Air of Acquiescence

Their slender stalks fastened 
With twine to thin reeds stuck 
In a brown, earthenware pot, 

The blood-red carnations nod 
In accord with each blustering gust, 
All the while suffusing the air 

They breathe 
With redolent dyes 
Of thick, heady musk. 

Hope Dies Last

You get up 
Every day hoping 
It won’t be your last 
And you go to bed wishing 
It had been. 

The Methuselah Code

To read the signs 
Of the times correctly 
And to write at least 

One word a day remains 
No small feat providing you 
Reach a thousand. 

Waiting for the Coroner's Report (A Greek Proverb for Our Times)

In the meantime, 

In the house of the hanged man, 
Nobody brings up the subject 

Of a rope. 

Virtuoso

Think before you leap— 
With each vaunting 
Step you take, this

Star-studded universe 
You were born into wants 
Nothing better than to cradle you

Back down 
To earth to dream to sleep.