And Hope to Die

White marble crosses 
No rosy fingers 

A slate-gray sky. 

A Poem Should Be (3)

Unexpected

And dawn on you
Just like that 

Early morning wild 
Smell of field 

Fennel tickling 
Your nostrils making 

You feel pickled pink. 

Brief Lyric on the Futility of Trying to Write Like Someone Else

At first glance it sounds 
So easy, almost 

Like child’s play until 
You try a combo verbal 

Double cartwheel summer- 
Sault and watch what’s become of you 

All these years crumbling away. 

Wish You Were Here

Dear heart 
Beat always 
Uneasily expectant 

With whatever passes 
Before us, what 
Say we pretend 

It’s always been here. 

Wishful Thinking, Misanthrope

Sometimes I think 

The world would have been 
A much, much better place 

Without me, so much better 
That I wish I could 

Flash back to that hard dirt floor 
Just before the midwife 

Helped mom push me through 
The darkness, stop everything and settle 

That long-overdue score I have 
With who-knows-what 

That’s killing me—surely 
I could live with that

And wish no more. 

A Poem Should Be (2)

like a bullet 

                                                                      train crashing 

through 

                                                                      your brain. 

Black Sheep

You bleat some things are better off left in the dark— 
If so, why do they keep on moseying back, 
Dragging their white-washed tales behind them?