Sunlight crawls along my window
with cat paws and purring ice.

Even the queen of daylight
prefers shades of green to
the moldy gray clouds
hanging from her eyelashes.

It is ironic that a step out my door
there is no warmth in the golden orb’s
caress, yet a wink through glass
is as warm as the blanket I dream beneath.

Too cold to do more
than reach for imagination
I watch a small spider make
its trek across a windowpane and wonder
if the silk threads of its web are
a vain attempt to knit a sweater for the sun.

dead tree limbs
peer into a lake mirror
hoping for one more spring

gray clouds smudge
the water with prayer

my gut’s opinion
warred with my love sick pining
surviving myself

(Senryū)

Fame
shines with
bright artificial light
in the valley of
narcissism.

(Elfchen)

A thesaurus

is a devilish
device

to soften maleficence
by the innocuous choice of ill.

(Cherita)

Traffic is flowing at parking
lot speed, happy isn’t on
the windshield, and horns
sound like seagulls fighting
over a single *******.

In the rush to everywhere
we sit in the nowhere any
of us wants to be praying
we’ll get just one more
car length closer to an exit.

The standstill bullies humor
dependent on a clock that
keeps ticking away any promise
we’d be on time for an appointment.

Sitting in faux metal plastic
we act like we are the only
set of wheels the pavement needs to feed.

Today I hung laundry
on wire and dust.

Saw mudpies
drying on a shelf.

Cursed mulberry
stains on linoleum.

I didn’t know an ordinary day
with my three little girls

was passing beneath
the shadow of an eraser.

It’s just me, out of my mind
sipping on helium, pondering
why a tuna fish sandwich
is on a vegan menu, and how
to install a security system on
a dollhouse without a door
or glass on the windows.

I’m not pretty when I’m backed
in a corner, but hey, there are
those who don’t listen when
I say my vocabulary has teeth.

There aren’t any caution signs
on a poet … They can hop from
a flower poem to beneath an umbraculum
so dark with honesty a reader will
seek a priest even if they’re not catholic.

So if you don’t have a tornado shelter,
don’t create the storm … I’m not pretty
when backed in a corner, and not timid
about writing with my teeth.

the night whispers the black water fall of ashes
that bloom into the sparrows of sorrow...


the sorrow sparrows are back again
sitting in the tangled woods of twisted trees.

Van Gogh heard their voices
bouncing off love's walls.

the sorrow sparrows are leaning into me.
my sad eyes, dream of you brother.

I lean into the soft lit room
searching for love's quiet hours,
with sunlight flickering through willow trees.

"don't cry, darlin," my wife whispers.