Her body and mind 

began to fail but her faith

remained to the end 

The fire ripped through

the house so fast but now cars 

pass slowly, gawking 

 No time to mourn since

there's work to be done and little 

space for the dead 

Did you see the world

through rose-tinted glasses, a 

pint glass, or cracked pane? 

More and more and more 

won't fill the chasm but we  

keep trying with more 

There is no we in 

mine but if you don't share it

could be a minefield 

 

Broken machines we

are as we gather dust on

some back shelf, waiting

I have no idea 

what this will turn out to be — 

ah, nothing really 

The tightrope sways and

vibrates, but the artist holds

fast and breathes deeply 

Life's little troubles

can oftentimes feel like death 

by a thousand cuts 

At a distance the 

branch looks bare but there are signs

of life: small green buds 

Carve out time for friends 

for they will — if they are friends —

repay the gesture

The highly hoped for 

day came and went and nothing

changed (as usual)

Truer than truth is

what we project, just don't 

get caught in a lie 

Whirling dervishes 

converse with God in movement 

while I watch TV

We replace teddy 

bears with vices, toys for so

called truth and for what? 

Silly and stupid,

useless, really, but what's the 

harm in writing this

The signs were all there 

but dazed by diversions we

parked on the train tracks  

The naked king so

convinced of his fine clothes is

our entire world 

 Like a sliver you

just can't get out, this sentence

will stick in your head 

The poet transmutes

complaints into couplets and

moping to meter 

Channel your anger 

into something useful like 

supervillains do 

Had Sysphus joined 

a union, the Gods would have 

had to provide breaks  

I used to devour

excuses like bags of chips,

my brain soft, squishy  

 The brave daffodil 

peeks out hoping spring has come

but finds late snowstorms  

The dark mysteries 

of creation sometimes show

a glimpse, hint, a path 

The old actor said

it's possible to have our

best ideas at eighty 

What appears random 

may hold a secret order

to be deciphered 

The highs never last

like the lows, so tenacious

those tentacles cling

They turned the skating

rink into a gun range; the 

perfect metaphor. 

Pink Floyd's song about 

missing the starting gun still 

haunts him, pushes him