Dr. Lion and Mr. Lamb

It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot
and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light
and winter in the shade.  Charles Dickens


The lion leads,
all bluster and roar
behind bared fangs.

From somewhere
a warm breeze
too playful to be afraid

rubs the tummy
of the wild beast
and before you know it

gambols over the lea
scattering sun rays.

Even in the shade
we see summer.
Awed by Spring

we emerge,
with great expectations.

Beyond a Shadow of Doubt

The pine tree growing out of rock,
Cloud shrouded pinnacle a dream,
What greater artistry than that?

Or the wind making its shriek and hum
Free from instrument or score —
What truer song?

A poem – part landscape, part mindscape,
An onerous endeavor. Is it truth
Demands such excavation?

What imagining makes real more
Than real? What riddle?
In our native skull

Illumination is more than a desire.
Shadows grow in waning light;
The pen is mightier.

Ever Stretching

Photo courtesy of Doodlewash.com

“I think of cinemas, panoramic sleights
with multitudes bent toward some flashing scene.”  Hart Crane


In the shadow of the towering frame,
I am reminded that this bridge was made
by man.

Beneath the sky’s perfection —
that awesome mix of blues, cobalt
and Persian

applied by God’s own hand
as if to enhance
the dismal  view

of traffic  jams, fractured
psyche of humanity en masse,
and the traffic lights

reflected on the winding river’s
path.  Ah, this grand

of the mighty and the mere
stands tall against the skyline,
half celestial

half of Earth…the imperfect
ever stretching  for heaven
like man himself.


White snow stars swirl the sky tonight,
Though singing birds have promised Spring,
Al Roker, for once you were right,
But, who believes the weatherman?

Bare trees, too long in winter’s chill,
Were so quickly coaxed to budding,
Now fickle winds with frigid will,
Foreshadow frost with lethal sting.

Come sun tomorrow, buds will fall,
The singing birds have taken wing,
Their presence promised early thaw,
But, I guess they’re only human.

A Walk in the Park

Photo  courtesy of Doodlewash.com


This walk in the park
is a life to celebrate:
a bag of bread
from the ‘day old’ store,
carefully broken into pieces
except for the crusty end slices
that he saves for himself.

Those he toasts and savors
with tea, remembering
the breakfasts she used to make:
bacon and eggs, potatoes
seasoned just right.  The best
was her song, the way it burst
from her lips; he misses it most.

This walk in the park, surrounded
by his retinue of devoted fans —
boisterous, they flock around him,
the spark that keeps him going
until that dreamed of day
when he takes her by the hand