poetry

Mother Earth

Mother Earth loves her children like no other. She pulls us close– an attraction lawful. No mass within her orbit resists the pull. She is unmoved by leaps of faith. Flights of fancy or physics all land or crash.

Ho, ho, ho

Pandemics aren’t funny. Sure, people still chuckle. There are jokes. Some are almost good. But the news novacaines my brain. I am desperate to let go some glorious, gawdawful guffaw that for one niggling nanosecond negates the numbness.

The Poet Terrorist

words wound. phrases fillet. like bombs they burst the heaving heart and shrapnel-shred the decency of slumber. verbs vivisect, their violence vast. and one naught notices what nouns name until the now there is no unknowing.

My family and I have been involved theatre and music for a very long time. Indeed, my wife and I met in a production of “South Pacific” with the Georgetown Gilbert & Sullivan Society (GG&SS).

Heroics

Some rascal or rogue Stashed kryptonite Upon my person. Perhaps in that fingertip pocket of my Levi’s, Or the underside of the spare button on that green and black plaid shirt, Or the tunnel in my underwear that no man uses I assure you but most boys try at least once.

Goad Gunner

taunts of bad hair boy-men transfix the play yard. mine is bigger. no mine. look. there is no alternative channel for the cartoon among nations. our smiley wiley has chased some tail feather off a cliff and stands now unbound by ground, animation suspended.

Speedy Recovery

The tools of the do-it-yourself surgeon vary in sharpness. Some glint in just that light, and cut in their fashion, but how deeply or cleanly only the scar will tell.

Fourth and long

sometimes late in the 4th quarter you're down a score, out of timeouts, and it's 4th and long. on the line is your whole season or your job or your life.

Delightful delusion

oh my, yes. I oh so wanted to see a tuxedo, penguin crisp, satin shiny, pseudo-sparkle when he sauntered by us peons, clinging to such rags as misfortune left in her cloud of dust and tears.

Promise

I flare my talons and prepare to strike, but only in defense. I sharpen my beak, but only in warning. I am your presidential detail, your Secret Service. Vigilant. Committed. I seek out bullets fired in your direction by indifferent snipers and absorb their impact with joy.