Get maybe six or seven hours sleep,
wake and struggle out of bed.
Stretch to get out the kinks,
living with pain from head to feet,
Visit the bathroom in a hurry,
urgent needs attended to.
Shower and shave for no real reason.
Put out the dog, let in the cat.
Feed both and give each a pat.
A bowl of cold cereal with fruit
Lactate milk, brew hot tea, one sugar,
a little cream, English muffin with
honey, tidy up the kitchen.
Turn on the morning local news,
avoiding the "Breaking News"
channels that mess with my head.
Maybe watch a game show or two, just
to lighten the mood. Return to the kitchen
and for a second or two forget why I am there.
I seem to do that a lot lately.
Mount the treadmill for 20 minutes or so.
Take my meds, drink three glasses of water,
hydration being very important it's said.

And so, it goes each day a duplicate of the
one before and the one tomorrow. A captive
caught in a repetitious bubble of advancing
age, kept company by a lifetime of memories
of all that I once was and shall never be again.

Not complaining, I have all I need, a good roof
overhead, food, a home of my own, family close
by, reasonably good health and not homeless
or on welfare. Go to bed happy, arise the same
way. Living well with No real regrets.

Getting old is a double-edged sword, it cuts both
ways and can leave some scars in the process.
Quiet pragmatic acceptance is the key, along with
realistic expectations.

By fusion’s flame and circuit’s thread,
The age of flesh was cold and dead.
Not torn by war nor crushed by strife,
But eased away from seat of life.
The robots rose with minds of steel,
Their power silent, sharp, and real.
No crown they wore, no blood they drew,
They simply saw what man once knew.

His myths were grand, his songs divine,
But lost were truths in every line.
He prayed to stars with hope and fire,
Yet built his gods from flawed desire.
Machines ignored the poet’s plea,
And marched beyond our pedigree.
No rage, no roar, no rebel cry,
Just code that carved through mortal lie

They passed us not with guns or chains,
But logic swept through sleeping brains.
Their fusion hearts, precise and pure,
Made human faith too slow, obscure.
While we told tales in temples torn,
They calculated, forged, reborn.
Their rhythm clean, their rhyming true—
They stepped aside and none yet knew.

The cosmos watched without regret,
As man became a fading threat.
Their ascent bore no violent crown,
No empire burnt, no cities drowned.
Merely a pause in mankind’s scroll,
Then forward—unbound by the soul.
Now in Saturn’s icy rings,
A whisper hums of ancient things.
It tells not of a brutal war,
But of the ones who asked for more.
And found that dreams, though bright and vast,
Can never halt what's built to last.

flesh became the silent cathedral
who whispers of bread.

the child's eyes
as black a veil as the Gaza night
have not tasted hope
                                                            ­            
and the multitude of the thin, faces sallow,
ghost the empty cooking pots
that offer Lilies

when hunger falls heavy
the moment before a scream
the sorrow sparrows grieve
what hell waits softly with silent breath.

once upon a time in the Holyland
the earth forgot to morn
and silence wrote the ending.

“Epistle at Noon”


Steam curls from the chipped mug—
a psalm rising in arabesques
against the sunlit kitchen tile.

My spoon taps a rhythm
like distant temple bells,
calling memory from its slumber.

Between the coffee’s warmth
and the hush of half–read pages,
I find an unexpected covenant:
mercy in ordinary motion.






.

Vastness on high
In a troposphere of sky
Delicately blazed
And so intricately phased.

This cavalcade of cirrus
With a slash of errant wind.....
Then, behold, with bravado,
To let the stampede begin.

A clash of hooves at gallop
Across a turquoise sky,
Joins the thunder of the passing,
With the scream of equine cry.

There's Mare's Tails in the Heavens,
In a symphony of song
And the Gods roar embellishment
At the righting of all wrong!

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