Touch wood, a touchstone

of faith, for coming days that

the world keeps turning 

The brushes, choked with 

dried paint, sit disused in an

empty jar, forlorn 

A fecund feast waits

to be plucked ripe from the vine

and devoured, savored 

Through the broken glass

a ruin that once held laughter

now only holds ghosts 

The final petal 

falls from the orchid in a 

death so delicate  

The minotaur was 

as lost in the labyrinth

as Theseus was

 

Scrape your nails against

the edges of the dark pit 

you dug over years 

Burnished and bright once

not long ago now blistered 

and twisted by hate 

Beauty in broken

glass or bones or dreams can be 

found if you look hard

When you stand still the 

crowd can finally catch up 

and call you a bum 

The eagle's squawk don't

sound like no Hollywood sort 

cuz truth don't sell, son 

The surf rolls in on

the darkened beach as we sit

staring into space  

Bring that beat back—bam!—

oh man, it's good, but it makes

 me feel so damn old 

The stately Osprey 

is awkward in water yet

she still gets her fish  

Luminous sunset

in prismatic glory reigns 

before the end comes 

The wolves at the door 

don't bother to knock; they sit

patiently waiting 

The crows have returned 

and with cawing chorus cry

of better days soon 

With blinders on we
see a shining future, not
blighted land about

The flame burns bright 

til swiftly snuffed out turning

to ribbons of smoke 

The brittle pages 

yellowed, drop from a book of

words no one cares for 

Sneak thief comes in the 

night to steal dreams and drop dead 

desires in their place 

The bird's call ushered

in locked away memories 

of lost summer days  

Waiting for the rain

to stop to run to the next

safe spot, then repeat

Another dull day 

accented solely by cross

words and quiet hurt 

When the old poet 

died, the plaudits flowed, but I 

knew him, the bastard  

Bloviate and prance 

while bedlam and affliction 

bloom amid hoopla

Once we were wolves

dancing in moonlight til dawn

now curled by the fire

Amid the rocket's

red glare a history soaked

in blood quickly fades 

Wastrels run amok

trampling long-standing rulings

smirking, smug firebugs 

They want a king til

his hangman comes a calling

with a list in hand 

Demon dream eaters

mild-mannered and unaware

crunch wants like candy