Short stuff, of no particular style

Some rough, some smooth, and here’s 2 Cinquains, one old, one new, both finished, not rough, and contented.


Sometimes the image is only a gentle touch
Among quiet hours
When cold harsh lights
Will not intrude the dusky softness.
Sometimes the image is a necessary calm
A child‘s smile.


Cinnamon tea is a warming sound,
Softly dressing a silken minute.
Delicious is quite a pretty color,
Lightly wrapping the quiet hours.

Touchings, soft as fur and hard
as diamond saturate our senses,
overwhelm perception, breathing
life into spaces found between us.



The sun
In sudden grace
Arrives, awakes in May
With winter done, a warmer place
Birth Day!

Aubade: A poem to the dawn
Cinquain: A 5 line poem, the lines having 2, 4, 6, 8, and 2 syllables in that order. The meter is iambic for the first 4 lines, and the last line is a spondee, both syllables stressed.


New Year’s
portends, like Moons
in kissing dreams, a chance
And drinking vows, arriving soon
New Days!

(Ya know, like corn rows, gotta practice style once in a while, baby)

listen to a Rap,
get yo head round dat beat
da rhyming beat, meat, feet
But the word come from da street
my friend fall out like heat
on a Corner in an L-A- night
Around the hood
where the word, bro, Word
is yo, what’s down is good.

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once more, on poetry, dear …

 If you are interested, this has gone on to comparisons, with a new version added.

Poetry (A little pretentious?)

This is the love of words,
of cadence set upon the sea of rhyme
caressed within your heart,
tossed upon your tongue into verse
into rhythm, song and understanding.

This is culture savored and renewed
This is the face of Helen,
seen in the lyrics of rock and rap
discovered fresh by children
written on walls throughout the city
slammed upon library tables daily.

This is the regret of the poet,
as the the poetry of yore
founders on the mythic remains
bardic singings retreatedly lost
burning meaning in well formed verse
forcing rhyme to a line while chasing
the rules of quartet and quintain.

Sappho, Tupac, Chaucer, Eminem, Beowulf
LL Cool J, Oscar Wilde, Nikki GioV, and Wright
laid down the sound of the words
followed the meaning of rhythm
forcing the song into language.
and sold the rap onstage.

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More today … We view the poetry of war ..

Today, there are 3,000 Americans boys and girls dead in a little desert stupidity. Here are pictures of other stupidities.


Slung under and about with modern machinery
fast firing guns and faster rockets
stand me in the shadow of your power.

I am awe in your fearful beauty
sculpted steel-green metal slick
Oh! So saving when you ranged above our danger

I swore that God had stood you without motion
As you lay about with David’s modern sling

We cheered your strong-arm graces then
rode your blessed highway, curving from the battle.

Alive, alive, we drank your sweet, clean wine.
Answering prayers from Khe Sanh, English
Hue and Pace and Sally, and, yes, Hill 805,

Your pilot-priests, gunner-acolytes, flying,
machine guns sighing holy rage
to save your congregation.

Behind a tropic sunlight, screaming slick,
six on six, in Vee formation, righteous,
angry, spitting, dropping justice, dropping
napalm psalms and one-point-two-inch rocket manna.

We knelt in honest fervor to your angelic escort
Wounded, dripping life along your heavenward journeys,
while we were borne again, on saving flights, born again,
in battle lust, for your sacred airborne blessing.

What God has ever stood so fast in answered prayer?
What prophet ever sounded hope so loud?



“Tonight he noticed how the women’s eyes
passed from him to the strong men that were whole.”
(From Disabled by Wilfred Owen)

Sometimes it is this I fear
when, like Wilfred Owen
I see the women staring
staring at the strong at the
beautiful gazing
and am too
lost among the love of youth

What is this my body
sometime broken
that has failed to mend
in acceptable ways?

What is this that I
not having but had
am searching to give

See I will show you
what is beauty …

I will show you that cat
whole sleek and graceful
has killed a bird
whole sleek and graceful.



A poem from the 1990s, Appropriate now, too. The machine gunner from the Americal Division who assisted Lt. Calley in the massacre at My Lai was shot to death in a bar, fighting over a glass of vodka. On the news, it was said he had been drunk for most of the 21 years since the massacre.

The blind and lost killer of children
Bled death from his bullet quick
                    How much hatred for himself
             The blind and lost killer of children
       From 21 years of oblivion
Fought to the death
Over a swallow of Russian amnesia
                    How much hatred for himself
             The blind and lost killer of children
       Fought to the death
How much hatred for himself
Can a man hold onto?
                    Fought to the death
             Bled death from his bullet quick
       Over a swallow of Russian amnesia
From 21 years of oblivion
That bullet must have been sweet.
                    From 21 years of oblivion
             The blind and lost killer of children
       The blind and lost killer of children
The blind and lost killer of children
That bullet must have been sweet.

