Monday, November 1, 2021

Loud Cars

Halloween and monsters moan
In my yard --it is hard dying of gas.
Blasting out undone youth, brains
Bowels, modified mufflers pass
Brains, bowels? Former or latter,
I don't know --doesn't matter.
Youth? Truth? Toddlers
With toy hammers? Here at the 
Midnight hour, adults in
Delusions of power roar past.
Why? I don't know. Unless we
All mature, I can't be sure.

Monday, September 27, 2021

12-Sided Cosmic Prayer

For your consideration, one of many 12-sided copper and bronze-alloyed objects unearthed in Europe and attendant islands. They are of Roman origin, around 200 AD and earlier:

"The dodecahedron  is the shape used for embroidering the constellations of heaven." --Plato (circa 400 BC).

Whether it was an early form of dice in crapgames or sacred object really makes little difference. These objects of astonishing antiquity have been found all over western Europe and, for me, compose a...


 Lord, in discord we have 
Fought  catastrophes,
Turned and run
To what is dear.
Now, on our knees,
We are moved to ask:
Please, can we not
Improve from here,
Instead of Armageddon?
 --------I had hoped to make this a 12-lined poem but only managed 9. The tardy 3 lines doubtless exist in the future but currently exceed my depth. Is anybody working on this? Best of LUCK to all of us. 

Thursday, July 1, 2021

When Saucers Landed

We were young, expectant, 
Renting a cottage from 
Doctor Spock,  on Kent Street
who'd walk
His old dog through our yard:
"C'mon Sannee (Sandy),
Poor lil shit", but had a surprisingly
Useful understanding of children--
For a Vulcan. We read his book
On Kent Street (named after Clark), at
The corner of Lois Lane.
Sometimes, as aliens say from
Their sudden saucers: don't let your
Moral compass slide  off its binnacle.
A country, a ship of State, in
That distress, doesn't know where 
It's going anymore.

Tuesday, March 16, 2021

First Heard It When I Turned 13


What is left to us really, an
An awkward cotillion in
Hazmat tuxedos? 
It goes without saying,
Gowns --crackle of fabric 
Fills our haunted hall and
All our wishes whisper from
The floor: we can't hear
The music anymore.
Strange to think confusion's
Call and random chance
Left us this ball, this dance.

Thursday, February 18, 2021

What Tails Are For

Today's journal entry (to Minnie, who loves cats):

I wish my tail hadn't dropped off some months ago. I wouldn't have to use a cane sometimes.

(In response to Meems, a much-valued commenter, I'm translating my handwriting into something readable here:
                                    An event
                                Lives through a mind
                               And mind anticipates
                               Events --a cat
                               Waits at the back door.
                               That is balance,
                               What tails are for.

Monday, January 4, 2021



Not all possibility is
Simply assembled, but
In motion, colliding,
Sliding, withdrawing,
Eliding, trading orbit
In light, time and chance.
It is a huge dance
Of probability, you see,
And so are we.