There is no letting go

one musty, mildewed box and then another

are pulled from rafters high above

they land with definitive thuds

dust clouds disguise desire for home

with trembling hands he unpacks meaning

carefully layered in its tissue of lies

as the bones of early days

rattle in time to his failing mantras

of why and how not

what need has he of people

when around him still dwell

souls whom others claim are since long-gone?



she no longer knows

what the wooden box holds

where once it held mementoes

the unwritten pages of courage and sorrows

it now gathers tattered, fading petals

cherished letters duly sprinkled

with dust, the withered ink

long since dry


Out of Context

Distorted specters of human flesh fused to scale and wing, claw and beak;

bleeding saints tipped into flame by double-headed, horned shades.

Their nightmare visions escape our present-day understanding, although

history opines that people then deemed eyes for eyes as justice well served.

Was it brought upon by churchly fathers fostering fear to dominate?

Or based on actual happenstance of bloody, vengeful, lordly acts?

Methinks the scribblings of today are no less filled with skulking demons.


just another . . .

and each year

i say

not this year

and the next year

i say it again


and each year

i leave


and frayed

in arid despair


and each year

i solemnly

swear to stand

firm and kind

not brittle and bare


and each year

i humbly


how failure

haunts me yet


and each year

i dare

to fantasize

that next year

will beget more charity


Parallel Play

A generation locked in parallel play;

moving in a perfect skein.

The V-formation

of their intertwined lives

not truly lived,

now digitally defined.

I see it happening

day by day

as I walk beside the lake . . .

a pair, a trio, a quartet, still more

of friends and lovers barred from hearing

their treasured companion

eyes locked on a screen

fingers methodically scanning.

A generation locked in parallel play;

moving in a perfect skein.


Amidst the rejoicing, remember this . . .

This Easter has been a bit busy with family, so I am re-posting something apropos that I wrote a while back. He is Risen. Let’s not re-bury him, this year.


The lilies of the field, how handsomely clothed! Yet, they toil not.

Should you do more?

A sparrow falls to the ground! I see it’s limp, lifeless form.

Why, then, do you cry?

A woman’s essence drains and drips. I plug the hole.

And yet, you scorn whom I heal?

I call into the caucusing storm: Feed my people!

And you respond: Let us go!

A withered hand reaches, trembling. I re-form its broken shape.

You decry the miracle in your eyes.

Two fear-full, fear-filled men threaten safe passage. I cast the demons out. You send me away.

Thousands gather in hope and hunger. From a loaf and few fishes, all are fed. And still, you doubt.

I call into the caucusing storm: Feed my people!

And you respond: Let us go!

Outcast beggars stumble in sightless dark. I bring light to the world.

You close your eyes to vision.

Caverns of silent stone hold captive  tongues. I make them  hear and speak. You turn away.

Unfruited fig tree withers in shame. I curse it in your stead.

You can, too, but fail to understand.

I call into the caucusing storm: Feed my people!

And you respond: Let us go!

A grieving widow’s tears land softly on the bier. I call her son to rise.

You feel no fear.

A desolate father pleads for his daughter. I bade her waken, open eyes.

You recoil in gleeful laughter.

The priest shrieks in pain. From dripping blade, I return his ear. Enough, I say! Listen, hear my words.

I have called over time into the caucusing storm: Feed my people!

And still you respond: Let us go!