Awaiting Winter



My garden has died.

Nearing Autumn I look behind to a garden
dry and withering
from lack of care.

Ahead, asphalt and weariness; painful, uncomfortable interactions with people I haven’t a care for.

This heart, frosted over in cynicism, but for those familiar.
The ones I aim to keep close.

I await winter.


Amoeba – poem

water run broken by walls and falls;
twin springs, splitting into lower Sager
the inner core of an amebic entity

Historic, uphill, downhill
waves of asphalt and green space
families play, ducks delay

bridges bridge
steps, they climb
A bike goes by.

The shell of this:
gritty–a mealy mouth of
CO2, trucks spitting diesel fumes
asphalt and gravel; casino lights,

Beckon neon
of fast food joints.
don’t so much hide the killers.
But gloss them, wax ’em up
real good.

Make it easier going down.


Experimental – poetry?

Sophia non grata


from Latin Sophism means ‘not with joy’.

In the modern definition, a sophism is a confusing or illogical argument used for deceiving someone. Most would translate: To deceive without joy.

In Greece at the time of Herodotus, the term Sophia or Sophos was used to mean, wisdom or ‘of wisdom’.

Today, the full translation of Sophia non grata into English would be wisdom without joy.


A part at the center of human,
undone by understanding of truth
made fallacy turns to magma.

Where is us?
Was human,
Truly human?

Diogenes, the tubbed.
A human dog, cared less for man
Because he owned light.

One cannot shame him,
without casting a shadow
on their own character.

A dog he was.
But more than human.
And a dog with a light.

A bookish place – poem

I suppose this place,
A place of Twin Springs
and the Upper Sager

and the Lower Sager
Near the library,
the eternal, endless
passages of books

A place where we can sit
with toes in the water
feet nibbled by fish.

This is a place for the bookish.

To walk along paved walks,
ran and cycled, on their way
to those book lined alleys.

I, on my way back,
up the stairs, along
the curved path
to my small room.

To read in peace,
look out the window
watch feral cats and boys
dancing on painted, wooden
trolleys. Jumping curbs.

There is no place better
that I can see.
Not a place with gold-lined,
spotless streets.

For my bookish ways,
my bookish eyes,
my love of the page
blank and otherwise,
are meant for a bookish place.

Morning haiku

I began writing haiku a few weeks ago as a morning exercise to get juices flowing.

Some of these are a result.


Morning Storm

water puddling
catching reflections above
thundering sky cracks


Clouds ripping through sky
pattering drops overhead
dripping world below


Summer Morning

wind pushing branches
green limbs clawing for freedom
touching sky with hope
trembling windblown limbs
touch sky with reverent hope
Earth calls weary home
Early summer day
April beckons spring weather
refusing the call


Haiku 2

Liquid like jelly
tentacles reaching out
ocean parts quickly
Tentacled jelly
moving through amber
luminescent pod


craggy solid rock
Sunrise plays shadowy tune
waves lap at shoreline

atop slanted stem
yellow button screams delight
gale blusters through field


Machine – a poem


Efficient engine
mighty joint cogs spin,
leg wheels turn
Silver fist, (ex)Pounding law.

Eye lights, purple, blue flash
scintillating, hypnotizing
Shining, false sun into faces

blips beeps burst
positive rumblings
of signals and warnings:

Individu-speak, not.
Truth-speak, not.
bright awards await.

Thumping roars caution
for meek meanderings.

Great Machine moves, rising.
governing, decreeing,
dominating, formulating
plans, scripts, normalcy.

Gilded drones manacled atop
lashed by illusions
mad with abundant need
Ants oiling sprockets.

directing, buckled down
stamping, tamping
Commanding, demanding.

Therego, they who run
in ragged robes
Utterances of truth
on tongue.

Freedom ahead
watched by envious eyes.
Deprived bread and book
Feasting on dandelion.

And there, look there you.
men, women, children
ground down, voided.
venerating the iron heel
of the machine.

Look there you.