Role Model

SCOUR the world for own advantage.
BLUSH never, say sorry never, admit other views never,
WHINE, claim persecution, slap twice for every slap.
ELIDE at every turn every glint of good a life might reflect.


I BLUSH that we, as humans, easily accept the
WHINE, the relentless head-drilling drone that
SCOURs our ears of Nature’s sounds as here we
wait on the frigid East Wind-facing hELIDEck.       

Photo: Ken Doerr

The Lull of Plush Living

QUASI ok life is mine, but there’s the rub.
PLUSH life, enough comforts, enough pleasures to feel plush. Yet:
CHUTE of life is one way and steep. So which to emphasize?
SOAPY baths, long and plush, or a cold shower that wakes me up to present, to eternity?

Sodden brain

sudden PLUSH of rushing shower water
CHUTEs down on me, and shoot! suddenly
I’m SOAPY. It’s too much. The plush and the chute
make me QUASI, or some might say, queasy.


DEUCE! My once perfectly-structured
CHEST has grown, or rather my tum; I cannot get my
PARKA on. My wife, she says I am a foodie
BEAST, a bottom-feeding sluicer-upperer, a garden
SHRUB that spreads beyond its designated space, a
SPINY anteater of a man, sucking up everything on my plate.
NOISY! She says, as I eat, holding her ears. My  
CREDO is: ‘A man cannot fully grow a  
BUSHY beard without food and food abundant.’ A
YOUNG child would see through this nonsense, a child
BELOW three even. A sticky-faced child seated in a high
CHAIR. The deuce! I cannot get my parka on!

[The result of unexpectedly missing two days]