Sunday, January 29, 2012

Wisdom from the Plumber

There are enough twists and turns in life...
I see no need to add any more.

Wednesday, January 25, 2012

An ignominious memorial

Set apart from the rest.
Alone in life,
And alone in death.
Simply an unknown,
As are so many we pass by.
But still he serves a purpose:
feeding the trees...

Train Messages

Into the shrouded future,
What will become
And then written as history?

Tuesday, January 24, 2012

Even Now

Leeward Danger

The sun is low, near its demise, on the sea's horizon.
Even the breakers are seen by a child as pulling down
The very sun itself in their grasps clenched white;
And the clouds mount to the heights and so weight down
      the sun, burning red in the evening.

From out across the shallows, the sound of the surf
Upon the coral reef has its alluring charm to the unsuspecting:
      even now, the skeletal remains of a sloop
      finally give way to the turbulent, wrenching waters
      on the coral--full of its own deceptive beauty,

The child cries;
A man weeps to the sky.
But the weeping is only
                to be lost in the settling fog.
Even now, the moon is only something vague
                hung in the heavens.
For the sun, in its apparel red,
Succumbs to the night so oppressing.

A sloop is to windward,
Beating away from the land to its lee
With the reefs lashing out,
Foaming white in eternally unrested rage.

Hard-pressed to the wind,
And with double-reefed main and storm jib,
Yet, the land looms ominously to the lee.
The bow rises to each wave,
And so it falls in the trough,
Spray rushing across the deck into the faces.
Caught in a current and a headwind
(lest the wind veer around to the stern)
Surely tragedy awaits:
Its fingers ready to greedily grab
Away the vision given.

Yet, was not the sun aglow in varied hues of red
As it left us to the night?

Long Ago

In The Hands of Winter:  Thoughts of Magnolia Bend

A lone bird flies low
Over the estuary,
Cast a grayish hue
By the forbearer of night.
A Norther scoffs bitterness
In the eyes of the lone bird,
In silenced grace banking to the South.

The sun remains
Only as a smeared red
Faded among the branches-
Frozen in seasonal dismalness.
The first vestige of snow
Lay upon the ramshackle pier,
Withered and dry-rot...
Never to die.

The night is choked by white

Monday, January 23, 2012


A question endeavors to form
But it proves elusive,
Leaving me pensively
To ask, "Why?"

Sunday, January 22, 2012

Thursday, January 5, 2012

Wherrrree arrrree