It’s all about — a walk in the park

The leafs litter the ground in pre-decom


             The lady shuffles through, ready to sue


As the leafs ought to know better–or, the trees,

with all their committees.

She’ll sue the county for letting the trees live.

she’ll sue the county for the changing of colours.

she’ll sue the sweeper, the inspector, the mayor and doctor;

She’ll sue the police, the ranger, the children of actors.

She swears. She’ll sue.


Believe.  I believe.  So, I say I will sue too!

I’ll sue the source!  I’ll sue the trees, for being bad trees.

I’ll sue the leafs (for falling of course!)

i’ll sue the squirrel, the pigeon, and the gypsy horse!


You can’t.  Don’t be daft!

She quipped as she laughed.


from niggling to giggling in one breath

where others  pray for her early death.



Let us go explore the lure of brightness

offered up by an awoken orchid.

It will not reveal what it has not hid

at the entrance in bold righteousness:


a sharp yellow carpet invites the warm

trusting traveller to the cool candy cane

stage of pure sensation.  Dont fear, no harm

will come to those who are beyond the pain


of foresight. And hindsight serves no reason

for those that have forgotten.  Oh, we dance

upon petals of purity.  Seasons

change as minds set against the cruel romance


led astray by the cruel, bitter heckel

of the wild laughter of the winged jackal.







Swan Song (part of Mother’s Day Poem)

The cygnets slowly flow against the edge

Of bulrushes and thunder clouds, thinning

The darkened moods with hope.  This narrow ledge

I reflect upon.  My thoughts are spinning,

Pirouetting, ballet-Odettes dancing

Just beyond the reach of the outstretched  mind.

Such loveliness of sight, seven swanlings

Swimming between cob and pen.  Yes, mankind

Would do well to swim together:  defined

Harmony.  Disappears.  Seven become

Four grey graces turning white.  Unrefined

Foresight.  Impurities–the swan shrinks from.

The parents, sensing weakness in some young,

Swiftly neck them to keep the species strong.



*Thanks mother, for not being a swan.

Alone in the City

Once a man faces his own  back street mask

Folded thrice, ironed (and  hung with care to

Dry upon a cold steel stair out of reach),

Enduring the lone struggle of a task

Asked of the self, to be, and not to do

Degrading actions of those who teach

Endlessly the meanings of  compassion

Needless of  victims, then can he become

Devoid of  this assembled thoughtlessness.

A man sits in a dead-end alley.  Some

Lie has been spread, that he is dead. Though less

Lies are said:


Ernst contemplated the brick in the wall;

Yet insisted it didn’t exist at all.