I once had a computer—
I called it the magic box.
Its mother—the clever board—
Had every bit to be neatly stored.

Its bytes are digits, it eats nothing else,
It digests it all—
With the software’s tiny cells.

They said, “Keep it—it shall save your time,”
But all I used it for, in truth,
Was simply sharing this silly rhyme.

Mama mia
Don't worry
I will get by with little
Money
Also I spend my money
Wisely
Yes I am always streching
My money
And that is a very hard thing to do
I have my style of clothes
And second hand clothes
Are my style
Everybody tells me
That the clothes I wear is garbage
They don't know how much
They hurt me so much

Mankind with progress vision,
Saw a pretty penny or a grand.
Yet many monsters of destruction,
And pollutants spoilt our land.

A sale without conditions,
Or a box without a key.
Brought a heart that's ever hardened,
By a veil we cannot see.

But there are grains of sand across the ocean,
And multitudes of stones from far away,
In courageous restoration,
When safe from those who slay.

The tip of each leaf ends precisely
where sunshine greets it so nicely
its bark, an old weathered coat
feeds the quaint Yellowthroat
with a bug or two
refreshing dew
crown to ground
profound
tree

Many, many decades later,

Subtrahend— —the thief of

time—had stolen years,

whittling away youth

with quiet precision,

leaving only memories as souvenirs.

Minuend, proud and steadfast,

stood firm against life’s relent-

less subtractions, holding onto

laughter,

unyielding, even as the seasons

adjusted the equation.

Difference, a wanderer,

measured space between

our footprints, sometimes vast,

sometimes mere inches—

—always shifting but never lost.

Mowing the lawn
Something in the bottom of the little finger
Of the left hand glove
Keeps stinging like a bee

Turn it inside out and there’s nothing to see
What does this mean?

Not everything is message or metaphor
Nor each passing thought
A reliable or worthy prompt to put
Pen to paper
Fingers to keyboard
To see where it may lead

Nagging thoughts flood no matter
What’s the use of trying to shut them out

If she meets me on the dawn
The way between ways
I'll know her by her ancient name

The black in her eye
The glass of her hair
The blossom of her lifting breasts
Beneath her glittering mantle
The gaze which is human
But not quite

And what have you done
With the gift God has planted in you
Have you squandered it on
The wounds of love
Or have you raised an eye to me

Pieces of Shaya
are everywhere in Faye's and Charles' place.
I see the way he is present
and it is very different
from the way it is with me.
I looked at the photos
in the living zone of their house.
The photos I took,
of when Faye and Sarah
were very small.
That kiss on the cheek
that Sarah gave to him,
I just continued to stare
because it moved me so much.

Vultures swooped overhead
and preyed on my vulnerabilities
forcing me to carrion camping
as fine young cannibals
sharpened their knives
and licked their lips
while eyeing me as their naked lunch
bound and gagged
as a huge cauldron bubbled
awaiting yours truly as human sacrifice
preparatory to be boiled alive
shorn of clothes
embarrassingly in the buff
with me pot bellied gut
and spindleshanks for legs
presenting a poor excuse
and laughing stock of Homo sapiens

The view
God’s gift to us
Nature given with joy
Filling our hearts and minds with awe
Wonder