All writing

Some poems are like
a decaf skinny latte.
Great form. Not Coffee.

Who are the ones to watch for? Surely those
that beat their heart, proclaiming "Nothing But!"
A lie is often dressed in truthful clothes
it drowns in them, you'd think there was a glut.
"The truth, much like a gyroscope, needs spin",
they'll tell you with the most sincerest smile
In truth, truth doesn't matter if they win
and winning never does go out of style.
For those of us who're longer in the tooth
it's no surprise, and that is the whole truth

Romeo and Juliet
did not fear the reapers
recently though, don't forget
there are some gatekeepers
who find fault with the old mold
venomous and bitter
luckily, events unfold
Elon's buying Twitter

tin tin, the din
is in between
brief episodes of silence
and those impose
in rosy prose
lies hiding real violence
each flint this mint
did strike or print
has taken many lives
a rich tradition
in addition
to making kitchen knives

"I cannot see the forest, or the trees!"
the Lady of the Lake complained, out loud.
"Why must the water's surface be a tease,
its ripples rolling over sky and cloud?"

The denizens of her submerged abode
were careful in their answers to their queen:
the frog -- he hated being called a toad --
said: "Majesty, the forest can't be seen

because the water, acting as a mirror
is sending the light back to whence it came.
If it's your wish to see, to see things clearer
the lake itself must shoulder all the blame."

"I know that, toad", she said, her temper showing.
"are you enjoying as your Lady begs?"
I've had enough of toadying and bowing
It's putting me in mind for some frog legs".

The frog, not for the first time, thought his queen
unreasonable, but us frogs do cope.
So that the forest, could at will, be seen
he made her an ascending periscope

Author notes: wc 159

Emerging from the shadow of the moon
the Aten takes his place among the gods.

Young Tutankhaten does his best to swoon,
drops to his knees in thanks.

His father's squads are jealous in the guarding of their law,
but secretly, the prince does not believe. How could this be the god of gods? He saw that Khonsu did eclipse him as the eve wore on.

Are any of them gods? Or not? More likely they're the
workings of a clock.

The prince knows it is heresy. The thought persists
however, as his father's flock beats heads down on the
granite, grateful for the Aten:

May he rule forever more.

Philosophers and princes have the time
to ponder on the vagaries of life.
The rest of us deal daily with the climb
or worse, avoiding pestilence and strife.

The privilege of it, you've but to ask
the famous question -- not an online poll.
Outrageous fortune relishes the task.
The rest of us sling arrows, rant and troll.

To be or not to be -- no shopping list.
No tradeoff between gasoline and milk,
nor a defense against a bloodied fist.
The rest of us must manage with their ilk.

And existential questions? Like I said,
they're best when served with fragrant wine, and bread.

Author notes: I'm still thinking through the ending. Of course possible to end it as a true Shakespearean sonnet: //And existential questions? Like I said, are best when served with fragrant wine and bread// and variations thereof for now, I'm leaving the end as is, but pondering it

When darkness yields and bows to light
and creepy crawlies scatter back
into the shadows of the night
leaving no signal and no track

A thousand thousand silver shards
ignite the landscape down below
the charioteer sends his regards
wake up, wake up, you're way too slow

What is this beast that’s shining through
racing across the velvet sky
and turning it from black to blue
Apollo's chariot, up high

The creepy crawlies had their time
whilst feasting on their own desires
but now the sunlight shines, sublime
and they've put on their day attires

A Sunday morning, I wake, no alarm.
Persistent buzzing wakes me from my sleep
I stretch, chasing the cobwebs from my arm,
and check my phone -- no promises to keep.
The noise continues, it's behind the blinds.
Must be a bee -- too loud for just a fly
Should I release it now, before it finds
the subject of its noisy lullaby?
I pull the blinds aside, what do I see?
Turns out I'm woken by a spelling bee

broad brushstrokes crush the canvas, discovering beneath
goddess' face, Minerva's, bright lipstick hides her teeth
her likeness draws us inward, her wisdom is the book
hope I recall the safe word, if she decides to look

Author notes: art by G.M.

the pot of gold
at the end of the rainbow
dissolves in smoke

eternal flame, it marks a grave
entombed in chiseled granite
the fallen, now forever brave
their widows fall upon it

no names, too many to admit
hope somebody remembers
yet somehow, all of them did fit
now marked by glowing embers