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.