All writing

pale blue dot, I love you so!
I won't ever let you go
as I touch the skies above
spreading both our life and love
I will not forget your blue
you are me, and I am you

been losing my religion lately
finally put one of them Apple AirTags on it
turns out it's been there all along
hiding among atheists
in foxholes

Most recently, I've searched for meaning
and I'll admit it: I'm a slouch.
Imagine though, my weekly cleaning,
and I find meaning in the couch!
Next to a few forgotten quarters,
receipts from ancient take-out orders,
a candy wrapper, I think Mars,
and free-drink coupons from some bars.
Well, that’s accomplished; what’s for dinner?
I’m full of purpose and resolve,
doubts melt, evaporate, dissolve,
and can it be? I’m feeling thinner.
Just a quick search, that’s all it took.
Now off to write my self-help book.

***********************************  ****************
older version

Most recently, I've searched for meaning
and I'll admit it: I'm a slouch.
Imagine though, my weekly cleaning,
and I find meaning in the couch!
Next to a few forgotten quarters,
well wishes from past due supporters,
a candy wrapper, I think Mars,
and free-drink coupons from some bars.
Will my life change, now that I've found it?
A bit unclear, at least for now.
I know the what, but what's the how?
There may not be a way around it...
will I just have to put it back?
I wonder what there is to snack.

Author notes: WC 97

dandelions do not roar
do not fight and do not war
and unlike their bigger kin
they prefer to be upwind

when the long awaited gust
picks their seeds up, as it must
you might hear "I'm free, I'm free"
and the dandelions to be

take their hopes into the sky
as I watch them, so do I
may their wishes come to pass
landing them in greener grass

splash of bullet holes
on partially collapsed wall
the art of war

give up your cane, Cain
If you are able, Abel
and don't take no, Noah
here comes the missus, Jesus

laconic responses
though lacking nuances
compensate for brevity
with levity

Tomorrow morning's early light, land painted white,
I'll take a long and winding walk, I know you'll wait.
Through mountain forest trails and valleys that divide
I cannot linger, cannot stop, and can't be late

Eyes looking inward, seeing nothing but dark spots,
I won't see anything and hear no noise nearby.
Unknown to anyone, back hunched, and hands in knots.
My sorrow darkness; light is giving up.  A sigh.

I will not see the sunset spreading its gold leaf
nor see the distant sailboats that are Harfleur bound
Arriving at your grave, where I will stand, in grief
Bouquet of hollies, and fresh heathers, on the ground

Author notes: wc 113

My mind's a cauldron of forgotten books,
well worn ideas, and a few brand new.
Those, on occasion, warrant second looks.
I'm luckier than most: it's what I do.

I haven't worked a day since '86,
if loving what you do is how one counts,
and haven't emptied, yet, my bag of tricks,
the time has not arrived to make accounts.

Am I so vain, to use a classic form,
describing what I am to passers by?
Can structure provide meaning and inform,
explaining more than just the what, but why?

My children, and their children, but of course
For they are both my output, and my source.

sweet stanzas, sparkly as a spring
churn river rocks to make them sing
a snowflake melting on your tongue
reminding you: yes, you were young

and as you watch the daffodil
the snowdrop's climb, by force of will
another April come again
the stanzas sing, as they sang then

I hesitate
to abrogate unwritten rules
but abdicate
unused my slate and common tools
can't celebrate
or venerate your ridicules
no fool as late
as the one late for April Fool's

Oh Ithaca, your rocky coast
my long forgotten home
Penelope attends the host
of suitors as I roam
I'll exorcise Poseidon's curse
and see you at the last
and hope that you are not averse
that our love has not passed

on some days, you seem mythical
as distant as the moon
I dream of you, my Ithaca
I'll see you.

Someday soon.