Urban jungle roosters,
born again scarecrow to untutored city eyes,
tawny pipit stonewall gap nest  dweller,
jet black Inca dove bereft of dovetail,
on a croque monsieur idle bone grub crawl,
mother hen to sandy brown and velvet bill,
gazer from an nearby creak,
recent rural migrant now a tree house side kick.
Chickadee a late date sitter on this air flock beaky natter or tweet between the  ice float,
edgy grey day species wield their feathers like a an orthopaedic surgeon and his spatula when  scraping rancid bark off windmill
elm trees.

Space at a premium
in our apartment
lettered and numbered b44
at Highland Manor,
cuz the spouse
heavily trends toward disorderliness.

She readily admits her predilection
to disavow being a neatnik,
yet owns the capacity
getting down to brass tacks
to tidy up whenever the warden
who rivals the military police
announces requisite inspection.

We dread unwelcome visits
courtesy management triumvirate
whereby anticipatory anxiety
put on high alert,
especially when management
gives less than a week

What blow could break these walls,
their stone volcano-forged and giant-thrown?
What warrior could scale them –
cliff-high and barbed with battlements?
This citadel defied all comers;
bruised by missiles,
flame-charred, siege strangled
it endured ...
                        ... to no avail.
See, those cyclopean blocks
are rent and ruined,
porous to whoever comes or goes.
What army overthrew them?
What apocalyptic force

There was a man who had no plan
   and didn’t know the route,
who squandered all the season’s haul
   and ran off, destitute.
His ice cream truck never made a buck
   from famished girls and boys
who heard its chime, but had no dime
   for what every kid enjoys.

A brand-new-comer for the summer,
   he cast a magic spell —
a vanilla beam of dog-day gleam.
   On catching his mellow bell,
the moms complained and hoped it rained
   but sadly it never did.

She was very strange, and beautiful,
like a violet mist enshrouding hills
before night falls
when the hoot owl calls
and the cricket trills
and the envapored moon hangs low and full.

She was very strange, in her pleasant way,
as the hummingbird
flies madly still ...
so I drank my fill
of her every word.
What she knew of love, she demurred to say.

She was meant to leave, as the wind must blow,
as the sun must set,
as the rain must fall.
Though she gave her all,
I had nothing left ...
Yet I smiled, bereft, in her receding glow.

I have seen it all,
From inside out and from outside in
and found a vast array of pros and cons—
Which ones to embrace, which ones to discard.

The many faces of fate
The many facets of faith 
I have seen the many traits of friendship
The many aspects of love
The many quirks of time
The many blessings and the curse of life
The mystic and the finality of death,

I have seen it all…
The many flaws and foibles of man
The absence, the secrecy, the silence of God!

MUTE MAY SUIT

I don’t need no artificial inspiration
Prompts and images, other verses
When enough naturally occurs to me
Or a beautiful view I can plainly see
Just a glimpse of psychiatric nurses
In this locked room with no salvation

Of course I can sit quiet and think
When refused sharp objects like a pen
So thoughts get written in my mind
Difficult to remember, as I often find
Just close my eyes and count to ten
This often returns me to the brink

Telescopic lungs
    intermingle
The sea
    whispers
The air
    hisses
Younger men, fewer and fewer,
Are keen to know, to hear, to dwell in the brown autumnal veins of dry grass.
Who can be deserving, whose bloodline brings the heartiest handshake, and whose capacity to forget is unsurpassable?
Her vehement desire cannot protect her as a raincoat.
Her lungs
    breathe
in a mushroom’s
    spores.