In the Shadow of Monarchs…the truth and the timing.


I once thought it would be cool
to winter in Mexico, to move
tribal toward a warmer climate,
to huddle together with myriad
cousins, but dwindling census
suggests that the time for that
has passed.

It was the shadows that turned my mind
in a different direction…nothing as astute
as Plato’s Cave, Just a vision of wings fluttering,
morphing into a hand holding a pen.  We are all
somewhat chained to a wall, like Plato’s people.
Maybe the pen is our wings and a feeble imagination
is our chain.

Maybe the metaphysics of monarchs
is the fittest reflection of truth and timing,
or maybe the first crocus born of a new spring
is just a lesson in faith and not really an intent of proof
for the poet or the purveyor of pens.  Maybe it is true
that in time all poets will shed their chains
and grow wings.

Foggy Weather

Sitting in a quiet kitchen,
pale lemon on a sunny day,
but on this day
the mountains wear mist.

A shroud of fog and a scent
of cinnamon are my companions.
The rain raineth
and the wind bloweth.

The weather
is just another thing
we can’t change in this year
of posturing and lies.

In the face of bad politics
and puzzling weather,
Will poetry die?
I think not.

I read that poetry
is not the language
we live in; it is
the language of change.

It allows us to dwell
in the truth of humanity,
to break through the rubbish
and the rain.

Poetry turns these glum walls
back to their lemony sheen
and into a haven of cinnamon rolls
and a cup of a robust blend.

Her Mother’s Jewelry Box

The hinged lid, gilded with fluted edge,
a red velvet lining remembers traces
of its early flame. The mirror, aged
and wise still does not lie; her mother’s face
is reflected in her smile.

An amethyst, an opal, a few pieces of gold,
solid, old, enduring, a strand of pearls,
demure as if brand new, three baby bracelets,
the kind hospitals used to give, each with a name
embossed on beads of pink and white.

And so the ancient box reveals
the history of a wife who failed
and no matter all the good she’d done
he worked his farm
without a son.


God made us in his image
and yet, somehow we stray.
That he doesn’t throw his hands up
and quit...that is a miracle.

In the kitchen and in the glen,
all is innocence.
A flower blooms and dies
and is born again.

How entirely human to think
of grafting to make a bigger bloom,
a sweeter perfume and in the thready
atmosphere of need,

to turn the task to feeding the starving.
Yes!  In the force field of the cosmos,
there is a greater God than greed.
If evil is a trait of man, so too, is good.

Both theoretical and empirical,
It is not man’s faith in God
but God’s faith in man,
that is the miracle.

A Poet’s Sun

A poet’s sun this morning,
this light that turns
bare trees baroque.

In rotation with the seasons,
the harvest safely in,
faith is a sure thing.

Earth wears the sun
like a hat
that says Imagine.

Some will say we’re dreamers
and maybe that is so.
I just know it’s easy

to see the world as one
in the hush of early morning
with a liturgy of sun.


with thanks to John Lennon
for his inspiring song “Imagine”

Empirical Rationalization or…surviving a party next door

but expanding,
our universes collide with a bang.

Kafka said he needed solitude to write..
“Not like a hermit,” he said,

“but like a dead man.”
In the reticent grave
silence must ring in one’s ears.

My neighbors
are having a party.
Expanding decibels offend.

say knowledge
is based on experience.

claim reason
is the basis of knowledge.

The experience of the music
becomes the reason for a cosmic headache.
I understand Eliot’s objective correlation.

I exist in the benefits
of both experience and reason.

There is small comfort
in knowing
that wisdom fosters restraint.