Winter stark,
daily dark,
happiness slips away.
Born anew,
brighter hue,
joy is here to stay.

I’m always here.
I always know how you feel.
I always react to your every move.
I know when I should be quiet
And when I should approach.
I’m always watching your every move
And always know what you think.

I’m that little thought in the back of your mind.
The one that keeps you grounded
Or maybe tears you apart.
The one that will always haunt you
Or the one you think you’ll forget.

I’m the one you think you’re over
When you actually are not.
The one that will attack you
When you’re at your weakest moment

Creator I scan the pictogram again for signs of my missteps. The screw driver is depicted at such an awful angle my hands hurt in sympathy. The fluffy stuff I thought was flotsam had an essential purpose. Too bad.

The package is placed
on government-approved scales,
wrapped and addressed, when
comes the inevitable question:

"Are there any hazardous
or inflammatory items
contained herein?"

I hesitate to answer
because,
after all,
hidden behind enveloped paper
are

books.

Is Bukowski as dangerous
as Bakunin was?
If I send Vonnegut
or Solzhenitzyn,
am I guilty
of shipping sedition?

Transmitting thoughts
across state lines
could prove dangerous indeed,
especially since ideas
usually prove to be the real

Haunted by a Poem Someone I love has died. It's early morning. The coffee maker is playing Bach. He tells me you visited last night without telling me it was you. As soon as he said he could see only legs striding down the hall and his dog that jumped from bed and barked, once, twice? until somewhere along the french doors, you disappeared. He turned on his flashlight to view the room. I've been writing poetry, I confess to this son who is the engineer, for whom poetry is like this visitation.

I think of you in a depth of blue
Surrounded by an ocean and a fresh bouquet
To me,
You’re bulletproof
A new feeling greets me every time you cross my mind
I crossed my heart
I hope to die

I think of you in a shade of red
Honest to god I wish you had thought it through
To me,
You’re a vampire
A visit in the dark of night what’s mine is gone by daylight
I hear the bells ringing
I stay sleeping

I think of them in a sort of green
I have a pistol but there’s no lead
To me,
They’re foreigners

I am a walking contradiction But who isn't? We desire one thing but our actions elicit the truth Preaching our desires yet with venomous fire. Closing our ears to the other While screaming, we just want to be heard! Let us all learn to concede Add that to our resolutions. The New Year is upon us: To conquer the 'isms in the '18, Please forgive past transgressions, Form respectful recipricocal discussions In order to help one another grow, View them as lessons Maybe even blessings To prosper within A new year, better you, united as one Otherwise, we'll all remain a walking contradicting

Grand Guignol

The dead
are strolling among
the jagged rocks
beneath black umbrellas,
marking the desert landscape
like inky black dots upon
old parchment.

They have
no plan apparent,
wandering like old testament
extras through some
god-of-wrath’s barren movie set,
the sun harshly lighting
each scene.

The director
sits upon his dais just
out of the shot,
his directions falling upon
deaf ears, his leading man
and lady practicing their lines
in an air-conditioned trailer,
prophets on call.

Eventually his

Evolution implies there’s a link
between us and the germs in our sink;
    but my friend, rest her soul,
    had not washed her soup bowl,
and her kin bumped her off in a wink.

________________________________

(Appeared in The Asses of Parnassus)