Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

Woes Of The Old

How undisciplined they once seemed,
with their sore feet,
back pain, and bodily malfunctions,
always telling us,
“you just wait,” as they catalogued
the woes of the old.

Vainglorious, in the vigor of youth,
we smugly believed
with barely the ache of a complaint,
what we commanded
a corporal servant would carry out,
ruled by willpower.

But now, suddenly facing revolt,
we are humbled kings
learning to our rue that an army
marches on its stomach,
impervious to the proclamations
from a dictating head.


Magnificent Coats

It is said that the Meek
will inherit the magnificent coats
of the fallen Warriors.
But for now, helplessly caught in
a senseless crossfire,
the Meek despair as their sons,
tempted by the snug fit
and righteousness of a uniform,
rush, impatient for
inheritance, to join in the ranks
of a Warriors’ parade.

Wedding Knot

We have not hugged each other since I
was a child, and yet here
we are, face to face, almost touching.

Encircling my neck, even at sixty-nine,
his hands still convey
the strength from a life of manual labor.

In the comforting tang of his aftershave,
this close, I see what
a razor missed, salt peppered with gray.

Our respective breaths now entwined,
how simple it would be to
bestow the blessing of a shared kiss.

Yet on my wedding day, the job at hand
between father and son
is to merely straighten the knot of a tie.

Local Freight

What do we care if the rails
are no longer there,
the track bed still remains.
A plain ghost
even in the bright of day.
Crushed stones
ensure that its bones endure.
Thistles and thorns
tangled with blackberries
merely enhance
rather than erase the path.
Chugging ahead,
sturdy boots walk between
the parted sea
of muck, field, and forest.
Never mind that
no destination is reached.
Today’s outline,
followed like trains of old,
remains a siren call
as grasshoppers scatter.
Its persistence
guarantees local freight.

The Last Supper

Twelve guests, the room pungent with brine
Their manners rough as the sea
A ritual meal of roasted lamb, bread, and wine
Men tied by an ancient bloodline
Tonight’s host, conscious of betrayal’s penalty
Yet he speaks not of a crime
His eyes are locked on the person conflicted
One chosen rather than convicted
Both share a sorrow that speaks of finality
The dread of impending death
As the others carelessly expend their breath


heartfelt pretty pleases
and calculated
temper tantrums escalated
to ten

fervent leaps of faith
or those
elastic-band stretches on
tippy toes

there on the top shelf
is where
chilling chocolate milk

But when
mountains refuse to stoop
a footstool’s
forbidden height rewards


A simple city street
hums with vehicles and voices
ordinary enough
to be an unheard soundtrack

So too the silent
performance of whirling bats
vacuuming up
this bug-filled summer sky

The stones’ damp
exhale is merely a shadow
excluded by
our lamp’s encircling warmth

Sunset’s gold braid
a repeat presentation that
cannot compete with
supper’s beckoning scent

Yet later in bed
what will unspool behind
closed eyes is
today’s comforting totality