what if i wanted to write poetry
and offered alms to the poet?

give me a few words or give me
poetic death,
stasis is not a state of mind
nor the gist of things
like stingers on a scorpion
shaken from swaggering boots
in the morning,
or a bumble bee,
neither too
too yellow or too black
to carry its full weight,

I go now to repair a bridge.
It serves the road which runs the ridge.
Just a few boards need replacing
on the floor and in the bracing.

I'll do it while the branch is shallow,
now when the far side field is fallow.
My old truck will take me there.
I won't get stuck if I take care.

The land is rugged on this side,
on the other, flat and wide
where crops grow in deep dark soil
which makes this bridge worth all the toil.

the west side of the gatehouse crumbled
and fell,

(did anyone hear it?)

now eight or nine planks of board hold it in place
and the stately entrance
is closed and cordoned off,
I'm the new kid on the block and
while we were picking artifacts such as names
and dates,
toppled headstones and sunken graves
spoke to me asked me
who they were,
did I think these
progenitors of
wealth, these boat people of
Europe
live a good life?

On the tripod
A candle burns
In symbolic marriage
Of wax and wick
The flame is the baby
A spark of the essence
Known to the ancient
So the vestals tended
To preserve the light
Constance was the glow

The flame, a hidden trinity
The child’s earthly sojourn
Of consciousness in nuptials
Of soul and spirit body
Dancing in the wind
Liquefied wax smoulders
Rising amber with blue base
Wrapped around the wick
Revealing, life enfolding
In the flare of spirit being

you said you were coming back
after the day of odds at the track
and the slate green dodge

every time I hear the weather girl
when she says
"there's a promise of rain"

seventy per cent

a nice even count
I think about you

they say even a dog has its day
with this humidty it may rain cats

thirty per cent says it might not
might not rain
might just be a promiz

Watch the clowns as they all gambol
skipping, tripping, falling down
cartwheeling without preamble
it's the greatest show in town

The ringleader riding wild asses
elephant trainers strive for control
all seen by fools in rosy glasses
in the marble tent upon the knoll

Let's cheer at the circus show
we'll all stand to make more room
while the three rings down below
distract us from our country's doom

* response to the so called leaders in Congress

if you don't know the difference
between balmy and embalming then you're
probably not a poet
and you've joined the zombie parade
parroting words like definitions,
you're no pirate but you have a peg heart
and your hair is uncombed
your whiskers stiff with fish and eggs

i've loved you long enough, this i know

Styx

The clock strikes midnight, the witching hour
Not three a.m. my usual time of power
On the prowl, before Killer and H. Stranger
Too late the victim knows... she is in danger
Shouldn't stroll deserted grounds at night
My blade sings the tune of her plight
Flashing silver in the moonlight cast
Terror filled eyes, life speeding past
Too soon she dies, from the slice of her throat
No time for pride... or to gloat
Victim number one out of the way
Off in search of number two, to end my play

Killer

In a Haze Colorless Pale

The sun late afternoon
crossed the darkened room
in a haze colorless pale
dust danced in slow motion
in streams of light though the air
suffocating movements of silence

the sun began to fade
and I felt the lonliness weigh heavy
in the dim of twilight

the noise was gone
and silence spoke its mourning
as day fled into dark
like a shrouded veil
and I began to sink
into madness

the world takes on a brilliance
after a few days of hard rain

you are sleeping
I brew Sumatra coffee,
our window boxes are bright bouquets
of gratitude, hanging gardens
in their confinement

sometimes a poem doesn't need
an exegesis, nothing profound
to dwell on, nothing but a breath
of a full morning's glory.