Gazing at furry paws
slapping white cord pulls
mesmerizes her.
Wooden tassels clunk together,
waving to and fro,
like a tetherball on a playground pole
spanked by busy children.
He left his kitten,
his curious kitten.

Outside snowflakes
float downward
like pieces of paper
torn from his exit note in her hands
and like bits of cotton
the kitten pulls from her pillow.
He left his kitten,
his curious kitten.

The lowering sun upon my back
I quietly wade through shallows
for fly fishing, I have the knack
this evening as I fish with swallows

Strip the line in even strokes
then pick it up with strong back cast
careful to not snag shore line oaks
the day approaches darkening fast

Now lightly lay the line back down
placing feathered dry fly next to shore
concentration causes a happy frown
my mind on fishing, nothing more

an eagle in flight -
the sky entangles its blue
into an eye

"Hold me I'm tired"
your cigarette hanging loose
the drip of smoke climbing
through your dishevelled hair

I can smell the sweat from
the day on me The tired
odour of this room lost
with its vacancy of happiness

I pull you in and you moan
softly a small sigh
in the kitchen the clock hums
in the bathroom the tub
faucet drips

the television glows

It is not the first time, I heard these words before
Recently, Egypt, after Tunisia, told their chiefs to go
The people are suffering, enough of the misuse. Go
In Libya, the refusal and the outrage, see blood
Flowing to streets of Benghazi, hear the wailing

Yes, I heard these words by and by, where I worked
When some staff stole with pen and paper, not gun
When bankruptcy hit us, see helpless victims cry
And when landlords wanted to increase their rents
See tenants roam till someone says come home

Let Us Now

Let us create poetry,
Of our contemporary times,
We wouldn't like to disown…
Creativity is no slave of mankind
Nor subservient to past unknown…

Let’s create a tree
Called creation
And
Not live alone,
in glorified jubilation
Of times and poets
Since buried
aeons passed.

To current times
We should remain married
And
Leave behind a poetic legacy…
Likewise to be buried.

Flowing with the last Narcissus  (original version)


flowing with the last Narcissus
you've taken meaning out of context
extracted sterling weights of measure
from the rings around the moon
you've heard the morning warbler awaken
the cacophony of receding stars
and touched the bark of sentiment hanging
loosely from the white river birch,
the tortoise head bobs
as he meanders into the vanishing horizon,
obliquely unaware: he may be the last of his kind,
so what does this say if not the sound that will break

standing in front of a mirror
time
presents itself with a click of imagination
stop, shock therapy
when did i lose the outer me to the image
present in my mind,
i am always me, aren't i?

you look at her beauty, force
me to notice your noticing, by this and that...
a movement of your body, closer to hers,
a camera's flash, you take a picture of
someone else, her face like a
finger pointing between, framing
the painting you paint of me

there are wiki leaks and
super-bugs
with
more changes
than superman
teen mothers
child drug addicts and
baby martyrs
waiting to be born
while we are
fucking one another
with our backs
against the wall
every moan
elicits reaction
your rasping breath
and salty sweat
grinds hips
in circles
whispers rise
the words are said
>oh god oh god<
as flaccidly
you recede
and like the power of prayer
i am left with nothing

Easing down the street today
it's warm and toward the end of May
the sun is not too hot or bright
all in all, the day's just right.

I'm disengaged except my feet
which pound an automatic beat
my mind's adrift as are my eyes
a perfect day, I do surmise.

My eyes, perchance, drift over there
and light upon a derriere
encased in skimpy running shorts
( for all I know her face had warts ).