Blighted Silent Majority

The blasted 

 

Limbs of our fifty-year-old 

Judas tree give ample 

Silent testimony that 

Perhaps we have not 

Said enough of what continues 

 

To ail us, though each Spring, 

From a withered flaking 

Trunk, keep shooting 

Violent bursts of regenerating, 

Violet-red blood that speaks 

 

Volumes. 

 

 

 

Key To Her Heart

In your hands, 

Heartless one, where 

 

She placed it last, 

Will be the last place 

 

You look. 

 

 

 

 

Almost Niksen* In The Boondocks Of The Southern Peloponnese

--for Ans and Peter, outstanding Dutch experts

in the field of observing Mother Nature 

 

I’m not counting but I suppose 

There are many other more 

Fruitful things to do 

 

With one’s precious 

Time than to sit 

In a director’s 

 

Chair facing the warm 

Winter sun, slowly peeling 

And then eating 

 

One of the too numerous 

To count oranges freshly 

Picked from the garden 

 

Of the Milk and Honey House, 

Then spitting out 

The seeds one-by-one, 

 

Watching them bounce 

Off the stone 

Patio till they come 

 

To rest in the grass 

Under the green 

Limbs of a benevolent, 

 

Bountiful Mother. 

 

 

 

* https://time.com/5622094/what-is-niksen/

 

Haiku: Singular Sense Of Solitude

You want to impart— 

Dispense with it with the wind

 

Parting lonesome pines.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bully For Us, Old Chap!

 

Little man, as 

It looks like 

 

You have so little 

To say, don’t you dare

 

Take up all my precious 

Time saying it— 

 

I’m next in line, 

By the way.