On the verge of a 

breakthrough or breakdown we weave 

through dark passages 

Fresh bright snow sullied 

with road grime, splashed by passing

cars like scars on youth 

 A crow sits at the

tree's crown under a blazing 

blue sky judging all 

Everything's broken 

by design yet the spirit

resists their scheming 

Rusty swords rattled 

until they snap leaving just 

empty vain gestures 

Broken bell towers

fail to call the faithful to

defend city walls 

Clamps on jaws creak, warp,

and finally snap with a roar 

from the dispossessed 

Unfortunately, 

product placement is hard in 

poetry (drink Coke!) 

Toss the problems like

so much snow onto the pile

teetering above

A broken smile, not

a sneer, but edging closer 

with each new trauma 

Rain's patter gives way

to torrents, little rivers 

heading to the sea 

 It's Tuesday and I'm 

sipping tea thinking of home 

with parades and drinks

You can spend your life
between parentheses or
become the main clause

Drop kick the bucket

and push against the dark til

morning sunshine beams

Lovelorn or love lost

or busted flat by beaten 

hearts, you can still learn

Petals drop from the 

flower as nature's clock ticks

off waning days 

Rage against the sea

change from amber waves of grain 

to those of hatred 

Wandering the maze 

within, minotaurs appear 

with each memory 

Long knives glint coldly 

waiting for backs to turn and

reveal weaknesses 

The wire between self-

obsession and destruction 

is thin and wobbly  

Bitter roots can heal 

although the medicine may

stick in your gullet 

The tide will rise and

rise and eventually 

rinse away the stains 

Your tattered flag, broke

down bridges, and trash-filled streets

are exceptional 

The nails need trimming

the face needs a shave and the 

mind needs sharpening 

Your wit and wisdom 

lost on these feckless fools at

least gives us some hope 

- An ode to U.S District Judge Fred Biery

In the cold silence 

creek ice cracking and your own

breathing consume all 

Pecuniary 

pimps pump and dump while the poor 

work for the grave 

Oh give me Coney 

Island on a summer's day 

instead of upstate snow