Posted in Poetry

When the Cataclysms Come

When the cataclysms come,
They take Christians and
Atheists alike into the maw
Of sweet oblivion, the fate
Of all that live, from microbes
To behemoths, and the Cosmos
Of creatures in between,
Membership in the 700 Club
Notwithstanding, as is Written
In the strata of the aging Earth,
Plain for all to read.

Posted in Poetry

Manias

Will the manias
come in waves now,
the spawn
of some new alchemy
inherent
in the network?

Posted in Poetry

Call It What You Like

Call it what you like,
I’ve breathed the air of it
All my life and know it
As I know my way home,
Heavy as Georgia in August,
Light as an offhand slight,
Soft as antebellum doilies,
Hard as quad-cab Fords
Cruising on Friday nights,
Invisible and palpable,
Filling all the spaces,
Sealing souls from souls.

Posted in Poetry

Lines on New Year’s Day 2021

Will there be
Among the coming months
An early summer day,
Warm, but not too warm,
Tinged with a gentle breeze,
When the twin demons finally
Will feel gone,
Sealed away on the
Take-up reel of the
Bright projector of time,
The virus tamed,
The vile would-be king
Dethroned and left to flail
Unheard, unseen?

Posted in Poetry

Blind Eyes

Blind eyes of shuttered stone
Facing outward to the sea,
Fractured glass reflecting it
Imperfectly, roosting birds and
Rusting birthing beds within,
The Sisters gone and what they did
And didn’t, in the name of the
Father, innocents left
To decompose in the loam
Of unmarked graves.

Posted in Poetry

Lean Toward Grace

When, in a strange world,
Sanity swells over the levees
And spills through the veins
And arteries of the everyday,
Its million hands high in
Indignant peace to meet
The shielded legions of
The way it’s always been,
I think we might just
Find the will to lean
Toward grace awhile.

Posted in Poetry

All Channels

Scentless mist,
Gentle enough but insistent,
The harbor in view at high tide,
An angular gull gliding low over the water,
And no hint of the madness
Broadcast on all channels,
The air and sea indifferent
Along all the coasts of the world.

Posted in Poetry

Much to Be Said

There’s much to be said for slow walks —
Unaccompanied except by the
Rhythm of your strides —
Along roads you know —
As the sun settles under cool evenings
In a world gone mad.