Where We Hope To Be Some Future Fall

A burnished bronze jasmine 
Leaf twirling on the end 
Of a spider’s thin silver thread, 

In the slanting sunny late afternoon 
Air, soon to join its brothers and sisters 
In the perennial pied carpet of death 

And rejuvenation,
Our good mother 
Earth always there. 

Pot Of Gold

Before it all evaporates, let us take in 
Our good fortune, this morning’s 

Double rainbow in which two 
Wild doves perch 

On a telephone line, cooing 
Of the long-awaited approaching 

Change of weather. 

Say It In Greek Or Else

“The Logos is eternal.” 
--Heraclitus 

"I hope for nothing. I fear nothing. I am free."  
--epitaph on the grave of Nikos Kazantzakis 


In other words, approaching 
The logos means one must 
Let the spirit breathe 

Free, other- 
Wise, you are just 
That much closer 

To being 
Part of the living 
But still 

Quite dead. 

Complacency's Whetstone

That deadening
Silence which hones it-

Self against the ears
Of the complicit, how

Deafening it is indeed
To those who cannot

But hear it.

The Ultimate Last Poem?

Oh, what joy! 
Surely that must be it

Over there, waiting in line 
With bated breath, like so

Many others before it 
For the last stop, no 

More questions asked, 
Period.