it's all just a huge meaningless
waste of of your time bunch of
fresh, deep, and odoriferous
*******!

Possible solution:
Unplug, hunker down and read
a good book, pet your dog, bounce
a child on your knee, take a walk
in Nature, exercise, paint a picture,
write a poem or story, maybe sing
and or dance like no one is hearing
or watching, because my worn out
demoralized friends none of these
last things just listed, are in any
way odorous bovine defecation.

I live on a small (25 sq. mile) island, accessible only by ferry.

                                                  <>

“For we are dear to the immortal gods,
Living here, in the sea that rolls forever,
Distant from other lands and other men”

—Homer, the Odyssey (translated by Robert Fitzgerald)

                                                    ­  <>

sea air inoculates the slowing breath-taking ferried voyager,
our landed cares felled, fall into a wake, trailing, sunk & submerged,
a ferry’s ramp contact-clangs, belling a “Here, Here!” alters our mien,
the softening airy enveloping, fragrantly, a greeting of immortal gods

no matter that we can vision-easy the neighboring isles, with
their trafficked-light busyness, the to and fro of mainland life,
bustle necessity of hustle, our riveted river moat cancels out
imposing surround sounds, our untucked flavor, floating free

wafting perfume of quiet inlet, creek and harbour, touch us safely,
alternating currents of gentle breeze, stiffer sailing winds, gusts,
bending us, these reminders, we humans too, creatures of elementals,
water, sun, forest, sand, animals, singular upon co-hosted menagerie

the brackish water, where fresh + marine waters mix, live + die,
reflecting our pooling diversity, so few of us born here, yet so many,
adopt and adapt the isle’s peculiarities, endearing all without any
distinction, we blessed together by Immortal Gods to shelter together,

by, from, the seas that roll us into one peaceful island, nearly, dearly,

and now departed

                                                      ­ <>


Shell Beach,
Shelter Island
August 2021

It makes sense that it should end in this way;
No fingers to point, appeals to hear.
(The critics have spoken, we’ll close the play.)

Tell the dour old priest to go away,
I’ve no time left for repentance and fear;
It makes sense that it should end in this way.

There’s no final role I need to portray
As my whos and whys are perfectly clear.
(The critics have spoken, we’ll close the play.)

No fretting about a life gone astray;
I plotted the course which I chose to steer.
It makes sense that it should end in this way.

Let others live to fight another day;
I’m at peace with all that which brought me here.
It makes sense that it should end in this way.
(The critics have spoken, we’ll close the play.)