SCORN, lemming’s rush of recrimination, whose hostile
REIGN blankets all our time in unlifting fog, will not last. This
EPOCH will vanish, the air will clear, eyes will behold all beauty. The
FIGHT to know you and me beloved to each other will not seem a fight, just the short waiting before dawn.

Time out of Joint

GLOBE theater, the restless crowd was
BRACEd for camp and bawd, felt time stop, alter course. Hamlet in
FILET collar saw the ghost; on his sword Horatio and Marcellus
SWORE silence. Yet secrets force their telling–his time now runs toward dreaming in the undiscovered land.

Winter be not Proud

LEAFY spring full blooms soon, though winter’s farewells can yet TAUNT. Hellebores and phlox caution winter: “You reckon
BADLY, you overstay”. The sun brawls back, lengthening days, then
MAIZE will plant late spring and herald the sun kingdom, the bask of summer.

Fix it in Post

TENET of modern living: we’ll clean this up in the
MOVIE version with soaring soundtrack. What seems
CHORE, repetitive, graceless, dull, will seem
SMART, suffused with beauty, when the notes tug at hearts.

DIY Jungle

PLUMP for “Rainforest at Home”! Spare no
FRILL! Tame a tapir, perch a silly grinned
SLOTH—slowly, mind you—in a leafy
FICUS crown. Wear a pith helmet to bed!


RASPY voices from the corner table: Joe and his
BUDDY Sal come every morning, for a
DONUT and black coffee. Joe’s dog Max,
DROOLs, waiting for crumbs, mostly patient on the cool tile under the table.

A New Genre

MOSSY stones by brook, sun glinting through the trees. A
MOVIE would not linger–this is just a setting for people.
SCOPE for nature is as backdrop, or a place to get lost. What
GENRE can depict the Spirit moving in the trees?

Hannibal on the March

RANGE: 2 stadia, the whole legion prone for ambush in
THIGH high grass–still close, can count elephants by the
TRUNK. It’s one thing to dream of fighting. Even
MANLY soldiers get shaky when they see Carthage on the march.


SCALE into the blue and white on hints of air,
BLAST as slope gives way above, glimpse of death’s curtain falling,
FLUNG off slope, yet held by rope, choking in a waterfall of snow,
FUZZY thoughts and shakes in the quiet that follows.

Witness Joy

SHACK in the foot hills, far from city and its king:
BORNE the sometime tramp of soldiers border bound, a
MINOR life is life, with little to defend, rather to
STORE–to witness–the joy there is, counting the blooms of a new spring.