poetry

Life can be killed humans murdered
Flora and fauna completely destroyed
But sounds cannot be hanged
Maimed or mutilated
Sounds cannot be dead
Though ' voices' silenced

Dogs live in a world of smells— succulent, sensual: a melange of sexuality–known and unknown, friendly and prohibitive.   They’re color-blind, love blindly, lead the blind (when so inclined).   Dogs live in the world of Now—leaping catching frisbees, canines gripping, tail-wagging; or—snarling, menacing, loyal to a fault—and faultlessly alert to guard their master’s home;   their master’s spies, their[Read More...]

She remembers when the hour hand
would smack itself right on the backside
spinning ‘round so fast.
From morning coffee to a brandy goodnight…
breakneck intense
and never quite everything
crossed off the ‘To Do’ list.
It is strange and unsettling
how The Clock has slowed down with Her.
Dragging itself slowly,
with a lethargy and apathy
disgusting and disturbing
in its weight and heaviness of feeling.
Watching its face has become unbearable,
it’s like pulling teeth,
the strain almost blinding.

So I am listening, idly like most of the time,
To this “army guy,” who, someone says,
“Gets all buff,” just to join up so he can
Be part of the band, and not “of brothers,”
But of musical instruments,
And that leads me to wonder about
That old lure of martial music, drums
And fifes and trumpets, and that
Leads me to consider the trombone–
The Trombone of the Lord,
Gabriel’s Trombone, “Hear that
Trombone in the Morning,”and
Those soulful Trombones of Jericho:
And I wonder, still pretty idly, you understand,

The waves white
wash
not by far
everything
down
or away.
They touch
the visible
with liquid lenses
and cross
in life
the rough
and dark
gently
with the bright.
Waves and brightness between the Mur and the Douro (Photo: Dr. T.P. Wilkinson)

All I want is the truth,
it has been said
a time or two.
But sometimes in life
we get fed
a steady stream of lies;
it’s no surprise,
and three open eyes
can always see
straight through such deception
right from the start.
All you need is love,
a certain song once harmonized
through melodic la-la-la.
But sometimes it simply is not so,
and amore
can be reduced to ash
quite fast
if it is in fact
only lust
providing the core
from which it is born.

An enormous army of hungry red ants,
marching in long lines from their mound,
invade not-yet-in-bloom peony plants
to whose honey sweet nectar they are bound.
Suddenly their mound comes under attack
from ferocious–jumping, kicking, stomping–feet.
Dirt, sticks and sand go flying with every whack.
In no time the anthill’s annihilation is complete.
“Well done, little lad!” exclaims a neighbor.
“Come indoors, Eddie, your lunch is ready,”
a doting grandma calls from her back door.
“Don’t let the soup get cold. Hurry, Eddie!”

Games are played with words
Among players with two faces
As they travel through first, second, and third worlds
While the hungry in any world still need food
And the tired need rest
The cold need shelter
And the dying need a place where their death will be felt with sorrow and a tear
The leaders lead only those capable of standing and following to protect those
With the security of possessions
And the insecurity of their loss
The blame is not only on polity
Believers cling to authority and dogma

And so I creep instead
Monsters in my head, you know that’s what was said
To have seven dead inside your hospital bed
Expectations bleed, not bled
Expectations bleed, not bled
Suicide note before I go, it’s not like it’ll ever be read or wrote
To go beyond frequency
Underneath catastrophe
Unheard words from the caged bird of this majesty
How can I emerge from grief?
How can I emerge from sleep?
How can I emerge from this emergency?
But, how am I reborn?
How am I reborn?

Homer’s a chair arranger who
works in meeting rooms
on 30 floors in a building
tall as Trump Tower.
At least it looks that tall to him
getting off the subway
half asleep at 4 a.m.
Setting up a banquet is
the toughest job for Homer.
Long tables and many chairs
take all morning to set up
all afternoon to take down.
He works alone by choice.
Doing so is job security.
But no one wants his job,
not even young Jason,
who steps in for Homer when
he has to take a vacation.