As a kid I killed 

time but its ghost has come back

to haunt and hound me

The old tug straining 

to push its load against the 

Hudson's tide prevails 

Like catching flies with

chopsticks, the pen tries to pin

down these flitting thoughts 

Sometimes synapses 

fail to fire or maybe

it's just a tied tongue 

These forgotten lines 

from an unwritten poem

haunt memory's halls 

The mournful cry of 

the lonely loon emerges 

from misty water  

No rest for dreamers 

when wraiths whisper in the dark 

of what lies beneath 

Sun slants through water

as I float weightless, eyes closed, 

and forget again 

Slip off your skin and

slither towards a brighter dawn 

among the bleached bones 

Entertain at all 

cost for the colosseum

needs constant red meat

A season's end brings

a wild desire for change as

the wind murmurs 'go'

Where are the poets

and artists and outcasts who 

once guided us home? 

Composed on a run 

amid fluttering thoughts like

morning crows' chatter 

Shadows cast upon 

an electronic wall still

lie, as Plato knows 

Salt may sting your wound

but it also enlivens 

your drab sustenance 

The blank page bursts in 

a flash of creative fire  

before fizzling out 

 A familiar voice 

across miles and years here to

brighten dull days (daze)

Wandering artists

have become cloistered monks who

still yearn for the road 

Laugh past the graveyard

at your own peril for one 

day there you'll seek rest 

The house long shuttered 

reemerges from slumber 

with a broom and mop 

The echoes carry 

deluding us as to what 

is here or distant 

As with the wait for

the pain from a new gash so

is our existence 

Beams burst through thick clouds

illuminate the once roiled

water, now placid 

Sheets of rain like tears

on paper where words lie that 

tear hearts asunder 

A panoply of

hoots, chortles, and chirps greets the

rising sun today 

Bad barracuda 

rarely bites humans, too bad, 

we need the lesson 

Once they derided 

and spat on you; today they 

proclaim your genius

Rose of Sharon has

not the orchid's sway, but still

stuns in full array 

There is an artist 

who makes sculptures that fit on

the head of a pin 

Turn a corner and

hit a wall or discover 

a new path ahead

In deep recesses 

where the mind fears to tread lie

brutal, vicious truths