An ice floe made of gathered up snow
that fell over thousands of years:
The snow’s source water had achingly grown
from billions of sweat drops and tears

But now the floe turns and starts to flow
in rivers of thawed out heart-ice
and emotions once caged start to angrily glow —
An avalanche loosed from its vice

The glacier crashes, a tectonic shift
as mountains of blue-white burst the dam:
The inland is transformed by dramatic drift —
Who will find new order in the break of the jam

The moon rose up
and the moon looked down
She’s watched the Earth
spin round and round

And kingdoms rose
and empires fell
The moon just waxed
and waned a spell

Her one bright eye
has seen it all —
she’ll still be there
long after we fall

Cross upon cross upon cross
were stacked to make the Union Jack
but with one saltire feeling salty
will Andy make Jack fade to black?

There is no pity in Berlin,
a place of prickly wounded pride.

A city of angels
who fell like scars of lightning
from gunmetal grey skies.

I watch old silvered rolls of film
and see flying columns of seraphim
as they march on by
row upon row
eyes ablaze
flaming swords drawn
in a parody of paradise.
They descended into hell
and are seated
at the left hand of the Kaiser:
Gott mit uns.

This sullen scene of no regret
stains the present with the dead and past:
It fits the flinty nature
of the blunt Berliner
under the ashen skies of winter.

I trudge across a gravel path
in the bowels of Berlin,
hear the grinding crunch
of brittle bones below,
and gird myself for the grim winter ahead.

In the dark of the whispering nave
as rosy incense blesses the scene,
old hymns once sung in chanted waves
still sail through hearts of choirs unseen;
Dimly lit by a sanctuary lamp red,
the altar lies in stony repose:
a throne for him who for all bled
and wished us love by the Holy Ghost.
Streaming, rippling ocean hues
with light washed bluer than Jonah’s whale
flow from stained glass richly imbued
by a Jewish hand with swirling detail:
This sturdy house is a bobbing ark
floating through our tempestuous time,
marked by a seagull who soared and embarked
on making his art for all sublime:
to fulfill the promise of rainbows above
for all those who seek the light of love

Hey, little frog
on your pad in a pond
surveying your kingdom green
You don’t have a golden ball,
no princess came to call
and these lily pads are all you’ve seen
You’re just fine in your domain
and have no reason to complain
with your fine banquet of flies that teem
So you sit strong and alone
on your very own green throne —
just now swims up a queen

Had a chat with my cat.
Now how about that?
She spoke with a twitch of whisker
and slow blinked her eyes to whisper
that she’s feeling quite content
to be in this moment.
For though she’s told me her life story
of all the times she’s been crowned in glory
by defeating her toy mice —
which is really not a vice —
it’s in the here and now
with no sweat upon her brow
that she’s glad to becuddle me
and from worry be wild and free.
Watch her fur belly rise and fall
and her purr keeps me in her thrall
as I scratch her fluffy chin
and feel peace spread within.