In a world gone to 

hell your baptism of fire 

is but a burnt match 

A black squirrel shakes 

the tree limb til berries fall 

for its waiting kin  

Cherish mementos 

of these brief moments shared with 

no one but ourselves

You reflection is

deformed not be algae and 

peeling paint, but lies 

Interwoven lines

of lies and lover's wooing 

are poesy's perch   

Scorched earth bitten by

the sun and ravaged by man 

yearns for a rebirth 

This circus ain't got 

no bread, fun, nor daring-do,

just clowns and taxes 

Leggo my ego

he cried as the world snatched at 

his ineptitude 

The sound of rain so

soft, murmurs sweetly a tale 

of gentle slumber 

Tangled routes of torn

and twisted roadway before 

us will soon straighten

Narratives controlled

with sleight of hand while cameras 

roll all reek of spew

A slow drip of truth 

can't stand up to a tidal

wave of distortion 

Sometimes I like to 

say the least with the biggest 

amount of words (damn!) 

Reliquaries for

dreams delayed soon rust and crack, 

letting hope seep out 

From the mountaintop 

one can see them coming to

burn everything down 

Mazes and phases

you wandered through blindly towards 

some new horizon 

Raise a broken glass 

to our shattered psyches 

and the lost causes 

They told me stories 

of the village's past with

wistful pride of place 

Super villains had

it right, maybe, in regard 

to ending the world 

An Aztec jade skull

I saw as a child still haunts;

beauty and horror 

Drink and sup and make 

merry before the sun comes up

to drag us all down 

Whether a trick of 

the eye or a mental lapse 

a stranger appears 

In dappled light the 

squirrels play among the trees, 

shaking the branches 

Beginnings tend to 

be easier then endings,

such as this haiku 

Flippant flowers bloom

but briefly with delicate

allure before death 

Bastions for beasts with 

brutal intentions begin 

to slowly crumble  

She walks with me tho 

her spirit was commended 

to you long ago 

Let's construct a new 

world from the bones of the old

men who betrayed us 

The tiny pansies 

cower from the old roses 

covered in sharp thorns 

Straight and narrow or

a twisted path lead to the 

same darkened doorway

Night falls slowly in

summer when the sun doesn't 

want to go to bed