Crepuscular Crescent Moon over Hellas

appearing dark 
orange out of the blue 
so to speak and low 
on the horizon 
and hightailing it 

lickety-split be- 
hind a jagged 
bank of even 
darker blue 
mountains till 

all that’s left is 
a slivery tongue 
of blood red fire 
that’s done with 
licking its wounds. 

Sublurbia

Ah, to be 
A sylvan living in

Sylvania—that carefree 
Sapling spirit never to be

Crushed by the crunch 
Of SUVs driven mad 

By pedestrian poets reeling 
Off their sappy rubber-

Stamped verses crashing 
Into tree after tree after tree. 

Guarding the Gates of 'Murica's Hell

Keep a right dead level head, 
Look alive and stay put 
In your proper place, gentlemen— 

Nothing but a lynch mob 
All these years, you thought 
You’d keep me broken, barking 

Your heads off up the wrong tree. 

Heads in the Clouds

Watch out you 

Strange, down-to-earthlings— 
Stare at us long enough, 

You’ll start seeing things. 

Adieu to Fancy, My Little Pigeon

So long as the eagle- 
Eyed crow flies 
Straight to the bloody 
Heart of the matter, 
One thing is clear, 
Dear—that lovey-dovey 
Pair of ash-grey neophyte 
Doves preening on 
The edge 
Of that buckling, 
Pale red-tiled roof 
Of the derelict, 
Decaying house 
Across the street 
Cooing you-ah-you 
Won’t be preening 
There for long. 

Heralds

angelic                     lights

           approaching

from                       all directions

             darkness           soon

                              imploding

from one still

                     fluttering within.

It Just Dawned on Me

“. . .to hurl the hatchet so far into the depths of the earth that it shall never again be seen in the future."—Reuben Gold Thwaites, Jesuit Relations 

 “Truth has very few friends and those few are suicides.” 
—Antonio Porchia, Voices 


Wish you were here long 
Gone old friend, we could spend all 
Night arguing to no end 
Like we used to, 
And take in the sun- 
Rise if that’s what 
You wanted in the end— 

If not, 
We could bury 
The hatchet right here 
And now, agree to disagree, 
Say one last good night 
And leave it at that, 
All right? 

Citrus Grove in Moonlight

under odorous 
lemon trees 
bearing pendant 

globes of gibbous 
moons shining
overhead. 

Wanting Mainstream Spirit

Taking stock of it at the start 
Of one more “soul-searching” session, 
He discovered “rich” was not what 
He wanted it to be after all, 

But he did not want it 
To be poor either; 
He desired neither 
The one nor the other— 

Clearly muddled 
In the middle, his was a singular 
Commodity of two minds, 
Both mediocre. 

Surfeit of Naught

Replete with nothing 
But that which is 

Missing, ciphers 
Spend their entire lives 

Filling in the blanks. 

Supplicants in Garden of Eden

Once you were merely two 
Blithe creatures who thought 
How happy they were before 
The fact without bothering 
The gods for an explanation; 
Losing your grip, now you’re 
But two creatures who know 
There is no explanation. 

. 

(Parenthesis)

Such is the lot 
Of the lowly 
Sloth that hangs 

On high from branches back 
Downward and falls fast 
Asleep, feeding on nothing 

But fruits and leaves. 

Wishful Thinking

Still a young boy, 
I’d spend hours teaching 
My puppy new tricks— 

Now too old to learn anything 
New and old Fido long gone 
To doggy heaven, sure 

Wish I knew how 
He learned how 
To play dead. 

Eidomeni, Greece: Answers with Questions Not Missing Their Marks

Shoes that fit. 
What? 

Too much of nothing 
And not enough 
Of anything. 

But who’s counting? 
What else? 
Does a refugee need? 

Try it on for size. 

Old Widow Opening Window Shutters

Picture this— 

First day of spring 
Out walking 
At daybreak, 

At the crack 
Of something metallic 
Against stone, you 

Look up to see her 
Two thin arms shooting 
Out of an aperture, 

Securing the shutters hard, 
Fast against the weather- 
Beaten wall so that all 

The light can spill in 
To the dark room— 
Got it? 

Now print it. 

Taking It One Step at a Time

“That’s one small step for a man, one giant leap for mankind.” 
—Neil Armstrong, first man on the moon 

It’s in the stars 
From the word go— 
Spend your life mooning 
Over where you’re going and never 
Once looking back, you’ll never know 
If you’re one step ahead of there 
Where you used to be or 
Simply backtracking, taking off 
On a wrong tack once more. 

Expendable Human Resources

I know 
It’s a long story full 
Of blood, toil, tears and sweat— 

But just stop and think—back 
Then we never knew how 
Much of us was spent— 

What say we 
Take it easy, after all, 
We’re almost there.