poet's red heart
crushed by cruel inattention
in agony, her voice found...
with ecstatic precision
her final words
pierce her illusions
in a blaze of glory

forgive everyone
the greatest teachers often
inflict the most pain

small cricket
sings in clothes dryer
laundry can wait

four leaf clover
pressed in dictionary
dried up good luck

three ripe figs: maiden-mother-crone
fresh and green, not fully grown
gravid, blushing, ripe allure
nut-brown, wrinkled, sun-matured.

which of these the sweetest be?
high upon this old fig tree
maiden tartness bright and young
full womanhood upon the tongue.
drooping breast and brown age-spots
spurned by youthful hungry thoughts.

adolescent, first one picked
complex taste is not quite fixed.
plump and ready, sun-touched mother
ripe fig flavor like no other
ignored by most, her dried-up skin
sags dessicated on the limb.
with sweetest nectar deep inside.
never plucked and never tried.

contrapuntal raindrops
tapping tin roof
fugue state


ignorance is bliss
there is ignorance around here
24/7


a woman's red heart
lives by what's seen within
and felt without

for all our past, the future's come undone.
no longer can love's hope reverse our fate
no empathy, no longing in the heart,
no turning back, the clocks no longer keep
the time we lost while wandering hand in hand.
we set our course, but manifest the split -
no looking back ... there is no truth in it.

i see once more
the delicate balance
on the precipice
the stick on the shoulder
bears the run-away pack
with faithful canine
at heel.

at this moment,
before the fool's last step
from crumbling edge
into unknown territory
i would freeze time.
run back the clock
to the previous dive -

as if witnessing this spiral
could stop this passion play...

perhaps, madness lies in belief
the illusion that
all is well.
that everyone else gets by
coping with daily life
their dreams unscathed
their clarity intact
their mirrors, untarnished
un-muddied pools.