Each day is
as a procession of
redundant clopping
on the ground
rhythmic sounds
that anesthetize,
mesmerize

have we become blinkered
along this trail
through life

like a steed in harness
undistracted by
glimpses of
clouds of hate
along the horizons
or seething storms
blowing in from the seas

Self-effacement

With time names and dates
engraved on headstones
weather beneath pelting sleet and rain
to soften carefully chiseled letters

Little by little
etchings become
blurred at the edges
indistinct and unreadable

Personality features
fade daily
hidden with words
structured into facades
readily available as a cover
from those who wish
to unearth the treasures within

What a struggle to hide
to mute or soften
eccentricities into normalities
What an effort
continual concealment
behind frights and fears
as though a child
playing hide-and-go seek with others

Self-effacement becomes
a life-style of constantly
playing a game without a prize

first comes the walk
walks are required now
prescribed to ward off
effects of life

getting from here to there
taken for granted
vertical movement
now a task

next was found
the Underground
home of brews
home of seats

some soft, cushy
others wooden
yet warm, inviting
come, taste our brew

chairs, sofas
filled with chatting people
mostly women
looking into faces

illuminated screens
across coffee, latte or tea
communicating
smiles, grimaces

what is shared
humor, news
fears, fraughts, fragments
dimensions of now, the past






people rise to
pick up special steaming
drinks fresh from
the Underground

he never orders latte
standard drinks
brew of the day
fill his cup

someday
an inkling may stir
his brain, he will order
a white chocolate mocha

After forty years of marriage
he still pondered whether
she liked
his arm around
her stomach
as she awakened
in the morning

He is born amid
dust blown from
burnt and dried plains
powdered grime carried
past the James River
conveyed though arid skies
pelting window panes
penetrating cracks
and crevasses

She dampens
muslim sheets
wraps them
around his crib
catching sand
and falling chaff
like a coffee filter
captures grounds
from boiling liquid
draining into the ***

He survives
exposed to
horrors of the 1930’s
gradually he grasps
a new catastrophe
symbolized by woolen
uniforms embossed
with chevrons
and metals
for bravely killing
and destroying uncles
and cousins
committed to expanding
the **** nation

She cries
consols Granny
who frets in vain
repetitively rubbing
her hands across her knees
fearful as her native
beloved homeland
becomes scarred
war torn by
death and torture
beyond imagination.

He recalls crouching
beneath wooden school desks
practicing survival
of an unsurvivable danger
while nations
race to discover
an explosive intended  
to end all war

Faded stains of spilled bourbon
dot the weathered nightstand’s surface
like stars speckle a clear midnight sky
Each commemorates a prop of courage
swigged to help forge another day

Bras, slips, heels and flats
pepper the soiled carpet
reflections of the many
nightly transgressions now
impediments which fleck her soul

Her frontal lobe
harbors distortions
from her past
forgiven by those who know her
forgotten by others

Rain pelts her window
rat-tat, rat-tats against the panes
compulsively splatters the door
flings open her mind
to let today’s downpour
splash away
any trace of her anguish

Illusions of skydiving in a kimono
are not nightmares that awaken her
in a sweat each night

Fantasies of floating like a drone
creep into morning daydreams

Unprepared for make-believe
no kimono hangs in her closet

Each day she stands in front
of her full-length mirror
stares at perceived imperfections
as they thicken before her eyes

Friends don’t notice
each misplaced mole
or cellulite pleading
to hide from any
audience

Co-workers notice her
post-it-note headline

“Intelligent Perfect Women
Skydives in Kimono”

affixed to the cubicle wall

Today results of
her search for kimonos
of various colors
is carefully placed in
a folder entitled skydiving