"What is truth?" old Pontius said;
Washing his hands, the Truth he fled.
"Had I been there, the Truth I'd bear,"
Some proudly claim with foolish air.
Yet Truth still holds old Pont to blame,
And you and I must share his shame.
Disciples fled; they hid in fear;
Peter lied, and he was there.
Why would I think that I'd be brave,
Though sometimes pious, still a slave?
The weakest ones find strength if we
Kneel low to Truth on humbled knee.
(12-7-21)

I like to chase the words across the screen,
Charging forth and three steps back,
Blink the cursor's slim thin line when seen...
Remove, replace my thoughts in black.

A pen in hand was all I had, and everything
I'd ever need to pen my thoughts --
But keyboards hooked themselves to screens
And all my scribbling was for naught.

So now I stare into a dim lit world and write.
My poesy sparks ecstatic to see electrons play,
Dancing through my fingers' speed, illuminating light;
As long as I have power, I've plenty more to say.

Poets, especially,
Especially, poets
See glooming days ahead,
Write in dread.

The trick is to capture
Precious times just as they lie,
As they hover over us,
To live in the moments of bliss,
Because poets see darkness ahead;
Poets to life cling to drive away their dread.

The happy sigh,
The loving eye,
The moments we so crave...
The nurture precious love provides
Warm cradle to cold grave.

To know that gold lasts but a day
Drives us to make it earn its pay.

The pleasantness of days
Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall...
To capture beauty in them all:
First soft-falling snow,
Northward migrants' calls,
Warm days, watermelon cold,
Harvest color so enthralls,
And every moment lends its hue
To every moment that I have with you.

I am thankful feelings come to go,
That coldness must evaporate like snow.
Once again will shine the sun,
Love and desire come on the run,
And your importance will return.
These are the things that I have learned.

Unshaven, old, and nearly spent,
He slouched in his kitchen chair,
Lungs rattling wheezing breath,
Radiation doing little then,
To control the mass within, or
To prevent the Mass he knew
Would soon begin.

Hard to believe a man
So tough as Rubin always was
Sat stubble-faced and wan
In early morning sun.

Two years ago,
At 65,
He and his son
Put a ****** on,
Fought a cop,
Nearly won,
Stayed a week in jail,
Paid a $7000.00 fine,
Then bragged it all
Was worth the time
And memories.

I saw him jump,
At 66,
From a moving van,
Six feet up
Like a younger man,
Hell bent to take his fill,
Shoveling hard, cursing still,
Cigarette hanging loose
Even with a rattling cough
(He shrugged it off)

And then,
At 67,
His last remains crave no nicotine,
No *****, wayward fights,
No carousing old man libertine
Out with his son at night,
And we who watched Old Rubin's days,
Pay our respects and go our ways.

Afraid, I took possession of a Harley Davidson,
2020 Road King, mine for a day,
So I could ride with my daughter and son
Toward mountains to the west.

The weight of things is upon me,
The values of metal and wind
Of power in a twisted throttle
Of speeding dreams and roaring winds

Fear of falling fades away
A few miles out of town
Scenery of fields and fauna
Take my mind from fear....

How flat and tedious
Life would be
Without "irregulars"
Who bring diversity,
Present perspectives beyond
Our morning oatmeal,
Our mumbled thoughts,
Our mind-numbing papers.

The skater gliding,
Wove through traffic
Even in November frost.
Orange shorts
Fluorescent flash,
A flickertail went.
My journey somehow bereft
When his joyous wheeling left.

The lone cellist
Plying rosined bow
Under the walking bridge.
I tossed money in his case;
Tremors through the air
Caused me to pause
From my busy way.

The children at the crossing
Accosting traffic
Selling lemonade
From a cardboard bench:
Disturbers of the peace,
Flaunting health department codes;
A little insurrection
Brings perfection.