Something Resembling a Meal

Consumption is a methodical process,
a requirement for continued

He pauses on occasion,
finishes chewing
and looks across the table
as if about to speak, respond,
appears to change his mind,
resumes eating.

He drains the last of his water,
shakes the ice in the glass
before getting up for a refill.

Finishing, he stares across the table again,
searching for an appropriate comment.
The moon is bright through the kitchen window.

He pushes back from the table,
rinses his dish and fork,
precisely places each in the dishwasher
and turns off the light as he leaves
the kitchen.


Filed under Poetry


I believe her
when she
she loves me,
I am uncertain
she understands
the meaning


Filed under Poetry

Chasing Skies

We drove,
eventually escaping
cloud cover,
seeking the next
patch of clear sky.
We drove,
until the last leaf fell
and the world
turned brown,
never quite able
to outrun the storms.
We drove,
the sand was warm
beneath our feat.


Filed under Poetry

The Decency to be Angry

I am struggling to find sympathy,
anger and frustration lead
the emotional assault.
There is empathy, to be sure,
the proverbial trite heart
for the families of those who bled.

But, anger, yes,
it is anger which rules my thoughts.

Anger at men who insist
you believe as they, and submit,
or die for the sin of disagreement.

Anger at the apologists who refuse
to condemn these men,
or go so far as to justify their actions,
attempting to transfer blame,
or merely being silent.

Anger at leaders who are anything but,
who refuse to so much as name
the obvious enemy,
much less fight them,
or strive for their defeat.

Soon, there will be blood in more streets:
L.A, London, Tokyo, Atlanta, Stockholm…
your streets, my streets.

Sympathy and platitudes will not stop it,
a symbolic overlay of a picture
will not change it,
well wishes and “standing together”
will not alter fates.

Anger, perhaps, also may not provide
the needed answers,
but failing to act, failing to acknowledge
the enemy — or even that there is one —
is the surest path to more innocent


Filed under Poetry


She always said she
had her mother’s hands —
bony, good for backhands,
veins, easy for a nurse to find —

they have not moved in days,
except by others,
to wash,
to hold.

They are not old enough
for this bed.

I have to go now,
gotta take care of those kids.
It is time for you to rest,
and to let him rest.

The next night,
my sister called.


Written for Margo’s prompt


Filed under Poetry


The leaves changed colors
when we were not
paying attention,

they fell while we
were busy worrying
about other things.

One day we noticed the trees
were bare, the birds
were gone, and the love

had grown cold while we
were busy worrying
about other things.


posted to the dVerse pub. Kind of opposite of what was asked for,
or a warning of what will happen if you don’t….


Filed under Poetry

What do you Believe?

I was somewhat taken aback
by the old man in my path,
who looked me in the eye
and had the nerve to ask:

What do you believe?

What will you stand for,
what will you die for,
or, perhaps more importantly,
what will you live for?

Do you believe in the man
who preaches from the pulpit,
or in the one who shed His blood,
breathed his last and said it is done?

Do you believe in might or your way as right,
in the power of love to overcome hate
or that evil will win if good men
refuse to fight.

Perhaps your belief is in a passive stance,
with the belief that a refusal to stand
will cause the other to back down,
and confrontation itself is where to lay the blame.

Do you believe your neighbor will come to your aid,
or that you will comfort them in time of need,
when neither you, nor they,
have ever named the other friend?

Do you put your faith in political leaders
and those in power, trusting in them
to do what is just and to put aside
their own self interest?

What is it? What is the one thing?
Is it family? Spouse, parent, child?
Maybe it is God, or at least his Book.
Or are you holding out hope for your fellow man?

What is it? What is the thing in which
you have not doubt? Can you name it?
Can you explain it? Do you show it with a passion
which others see? Can you make them believe?

I was stopped in my tracks
by the old man in my path,
who looked me in the eye
and had the nerve to ask,

What do you believe?

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Filed under Poetry