A Poem

A calculated vagueness
where truth is a visual
created, the sounds
a sense of song, a satisfaction
beyond the words, beyond
the race to get the world right.

In the pen’s perfection
Earth concedes to space;
the tethered soul takes flight.
Everything and nothing
is concrete, a constant morph
between form and spirit,

The activity of fact and dream
and the circumstance
of imagination. When all is said
and done, the smallest wren
and one feeble ray of sun
make a poem.

Breaking News

A tissue wrapped glass Santa
with a broken hanger hat
occupies our headlines
as we look at this sad sight.

A crash, a shatter.
it does not bend,
thus it is bound to break.
Such was our Santa’s fate.

We’re heartsick at the loss
and yet I have no doubt,
the story of our Santa
won’t be on CNN tonight

for the latest breaking scandal
playing out in old DC
satiates the  appetites
for  lies and fantasies.

Lo, our ancient Santa
will yield with true humility
to the orchestrated weather
and to crass complicity,

and up there in the headlines
made to influence  and confuse
is the latest fake appointment;
That is the breaking news.

A Taste of Winter

Ah, the joy that we savor
when snowflakes gaily gather
to share a taste of winter
with every waiting child
no matter what their age.

Seasoned perfectly this year
the nip is in the air;
anticipation heightens
in correlation with the mercury’s descent.
Isn’t that the way it’s meant to be?

Scraping ice and shoveling walks,
no more than inconvenience
when considered in perspective
of eyes aglow with dreams
of Christmas.

The top hat on the closet shelf
is fairly dancing with delight,
ready to share the magic
that will turn a solemn snowman
into a lively Fred Astaire.

Tree limbs are laced with frosty ice,
the meadow’s wearing fleece
of white and
the kitchen’s wafting cinnamon
makes  this a savory winter’s night.

Battle Scarred

Let them know a mother’s hands
to comb out the snarls and the burrs,
to pin the bows in long, shining curls,
God bless these children of war.

Let them be poets
and dreamers; let them know peace.
Spare them the cries of the wounded and dying,
Spare them the guns’ mighty roar.

Let them be children for as long as they can,
but never children of war.

Snowfall on a Bare Branch

And what about the branch?
Ice crusted now
sans any shade of leaf,
the song bird gone,
the feathered nest deserted.

The branch that wore the bud
of Spring:  It bore
the fruit of season’s bloom
and now it waxes barren.

But look, a million rainbows
dance in random step.
It holds them loosely
in the crystal flakes

that gaily claim their space
on its outstretched hands.
As the seasons pass
it may wear varied robes;

some fade, some fly away,
but the branch remains
essentially unchanged
no matter the weather
or fickle fashion’s trend.


Hear the Wind Blow

I stand in the wind listening
for a moment, then running
with it. Hopeless, this trying
to catch the wind.

It sifts through the fingers,
not like sand but like time
itself, irretrievable time.

No cloud morphing at the will
of imagination, the wind bends
but it is unbendable; it brings gifts
then takes them back again.

Never a misrepresentation,
more like mis-comprehension.
We, whose feet must touch the ground,
can never touch the wind

except in moments of madness
or sometimes
at twilight….

The Best Is Yet to Come

Shallow the worries that well within
When fondest dreams are foolish whims,
Gray the skies and dark horizon
When wasted days come to an end.

Brighter the light of lessons learned
When inner thoughts are outward turned,
When bother seems to overwhelm
A feeble captain is at the helm.

With shoulders squared and jaw line set,
The best of all is coming yet.
Smiling eyes and glad hearts that sing
Will take away that awful sting

Of blinding tears and deep regret.
The best of all is coming yet.