At first glance, senseless seemed
an appropriate word — something
stupid or foolish — for the actions
splashed on front pages

radiation levels rise in the sands
of the middle-east, premonition
of proliferation

Nordic fighter jets rise to meet
the tests of Bolshevik bombers,
memories of colder times

U.S. Special Forces train amongst
their own, invading towns where
civilians may become known as enemy

Allies are treated as enemies,
old secrets revealed,
history forgotten, or ignored

In Ferguson, it is no longer a matter
of black against white — as if it ever was —
as black protestors attack black cops

then I read the other definition — done
or happening for no reason — and realized
the problem; there has to be a reason,
we just haven’t figured it out…yet.

The cries of children echo amidst
the cold mountain winds, while reporters
try to dig a ‘why’ from a crash site

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Life’s longest moments,
are filled with a lack of news.
Waiting room boredom.


Filed under Haiku, Poetry

Sudden Change of Seasons

Two weeks ago it snowed,
as defined by Georgia standards,
a morning of furious flurries
which amounted to nothing more than spectacle,

with some bits freezing to pieces of metal
before melting into broken promises.
Mostly, there were bits of fluff
swirling on the road,
scattered like love on the wind.

Two days ago, the first greens of spring made themselves noticible,
along with the white blossoms
of the pear trees,
stark against the sudden blue
of clear skies.

By tomorrow,
or perhaps by Friday,
the blooms will have
fulfilled their purpose
and will begin to fall,

nothing more than bits of fluff
swirling on the road,
scattered like love on the wind.


Filed under Poetry

Coming to America – An Exercise in Pessimism

Give me your tired, your poor,
your huddled masses…

and we will feed them
we will clothe them
house them
pay them not to work
provide for their healthcare
care for their children
and tell them what to eat
and indoctrinate them in free schools
give them phones
and pay their utilities
subsidize their debt
pretend to provide for them in retirement
and promise them more
always more

all the while denying them the chance
to ever be more than
tired, poor, huddled masses
with no dreams
who have forgotten
what it is to breath free


Filed under Poetry


I was there
when she first spread her wings

I was there
when she learned to fly

I was there
when the winds failed

I was there
when she fell

I was there
when the chalk line was drawn

I was there
when they ignored the extra extremities

I was there
when reporters drew the wrong conclusions

I was there
when the feathers disappeared

I was there
when the tears began to fall

I was there
when shadows grew unchecked

I was there


for the image prompt from Margo Roby


Filed under Poetry


she flutters through the night
like a moth

easing between currents
content with the dark quiet

timid when shadows flee
knowing from experience

the light can sting


for the Mag


Filed under Poetry


There is a tattoo of a cross across her left temple,
another of a dove, high on her right thigh,
which you never see when she is on this stage.

She smokes before each song — usually some
off-brand, or whatever she finds
laying around — staring at the floor
when she takes a drag,
always looking up when she exhales,

closing her eyes when she is ready to sing.
The smoke collects above her head —
it is a small place, poor ventilation — churning
in the single stage light, changing patterns
each time she tilts her head back
to breathe out the chorus.

She wears gray, with a white scarf.
I get caught up in watching
the movements of the smoke,
and find it hard to find her
when I look back down to the stage,
sometimes only seeing an empty
stool and a guitar suspended in air.

I always feel like she is singing to someone,
a specific someone, but she never looks
at the crowd, always opening with
Me and Bobby McGee,
closes with Hallelujah.

She has a pleasant voice — sings with passion —
and a pretty face,
but I have always been drawn to the
tattoo of cross across her left temple.


Filed under Poetry