Sonata
The third movement was less
obvious-
its sound rooted in the quietude
that often passes as peace, but is really
just a pause in fighting.
Out For a Drive
The flames rise on either side of the curves
and the fall wind threatens to spread the colors
about the ground.
The asphalt with shapely hips allures countless lookers
trusting the calendars will not deceive them
or waste their valued weekend.
A new delight awaits past each camber;
imperial topaz and alexandrite flickers in the autumn sky
subdued only by the occasional rust, tan or brown filament.
The Problem with Poetry
It wants to be.
Just be—
that’s all. To exist
apart from the shivering
cold of rainy spring afternoons
and melancholy silence
that hangs thick as molasses
in the air.
Poetry wants to be held tight
and listened to. To be seen
not just heard.
To lie spread-eagle
on the page; bare,
and hear only the gasp
at its raw form.
Do not argue with poetry.
Not out loud.
Any disagreement should come
as a sweet discourse
within the mind.
Judge not what is said
in those lines before you.
They are for their own part
playing out what latitude
you have allowed them—
and in the end, it is the mind
that is at fault, not the poem.
Pocket Change
Humanity spilled- tossed about,
jingled in the the pockets
like small change.
A bit here and a piece there
the sum of which is whole
but spread about
without custodial care.
The casual acceptance-
disrespected by dispersal
to quail and disintegrate
in the shadows
of rich indifference.
There are Consequences
Feline steps are deliberate
cautious intermittent pauses-
to allow for adjustments.
No one expects life
to be without recalculations
or changes.
It is our prerogative
to make u turns
even if the law doesn't allow
for it, the road itself will
not hinder us
or the police for that matter
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