Category Archives: Poetry

My poetry. Mostly Collects

Starry Night Questions

Who turned the swirling brushstrokes of Van Gogh's 
Starry Night into pieces of a puzzle?

How long did Vincent puzzle, staring at 
the night sky, before his first brushstroke?

Did Van Gogh paint brushstrokes when clouds
puzzled the moon and the stars with cover?

Puzzling, why do the straight brushstrokes of the 
cypress not stop the winding howl of the wind?

Where did the asylum staff allow Vincent
to puzzle out the brushstrokes needed for the stars?

On Chagall’s “Green Violinist”

“If people read the words of the prophets with closer attention, they would find the keys to life.” – Marc Chagall

Imagine waking to the racket of Chagall's
green violinist dancing on the rooftops.

What tune does a purple-coated fiddler play
in the winter to wake the neighbors?

Every woke fiddler is green-skinned
and wears one black shoe and one white shoe.

Awaken from one-footed dreams 
of flying in purple pajamas.

Christmas Day, 2020

“God has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly.” – Mary

Could it be?  The chance once again 
to reject our expensive 
attachment to sharing pieces 
of pious piffle, poop and pablum?
The rich and wealthy imprisoned 
gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh
behind barcodes long, long ago.
Every year's Christmas list asks
for the impossible: a time
where a daughter does not dwell with
those who have gone before us
into the wonder wonderland.

Table Talk

The Table of Life never stops asking for your bet.
Black, red, odd, even, and lucky seven always roll.

Pascal made his wager with drinking buddies at the bar
while his Bible stayed at home, closed on the bedside table.

If a table could talk, a table would say,
"The Table God has four legs, not three."

When we declare, "All are welcome at this table!"
remember, the invitation is for those not in the room.

Once I was told to "Lay it all out on the table."
I declined. My life is more profound than any metaphor.

Winter Questions – 1

Who is it that sits in the clouds planning 
the shape of a snowflake before it falls?

Why is peppermint ice cream only sold
during the cold and winter holidays?

Who paints each blade of grass at night with white,
glazes each branch and limb with icy frost?

Where is lukewarm between hot chocolate
and melting, pink peppermint ice cream?

What makes the cardinal's red stand sharply
out against the bare, brown winter branch?

“The End”

"The end is where we start from."
                                       - - T.S. Eliot, "Little Gidding"
I am a teleologist of circumstance.
Call it a gift, a gift to see endings.
For example, I know the fate of Fate.
(Clotho runs out of fiber.
Lachesis breaks her measuring rod.
Atropos loses her scissors.)
I could tell you how Death dies.
(If I did, though, the knowledge would kill you.)
Just kidding.  His scythe rusts to nothing.
The odor of the trash heap of History fills my nose.
The tides of Destiny evaporate in the expanding sun.
Apocalyptic visions offered by those in slick suits don't move me.
The horses of the four horsemen become dog food.
All the mints made on Wall Street are eventually eaten.
Just rewards, though, don't amount to too much. 
When all is said and done, all will be said and done.
The inevitable finally gives way to evitability.
The child of Necessity invents a new mother.
Gazing into a crystal ball becomes a high school history lesson.
END statements never end while the heaven of Neverland ever ends.
The anticipation that asks the question, "What happens next?" eludes me.
Mystery remains a mystery.
Don't tell Alpha: Omega brings the show to a close.
To conclude, I don't know how it all ends,
other than with the excuse the ends justify the means
and there is no ribbon at the last finish line.