in the hall, I listen as she calls out
his name

not aware I am there,
nor would she care

if I open the door without making
a sound,

I purloin a few seconds to watch her
before she sees me

when her eyes catch mine,
she looks away

the morning sun makes a sympathetic effort
to light our room

"our" room which from which I have
been excommunicated

the drapes she sewed only last summer
are never open

that is her world, staring through
baby blue curtains

which mute the half light of morning,
though not enough

not enough to blind her to the spot
where her son's crib waited

until I committed the unpardonable
sin of taking it to the cold cellar

only a fortnight after our stillborn child
was placed in the ground

not one in a hundred million swimmers reaches the egg

seeds fare only little better it seems

save one which landed in just the right warm cow droppings in my pasture

took root, fought its way through
two wars, too many dread droughts to count,
a fire that took a third my herd
and a hired hand,
the passing of my wife,
and some numbered portion of my life

under a harvest moon,
black armed and brittle, it still stands, stardust reincarnated
times infinity

more than once I took axe to field
but its execution was always stayed

now the tool's too heavy to swing;
the blade blunted by time

and this night, I can see its shadows on silver ground, receding silently in lunar light, preparing for a dawn the mesquite will greet, with or without me

warm, our Bengal bath--eelgrass tickling our shins, sand marrying our soles

we traveled across the globe to escape the frost, the gray memory of our loss

the tropic sun browns your shoulders; your lips list a smile, for me

your bikini bottom fits perfectly, revealing no trace of a life purloined

we'll try again, when the time is right; for now, the sapphire sea is warm, hypnotic

whatever spell it casts won't last when we return to the land of falls and winters

where we'll again meet in our bed, with feigned abandon

for you will never trust our union--its milky, mystic promise that can end in blood

I'm a part time poet
though you likely wouldn't know it
I get in touch on the fly
just a glitch in my eye
between the patchwork smile
the catalog file
of a mind that finds an opening
once in a while

I could never do it full time you see
it would undoubtedly be the end of me
full time negativity
twenty four seven reality
round the clock visions of the truth cannot be
I'd sink too low to view the light
into my well of darkest night
where truth and clarity
reside
where truth and clarity
reside
I'd drink and smoke in my little cell
like Poe or Plath it would not end well
and unlike them there's nothing when I'm done
but words remembered by few
or none
so I'll keep smiling and read my lines
and dance among the thornless vines
and when I get that glitch
I'll play
in the well of truth and dreams
and stay
for just a moment
then I'll be back
before the dark gray turns to black

Globally dense, our ailing nation
makes one weep for sheer frustration
thoughts and dreams grow numb.
Tech-addled students scroll on phones,
‘midst scent of android pheromones,
wafting digital dumb.

Pop-culture, narcissist unkind
dispenses with the human mind
which, failing further, falls behind
the grimly global curve.

We read, in writing on the wall
arithmetic’s impending fall
while numbers loiter in the hall
to get what they deserve.

ENQUIRY, tagged as D.O.A,
a sheeted stiff, is wheeled away
her mourners left to grieve.
entitled maiden, full of sass,
LIBERTY begs a bathroom pass
her bladder to relieve.

When zit-faced rebels run the show
the dismal ratings plummet low;
a vulgarized cartoon.
Descending to unfathomed levels,
Ignorance applauds her devils
calling out their tune.

PATRIOTISM, tarred and feathered
headless, claws its cage untethered
foul, unloved, unfree:
Another casualty of time
which fell for want of noble rhyme;
to water FREEDOM’s tree.

CURIOSITY, half asleep,
now stirs and murmurs from the deep
uninterested, untaught.
She grows yet duller in her ways
returning to her ocean daze,
(her schools of fish uncaught).

HISTORY, dormant, lies in dust
a narrative no man can trust
a book no scholar reads.
Events unstudied as designed
wherein the heart of humankind
for want of context, bleeds.

DEMOCRACY degenerates
until God wills and activates
a nation’s drive to learn.
Curricula will be made void;
disheartened teachers unemployed,
their wisdom fit to burn.

You think the past was less obtuse?
Less prone to youthful thought-abuse?
Perhaps…  back in the day.
And though it may have been the same.
this poet opts to place the blame
on digital delay.

perhaps
we were not meant to take this trail alone
perhaps we were

a few inches too far right
on the ledge--half the width of my foot
and I suppose I fell

and here I am, fine,
though I can't move my left leg or right arm
blood is in both my eyes

gravity's curse carried me here
and is channeling this scarlet stream,
from wherever it began,
into my field of vision

which, though red clouded,
holds the base of a pine, boulders
as big as buffalo, and a black bird

a crow I suspect, soon
to be joined by his brethren--to enjoy
the feast of me

my pain wanes, as do thoughts
someone will find me in this steep ravine
a hundred meters below the trail
two long miles from the road

perhaps
we weren't meant to do this alone
but I did, and I am here,
alone

save for the crow
and I can't help but wonder
if my eyes will be open when the birds
begin their work

or if greedy buzzards
will join them, to take my
flesh from bone

the pain wanes
I am sleepy, the lone crow
now a ******

their eyes are open
mine feel heavy--perhaps
I have the answer

closed