Angel of Mourning

The magpie keeps what too easily 

The nesting dove forgets— 

A watchful eye out for what appears 

To be more than just 

A dawning of wings. 

Wonderful to Be Here, My Love

As it was many years ago, seeing 

The couple that seemed old 

To us then, wondering what it was 

He was saying as they walked 

Arm in arm round the Parthenon, 

When he squeezed her hand 

And she answered yes dear, 

Clearly it must have been 

A day much like this one. 

Wary of Being Panned in Public, Publius Ovidius Naso Lambasts Himself Piteously, though Still Failing to Abort the Metamorphoses of the Masses Brought on by the Likes of One Alfredius E. Neumano, Roman Gadfly

Spare the rod? Holy Jupiter, are you mad, 

Ovidius? Shove that spit into that kid before

He turns us all into fawning muttonheads. 

In Transit

recently departed bus 

passenger gone but 

these handles on 

seat back still 

warm to touch 

Sirocco over Hellas

Muammar, 

If you were here I would tell you 

Today it rained buckets of red 

Dust brought from that distant 

Desert of your late despotat— 

A not unusual phenomenon when one considers

That maddening south wind blows hard 

Enough to take one’s head off.