Time and applied ethics
measure out the daze
while I have amplified
both inner and outer gaze.

A Wish

There is nothing scary about a wish, except that sometimes
it comes true. It’s as though, by sheer will power, we’ve changed
the rules
the future fraught with what we thought.
Getting our wish, we may have made someone else sad or angry or
count for naught.Wishes are selfish and dangerous and unfortunately a lot like hopes.
Hopes are what make us keep going. Hopes are dreams brought into the
Light of day. Hopes are games we need to play. Hopes are humankind’s
Real way to pray.
I wish . . . ?

 Inside this self on a wooden shelf,
lit darkly
and oh so dusty,
lies the truthful me,
the really me,`
the one that I could really be.

Have you 

ever thought
“A slice of you could
Grow a clone”
“Maybe two, . . .
Each with lives
They could grow
Alone?
you could sin
They atone.”
Have you ever thought . . . Ah well, from here on in you’re on your own

Glad Roses

I can fix sad roses . . ., she says

And her smile confirms
Like rain on the earth
That indeed sad roses
Is familiar turf.

But it’s not so easy
This task in my mind
The world with its roses
Is definitely blind.

They’re scentless you see
And sad for that reason
These roses I give
No matter the season.

So it isn’t the wilt from
Stem to the hilt
Nor the mad range of
Colors that drives me so sad.

But the lack of a scent
And the image it recalls
That hammers at my heart and
Raises all my walls.

I can fix sad roses

Her smile supposes . . .

As she arrays them in a vase
Then turns and pauses
At the frown she can see
Is still on my face.

So she takes my hand and
Pulls me in a way
That suggests dancing
As we begin to sway.

And it’s then that my senses
Pick up the scent
Of timeless embraces
And memories well spent.

I can fix sad roses.
I can her voice murmur . . .

And her smile is my smile as we waltz down the aisle
And the laughter we hear
Is from a child at play

Or a family gathered
At the end of the day.

And the roses are real
Red, white, and yellow
And the music is moving
And her touch smooth and mellow.

And its night on our porch swing
In a light breeze
And the roses are shadows . . .
With a backdrop of trees.

Making sense

 is what we do
2 plus 2 and blue is blue.
Still, when I love you’s the deal
making sense is so untrue.
Human insight messed by love
Scrambles thought waves
like a ball struck dove.
Making sense don’t make me laugh.
To be alive is a constant thrash.
She says, I say
Come on Babe,

Trust me , I’m your slave.
Making sense don’t be a fool
All it does is leave you screwed.

Country like . . .

Sweat drops drip
The band tests its sound
Crowd of talk bubbles all around.
Sweat drops leak down my arm
Like an ant’s swift scurrying,
Like a baby’s soft drool,
Like a chick’s first stirrings
In the embryonic pool.
The murmur of talk, the mumble of drums,
Laughter rafters, guitar player’s strum.
Hot breeze and dust motes
Soft like light
Filter through the tree tops,
Dapple my sight.
Two steppers dance
The dust begins to whirl.
He and she enhanced,
It all begins to swirl.
Eyes look left,
Smile sees right.
It’s Honky Tonk music and `
Dance all night.

Puce

“Puce”
is what Bobby Joe
would yell
as we lined up
at scrimmage and
dropped down into our stance.
He meant
he was going to take
my guy on a
crossblock. I,
I was to get his.
Somewhere around
the second time
Bobby Joe yelled
my guy began bailing
out.
Bobby Joe, he just
retired from the FBI.“Puce”
Said Bobby Joe as
He laughed and then told me
He’s the one who stomped
My hand in our last football game.

“Puce” says Bobby Joe at our thirty year reunion,
As he smiles and seems so absolutely sure
That this is a war we can win.

As
Yellow Ribbons gather on the trees and,
Yellow ribbons garnish their sleeves.
As blood becomes the red
You spill in war
And colors are what
Dead eyes can see
No more.
So yellow ribbons
Wrap the trees while
Bombs blast the sand
To its knees
Countries begin to sew
Yellow ribbons to the body bags,
Let yellow ribbons become
Refugee rags,
And remember that dead yellow
Eyes can not see their
Own toe tags.

“Puce.”