My Poetry

Dual Images

Is God a lofty, lethal monarch

Enthroned amongst a white-garbed host

His eagle eye probing the shadows

Of a wobbling globe clutched in his palm

A mighty mallet raised at ready

To mete out punishment where due

The price of true eternal freedom

A lifetime’s dose of misery?

And who might heed some wailing prayer

If it should chance to catch His ear

Who clenching tight that fragile globe

Fingering its blights, proclaims

In a thunderous baritone

“A troublesome invention, this!

Michael, take thy gleaming blade

And mend what sinners set amiss”?

Or might God be a roving minstrel

Spry of step and swift in song

Frisking along snaking trails

That by His very hands were wrought

Unfurling some infectious strain

Of melody across the land

That tickles curiosity

And lures man ever on and on?

And are you then a follower

Who has caught a snatch of its refrain

Who steals along sinuous paths

Pursuing the elusive player

And thirsting for that moment

That breathing, throbbing, thriving moment

When you may step in tune?

Published in WestWard Quarterly, a national literary magazine

Reduction

You’ve sketched the world in charcoal

An elaborate machine

Of mathematical precision

Devoid of mystery

Every cherished desire

A mere neuron’s firing

An answer to each query

For every lock, a key.

But your sketch will never rob

An emerald blade of grass

Of its tender, trembling growth

Nor banish the exuberance

Of a sparrow’s lilting ditty

Nor steal the blazing warmth

Of a mother’s gaze

As she clasps her newborn child.

You’ve sketched the world in charcoal

But only grasped its shadow.

Cedar and Poplar in Winter

The cedar is

Nobility

A lady draped in verdant lace

Shrugging from a clinging cape of snow

Tossing whorls of chalky white

Fluttering delicate fingers

As she trembles in the wind

Murmuring its lilting tune

Clasping in her soft embrace

The glittering globe of ice.

The poplar is

A warrior

A soldier stripped of luxury

Trapped in a shell of craggy armor

Brittle in the frosty breeze

Lost in half-forgotten memories

Of grassy knolls and gurgling streams

Reaching for these whispered dreams

Reaching skeleton hands to clutch

At the misty shrouds of the sky.

Published in The Acorn, a national literary magazine

The Blizzard Cat

A pallid wildcat

Claws unsheathed

Rakes against the panes

Breathing fog

Etching wintery imagery

On misty glass

Muscles rippling

The leopard leaps

Scaling treetops

Rattling branches

Whirling across fields

Screaming savagery

Until sunlight spreads

Its warm caress

Combing fingers

Through icy fur

Murmuring comfort

Then, pacing softly

Panting feebly

The blizzard cat yawns

And meekly curls

Into frosty slumber.

Origami Crane

A square, a fold, a crease, release

A figure of geometry

A paper, gold and frosty white

An afternoon of artistry

For watchful eyes and thoughtful minds

For fingers fast and fidgety.

A thought, a dream, a reverie

Of a figure cloaked in snowy down

With trimming black as ebony

With slender neck and folded wings

And dark eyes scanning artfully

Haunting verdant, misty waters

For fishes swift and silvery

Searching, sighting, chasing, striking

In complete tranquility.

A press, a fold, a crease, release

The paper tucks peculiarly

Yet the crooked hands are gliding

With quick and sure agility

A polygon, a tweak, a tug

A bird emerges gracefully

Serene, austere, and dignified

With wings outstretched triumphantly

From head to tail, from tip to tip

From fold to fold, undoubtedly

A figure small, complex, complete

In its unblemished symmetry.

Published in WestWard Quarterly, a national literary magazine

Romancing a River

You say he lingers, searching, yearning

But I am the river; who shall seize me?

I vanquish mighty boulders

With frothy laughter in my wake.

You say he reaches, deft and supple

But I am the arrow; who shall catch me?

The world stands frozen, a feeble witness

As I strike the heart of my quarry.

You say he clutches, firm, unyielding

But I am fire; who shall grasp me?

My darting flames scorch towering oaks

And swathe the land in ash.

But now he crouches, silent, anchored

Hands cupped; the river trickles in

Mirroring a piercing, fathomless gaze

And I go still.

Song of the Sidewalk

There’s a bounce in my toes

And wind in my hair

As my sandals seek out

The morning’s cadence

The hum of a motor

The yap of a spaniel

The melody of sunshine

Melting on rooftops

Tinkling bells

As a door swings ajar

Chiming a tune

Of clinking glasses

Of muffled voices

Of laughter and mocha lattes

Joined by a new pulse

Like a base cello

Wafting low and vibrant

From the street corner

Your tempo

Let it mingle with mine

As I dance across

The gap of silence

And glide into

Your singing eyes.

Published in The Storyteller, an international literary magazine

To Waltz with a Comma

Let us dance

My frolicsome comma

Waltzing our way

Through capering clusters

Of conjunctive clauses

And prepositional phrases.

O pious period

Pray, chaperone us

And bid us halt

Should our dance degrade

Into frivolous

Run-on sentences.

I crave thy company

Fair exclamation point

Your dramatic dips

And sensational spins

Leave me panting

For pause.

How could I forget thee

Reticent question mark?

Amidst sinuous twirls

You freeze like a statue

And force me to finish

My dance alone.

Published in WestWard Quarterly, a national literary magazine