I see them
    through the slats at the window,
variations of the ghosts of dreams.
Angel voices? It could be
or maybe the river beneath the oily ice,
           old music for one new song
‘Winter’s farewell in E flat’
before Spring begins its healing…
Frozen February,
   a month of painful beauty,
hearts and roses,
and snowflake patterned anagrams
kissing the misted pane.

Repositioning the Id

The new year
is about to turn a page;
the month for lovers is upon us.

The weatherman is calling
for snow. We salute the ground hog

he were  more
a revisionist
instead of a mere reactionary.

Come hail or high water
we wear time on our sleeves.
The heartbeat of extravagance;

a new day
laced with celebration
of great expectations.

Caught in the grasp of winter
and hoping for spring,
we welcome February.

Addictions and Desires

(after an hour of watching talk shows)

I don’t want to be thirty-three,
no way, no how,
the milk without the cow,
the weed, the need,
the seed of greed.

Possibly, even that’s too much
for me.  But you,  you’ll do fine,
it’s true. Uncontained by lines
or boxes, you drain the glass,
fill it again,

Never mind the dribble spilling
from your chin.  This is love
and this
is war.
I can’t tell the difference


The Gardener

He trims the tangled vines,
twists them, ties them,
talks quietly to them,
All the while savoring
the promise
of succulent purple fruit
to quench his thirst.

Supple branches
bow to every whim,
Only a thorn protests
his manipulations,
A thick red drop of blood
crowns on his thumb,
He tastes the rich dark wine.

Soliloquy from a Nature Poem

I have no wish to share my history,
Please, do not try to explain me;
labels are limiting.

Actually, (in confidence, of course,)
there is no great revelation.
I am not privy to the mystery
of the sphinx.

There is no surprise I wish to spoil.
Descartes has already done that
and great as the job he did

his ‘newness’
was a confluence.
“Je pense, donc je suis”

That gives credence
even to the ass that knows to bray
for food, water, or a pat on the back;

a hearty slap
that sets the fleas in great migration.
Did they look before they leapt?
But I digress.

I am not a riddle.
More like a rainbow,
spectacular in its natural state

and then some poet
came along elated, and created me
in hope

that just one someone

could see all the colors of the arc,
or the perfect silhouette
of migrating geese backlit by sunset.

Ever Changing Truth

Blinded by the scintillating sun
I closed my eyes
and the warm round world
swirled around me.

There was no night or morning
yet that is all there was;
the seasons passing swift
in constant blur.

A russet deer, a fox, a bear;
the leaves are changing
into words, not  fragmented phrases
but soliloquies.

The purple grapes
are ready to make wine.
They spill their claret blood
like pens on a mission.

That pause for breath
when sunset fills the sky,
That is the closest
man will ever come to truth.