The jewels upon her dress are losing their luster
And the dyes of its fabric begin to fade
Its warp and weave fraying and growing ragged
On her chalk-like rolling swellings as
He lays his castings out longer and harder daily

Picture not related
Photo by Alex Conchillos on

Of course
Are the clinging things
Bloating up with blood on which they feast
Clamoring for more
And turning away from the sight of the sky as they beset her

She is beloved
Deeply and by many
And the thought of leaving her
Though such parting might be needed
Is no easy thing

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A Thought on Wildflowers

They show up in patches on the roadside
Stains upon the carpet stretching wide
Spilled by passers-by and thickest nearest traffic
Crowding where the sludge and slime run off
Color springing from the filth

Photo by Irina Iriser on

There is hope in such
Because it is not only the roadsides
That bathe in such waters

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A Reverdie

The old song sings
Of bulls that leap and bucks that fart
Ascribing thus to the old hart
The effects of a high-fiber diet
And as the spring
Prompts buds to bloom and fruits to start
And birds to take flight and to dart
I think that I may try it

Photo by Maria Orlova on

But though the winter now has fled
I doubt that Jack has laid his head
Down all the way, and thus I dread
The cold snap yet to come

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My Daughter Is on Spring Break Again

The years have passed since we went on our adventure
Passing from the hills into the high plains
Packing into a tent that huddled against the wind
As dark clouds blew in and disease
And we returned to fear and hiding away
Coming back to find that everything had stopped

No, this ain’t it.
Photo by Aru0131n Turkay on

Things have long since started again
The sickness pervading the world
And the one chance there might have been to start again
Gone like so many who
Drowned within themselves
Choking on their own sputum as others swore
It’s no big deal
People die every day anyway

We have to wonder if it will happen again

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Another of These Little Comments

Ever do I seek to simply
Sit with pen in hand and page
In front of me
Using the former to fill the latter
And get the things out of my head that well up within

A fancy took for the job
Photo by Pixabay on

It is not water that comes from that spring
Dripping sometimes but flooding in season
Nor yet does it leach away whence it flows
Or, at least, it does not so in a way anyone knows
For who remarks on one more hole in
A thing already spongelike?

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The Flowers Begin to Bloom Again

The carpet is getting stained again
Soon after it got washed out and rinsed off
Someone dropping plops of ink upon the
Rising tatters and ragged edges
And still it looks better than it did each day

It is getting to be that time of year, yeah.
Photo by Kristina Paukshtite on

The stains spread each day
And I pass them by
Barely noticing that they have started showing up again
After all
The carpets are not mine
And I will not be the one who cleans them

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I Can’t Always Think of a Good Title

If it were my second language,
Something I had worked harder to learn–
Because it is harder to learn another language later
And I grew up a monoglot–
Perhaps I would not be so sloppy with the words
Hoard them more closely
Place them more carefully
Perhaps like coins
As one author writes
Or like jewelry
Making more beautiful those who take them up and put them on

Sloppy something, surely
Image is from Buck Blues via Wikipedia and is used under a Creative Commons license

As it is
I grew up with it
Take it for granted
Spend it all too easily
Knowing I have an ever-full store
Casting as if at a fan
And with so much effect

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Not Even L’esprit de L’escalier

It has happened again
Half of a conversation
Taking place far away from any interlocutor
Provoking rage at someone who
Was never even there
And would probably not say the things to which
Response was given

I feel pretty, and witty, and wise…
Photo by Jimmy Chan on

Bad enough
To realize what should have been said
Descending the staircase
So how much worse
To critique a party that nobody threw?

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Hymn against the Stupid God 204

A spore I cannot help but have inhaled
Hyphae spreading through me without notice until
The bloom breaks out and spreads its gills
Poisoning the ground from which it breaks
And while other fruits are still on offer
They are fewer and their stalks wither as they emerge
From soil being leached away

It is a metaphor, yes.
Photo by Egor Kamelev on

Unknowing hands will reach out
Grasp what shows itself on offer
Thinking it a blessing from their native soil
In which they are deeply rooted
Mycorrhizae working to no good end

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Verse upon the Day’s Observance

To make a day a holiday
To give a day to people
By giving a day to people
Seems a noble thing
A high honor that endures

pro patria
Photo by Karolina Grabowska on

Who gets the day
Who loses it
And how those who have it mark it

And it is a big if
As many ifs are
Small though the word is
The way we mark it
Is the way we ought to mark it
Then what honor is it

Ought and is aren’t the same
Of course
I know it
You know it
I think
But there are a lot of people
Thinking that the way things are
Is the way that they must be
And I wonder if they’ve thought through what that means

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