All writing

at home or in diaspora
as slaves or as the masters of
we argue about ritual
it has become habitual
we tighten and we loosen 'em
but next year, in Jerusalem

why do moths go to flame
is the candle their god
or does man take the blame
'cause the night never had
any right to the light
and the candle, so bright

Author notes: image from Pinterest

Los Caprichos, made by Goya
made on purpose, to annoy you
not to hide or to erase
but to show you your true face
No, it's not about the wealthy
or the powerful. What's true
is that it's in fact a stealthy
but germaine critique of you

the goddess Minerva
for those that would serve her
was really Athena
and many a sinner
would try to appease them
and pray to their wisdom

Among the towering sequoias
there's one that challenges the sky.
"How dare you, upstart, to annoy us?"
Gods send a message from up high,
a forest fire ought to do it...
He shrugs it off, like nothing to it.
The earth may be all ash and soot,
but he'll keep stretching, foot by foot.
As branches reach the very heavens
where but the bravest eagles dare,
the gods are having quite a scare.
The giant, though, he grows and leavens,
remains defiant, brash, and free.
But at his root, he's still a tree.

moonlit path among the stars
where Olympians take walks
by which Ares becomes Mars
and astrologers set clocks
how we long to take your sights
sky is dark but full of lights

Author notes: image from pinterest

A tumbleweed meanders, blindly.
Sharp, gusty wind its hapless guide.
The hanging street signs creak, unkindly.
Saloon is empty, dead inside.
Town square abandoned, dust and gravel.
The gallows, where a judge's gavel
would send a miscreant to hang,
or pray, get rescued by his gang,
stands lifeless, and devoid of function.
What's law and order to a ghost?
Some surely went back to their coast,
when the expected railroad junction
was moved due west. The town remains.
But the relentless desert gains.

If life's a haiku
Mt. Fuji's in the background.
Did you stop to look?

there's your old childhood swing by the light of the moon
thanks for coming to visit please don't leave too soon
linger here at the bottom of the gravity well
let your memories soar as you stay for a spell

Author notes: image from pinterest

I'd imitate John Donne if I were able.
Let Shakespeare guide my iridescent pen,
and dress my kings in purple robes and sable.
Pose existential questions now and then.

I'd mimic Walter Scott. Love Quentin Durward,
though root for Burgundy over Louis,
and Robin Hood, if that is not too forward.
Dear Ivanhoe: Rebecca, set her free.

What is the point of putting pen to paper,
if I can't plot like Arthur Conan Doyle,
or Edgar Allan Poe -- now that's a caper.
A witch's cauldron slowly brought to boil.

Dumas, oh, I how I worshipped D'artagnan!
No musketeer, I shed a tear. Not Donne.

we swear in despair
to whomever will listen
by all that is holy
and all that is decent
in moments of terror
and raw spontaneity
Faustian bargains
designed for each deity
gum up our minds
as if they're really there
but God is indifferent...
the devil may care

made you look