Let’s hope we miss the headlines 21 years from now.

Posted in Poetry | 4 Comments

Today is a day for posting

And changing the links, perhaps organizing pages.

Should we create new pages for each category of poem? Or spread them willy nilly across the screen, and perhaps load an avatar?

I think I’ll find all the poetry spread across my Papers, PCs, and the web and collect it here. Then decide. Comments are welcome.

Let’s start with a little self referential poem concerning how we break lines in modern English Poetry, as if we learned enjambement recently…


Lines break where breath stops
start where words express anew
thought, picture, hue.
lines end here
or there and can be seen
related, or bound with no mercy
tied to your next idea

And again sometimes together you
bind an image like a camera
light to film, line to line, face
to memory.

From the break a binding
image drags a thought
along, past spaces, forces pauses,
—–Emily Dickinson used dashes——
Make the reader see
See the light, see many sides.

You never know, you only
decide yourself how the poem
breaks for you, your ear, your head, your heart.

Posted in Poetry | 2 Comments

Eddas, vignettes, and old found pieces.

Found on a 22 year old computer

Testing my oldest PC, a 1984 Leading Edge XT, I found this poem on the hard drive (it’s not my oldest computer, that’s a 1980 CP/M Kaypro II, but it’s not a PC).

I had tried to write it as a story, or as a long edda, and then perhaps as a poem like Brownings’ “My Last Duchess, or “The Laboratory” and I may still, given a little encouragement from my readers. I am happy I found this fragment, and now have some incentive to work on it.

Someone settled the spaceship, made planetfall
on a little rock near a water swept plain with green,
and the people lived, but the captain wept
at the closeness of the call but there they fell, and stayed
and space marines saved their lives at the outset
desperate works and exploration saved their wants

But in the night of the sunless spaces where the rock
entombed the ship
all the robots with minds but without right
went down and stayed and wept on rustless plastic
wept that their keepers had forgotton or worse
their faithful service and now helpless
grown neurotic in their fretting
find that it will end
even silicon tires, and dissipates if not silently
at last mercifully.

OK, it does need work. Tell me dear readers, what you’d like, what you want done with this. Expanded? A prose vignettte? A novel where the captain’s wife has taken silicon lovers? Suggestions. anyone?

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OK, let’s just put up all the unfinished business and make this website do something!

Take a look at these attempts, tell me what would you rewrite, and why, And thanks in advance for the dialogue.

A Lost Love Song

Summers eve upon the plain
a languid silky shadowed sky
lazy dusky sunshine warm
prairie days declining lightly
wistful breezes weaving grasses
shadow clouds of summer storms.

Among a drifting air desire
like birds upon a zephyr floats
fluttering ever endlessly never
grasping soothing wafting
fingers slide like grasses waving,

breathless touches kissing thunder
attractive lightning quickly wraps
tentative circling discoveries meet
in summer heat, togetherness.


In Singapore, where all is bland and safe,
And everyone lives happy everyday
In warm blue skies, in gleaming gum-free streets
Among the many riches brought to light
Malaysian labor shines amid the fines
The Indian tailors, Filipina maids
At least they’re quiet and they never spit.
We are all here and happy all, we love
Soft ocean breezes, gentle beachside swells
The dignity of Raffles never sets
And no one here will kiss you in the road
For we cannot have passion in our place
Where all the wealthy tag-alongs have come
To find the only gated city in the east.

Posted in Poetry | 2 Comments

A Dream out of Celtic mist …

You think you are a romantic, do you?
For you as for so many others nothing is worse than unrequited love…
Did life not tell you, it is the sole way
to find your soul?
~~ Clarte DuBois, Aisling of Breton

There, beneath the green cap of felt rolled tall
red hair and large eyes intimidate fate
press conclusions into handshakes and running
opinionated into honesty, she left
unsolved, romantic conundrums of nothing
nothing is worse, is worse and she flies
a green tufted, shy breasted, sparrow in air.

She is of course, correct; rigid and right
in expression, philosophy and form, i know.
for among the grasses and dirt roads of walking
encounters with the many blessed finders of souls
has so enriched the understanding of our lives.

The beauty of this Aisling tends to sway light
heat, and her words are music from a bard, a bawd
that always deep and truthful images fill a poet’s ear

the caressing touch of unrequited 30 caliber justice
her gold brass hot among the morning’s kisses …

the spring day of unrequited boredom found a soul
lost in the warm grassy orphan’s yard, not yet alone …

bright unrequited sunlight burns sea, sand, and flesh
in sun bright blinding white napalm cascades …

Gathering souls, insights, images in beauty, muse
or dream or certain drug whispering nothing
nothing worse, and she, La Belle dan sans
assures through pain the soul regains, remains, rest.

Posted in Poetry | 3 Comments