Goldfish and Sinusitis

Belly up
is not how it’s supposed to look,
is it?  Eyes glazed, sightless…
What will I tell her?

That nothing is permanent,
that life brings disappointments
even when a goldfish
is the object of affection?

Sparkles has lost his sheen.
Already those opalescent scales
have dulled pale and pasty;
even the special light bulb

cannot make it right.
I will not tell her, not yet.
Instead I make the rounds…
19 pet stores in a 30 mile radius;

surely one will have a double.
Yes!  Sparkles  lives  again.
After all, it is Spring,
a time for miracles
and sinusitis.

Repent at Leisure

In the dark forest of nightly dreams
Sleep plies the axe to foolish schemes,
Come the day, when we awake
The brain controls each step we take,
O! rue the time it’s not in gear
That’s when we act in haste I fear,
And when our deeds so quickly vent
We pray there’s leisure to repent.

Pick the Daisies and Smell the Roses

There’s dignity in walking barefoot
through new grass…
and joy.

Not like walking in stilettos,
aching back,
pinched toes.

At least
I suppose that’s how it feels.
I wouldn’t know.

I have never needed
designer shoes to smell the roses
nor to pick the daisies

that grow beside my door.
I find the scarlet cardinal’s frock
so much finer

than any garment
with an upscale label.
I have books to read

and flowers for my table.
Thank you, Lord, for the bounty
that you’ve showered upon me.



Photo courtesy of

Don’t badger me.
Can’t you see
I’m meditating?
My mind
is on a higher plane,
I’m not attuned
to earthly things.
The singing stream,
Spring’s first sign
of early green:
they become my Om
More than attitude,
not quite beatitude:
Nose in the air,
the warm brown earth
cradles my underbelly
and that just might be
the ecstasy
that prompts my pose.

A Season’s End

“The bottom of the sea is cruel”  Hart Crane in Voyages
Two minutes ’til noon,
more grey than amber,
that April day
when sea poppies
had yet to burst their bloom,
You entered into that dismal zone
of season’s end, an area
of expediency, that blend of ugliness
and beauty, premature,
this bottomless decline, and yet,
as inevitable as the rising tide.
Was it your desire for order
out of chaos? A neatly folded
overcoat, your final note.

The Rose and the Wall

“The Rose that blooms along the wall is a miracle” Thích Nhất Hạnh


The wall is old and crumbling,
Soft loden moss holds it together
but the cracks grow larger,
Soon it will fall.


The season’s last snow
sprinkles white on the moss covered wall
that stands as it’s stood for a hundred years;
it does not rely on my faith to endure.


My face wears the traces
of many frowns, Self-centered
and drowning in sorrow,
I am blind to the sun on the wall.


Just six weeks since snow fell
in April, The earth is splashed
with the sparkle of June, The rose
that blooms along the wall is a miracle.