Hard Times All Around, Poets

What the dickens—

Rotting but not quite
In cold hell, nor in thicket,
Burnt-out magpies scavenging
Black chimney smudges

On ashen-tiled rooftops.

Cross My Heart, Hope to Die

I cannot tell a lie; this photograph taken a few years back is proof of what getting down to earth in my neck of the woods will look like in no time at all--what a place to lie down in!

Primeval Evasive Action in the Asphalt Jungle

mind you

(like this lone black cat stealing through dark
culvert under low bridge under construction
regarding man as clear and present danger
freezes momentarily before turning)

maneuvering way back

Resolve

Our hamlet’s unending conundrum:

If the quest to find one’s self is nothing
But tedious, bothersome, humdrum—

As some infinite jesters would have us believe—
Why does one find himself coming back

Ad infinitum?

Seer

—for Eleni, who saw it all from the start

If I still call my wife
Cassandra

After all these years,
It’s not

Because she’s foretold what will happen
Tomorrow, the next day, week, month or year—

We all know no one can do that, right?

But because when I see the incredible
Light in her eyes as she tells me

Dream after dream, I still can’t
Believe how it was

I foresaw my future.