Paying Ahead

Each poem
comes with a price already paid,
There are few bargains,
Sometimes a battle
between thrill and fear

and sometimes hunger,
so many nights alone
under the moon.

Even the rose
has a sting, a bleeding
from a hidden thorn, but that’s
a seasonal thing; the levy
for endings is always dear.

The poems that cost the most
and are the best, The ones that stare
you down and dare you not to care,

Those with something extra
in their aura, with no interest
in a pound of flesh; they
are bankrolled
with bits and pieces of the soul.

A Slow Dissolve

awash with the tide,
a fleeting thing
this moment of knowing,
this snippet of dream.

backwards in time —
the pull of the moon,
castles in the sand,
pipers and ponies,

sand dunes,
gulls on the wing,
the sea scented wind,
faces of yesterdays
fading to places I’ve been.


What remedy is known to man
when season’s change so unexpectedly?
What balm has been invented to heal
such woes?

I only know it’s so
that winter follows fall, and when the cold
seems just too much to bear, fair April
smiles upon us.

We soak up rays of August  sun as if
summer were the only season
with an expertise for healing
time’s onslaught.

Ah, but September is waiting in the wings,
a bit more mature but young enough
to celebrate with bonfires
and guitars.

The air’s acrackle with sparks
of falling leaves and fireflies. Apples
turn their taste to cider. The harvest in, we bask
in the realization

of the bounty of our blessings.
Contentment claims the senses. What is summer
without the knowledge of winter,
and the hope of Spring?

Therein is the truest anodyne. Time is bound
to do its thing.  Our role in this great quest
for wings is to jump right in and join
the celebration.


Hair tied back, breeze ruffling her dress,
she receives the morning rays
like a first kiss.

August almost done, bushes bear their berries;
it is a season of plenty.  Time
has little touched this land.

Stones glisten along the marshy bank
as if the river were their mother,
and they too wise to stray.

Irreverent to think of leaving and yet,
the thought was there, not for the stones
but for the girl.

She hears the trucks roaring in the distance,
There will be no picks and shovels
in this merciless mission,

More brutal far, this ravaging of Earth,
this fracturing that brought in
rougher men,

Strangers with no ties to the land,
bonuses for production,  the rumble
grows ever louder.

Her long thin fingers gentle a berry
from its stem.  Tomorrow these bushes
will be gone.

The lease has been signed.


Proponents of hydraulic fracturing point to the economic benefits from the vast amounts of formerly inaccessible hydrocarbons the process can extract.  Opponents point to potential environmental impacts, including contamination of ground water, depletion of fresh water, risks to air quality, the migration of gases and hydraulic fracturing chemicals to the surface, surface contamination from spills and flow-back, and the health effects of these. For these reasons hydraulic fracturing has come under international scrutiny, with some countries suspending or banning it. The practice of injecting water into deep rock formations causes earthquakes, both the U.S. Army and the U.S. Geological Survey have concluded.

More than Rabbit in the Hat

August is serenely sunny,
It’s more than illusion,
Everything is blooming,
The light
fills all my empty spaces.

I didn’t know it was possible
to soar with feet on the ground.
Eye to eye with the tops of pines,
there is so much to tell you
about what it is like up here.

Everything exists on the edge of
a breath.  Both delicate and durable,
our time is a tapestry
and this
is a beautiful scene.

Don’t Fight, Write

Poet, write your poems on the wind;
the mind abhors a vacuum.
Better to be blown to bits
by wayward currents
than to dry rot in a drawer
or be sealed hermetically
in a mayonnaise jar,
(Thank you, Johnny Carson.)

Burn them if you will,
make confetti and let them rain
on someone else’s parade.
Let them be swept up by the clowns
that follow the elephants.
Stone them, or string them up
like Chinese lanterns
born without flame.

When the clowns
are done with them
throw them another one
and another,
there are pens aplenty
and to paraphrase
a darker thought,
We have just begun to write.


That’s My Story…

and I’m sticking to it.

Slacking again, I guess?
Five days away and not a word,
flaky bird to take flight
into the vast unknown.

I own it, mea culpa
all the way. But I can explain.
Truth is stranger than fiction
and I can prove it.

Let’s see…who takes a job
at seventy-three? Woe is me.
What car with forty thousand miles
turns from friend to foe?

I didn’t need that “I” light,
bright as it was and such a lovely shade,
to know there was a plight developing.
I felt the power steering

fade into oblivion. If the wheels
were moving, I could guide it
using both arms and a grunt, but
don’t stop.

I did.  Don’t back up. I tried.
No go. I snuffled a bit and then
remembered I’m never alone.
I drove

that dang thing home. almost
a hundred miles. I ached but
did not brake but for necessity,
and that most carefully.

I made it home without a hitch.
One thought in my head,  I’m trading it.
I did. Told them what I wanted,
so have it ready please.

Everything arranged before I got there.
Trouble is,  en route to new car heaven,
I had to tell my baby I was trading her.
She balked. I backed up

into a stump with a sign on it*…couldn’t help it,
couldn’t steer. Damage?  Oh yeah, the metal sign post
pierced her precious hip. The stump attempted
to decapitate her bumper.

A hand was on my shoulder. I got my new Verona**.
It steers with just a touch.  Such luxury is almost
too good to be true.  Sorry for the slacking.  Tomorrow
I’ll catch up with all of you.


*btw, the sign said:  Please Drive Carefully,
True story start to finish.

**Name changed to protect the innocent
(plus I’m holding out for ad fees)

And just to add an extra twist…Here
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