Oh, the Guilt

The guilt already felt oppressive,
shame for a decision made,
a course of action
about to be consummated ,

and then…

the guy behind me
in the drive-thru line
ordered a fried bologna biscuit…

and I knew I had to have one.

First Blooms

The first pink of the pear trees
greets the early warmth
of late February.

I fear the blooms come
to soon, the cold
has yet to run its course.

outside

outside my window
birds trill their joy
as the sun’s warmth
dries limb and leaf

snow and ice
cling to the shadows
and claim them
as their domain

Roadkill

trees no more
than a blur
in peripheral vision…

as if speed
could create
enough distance.

vultures flee
as I hurtle by,

carrion left strewn
along the way.

Morning Memories

There is mystery
in her eyes,
a playfulness
in her kiss,
and a hollow void
in the indention
where once she did lay
on my bed.

Rosebuds and Lists

There were gutsy items on the list:

pluck a feather from an owl
as he sleeps, or the whisker
of a tiger fully awake;

lay still in a mountain stream until
the flow of cold water over my body
brings the peace of a silent mind;

ring in a new year astride the international
date line, invisible marker dividing
tomorrow from today.

Each line of type reveals a dream
devoid of normalcy or routine.

Sadly, it is often in the making of a final list
when we grasp why Herrick urges
the virgins to gather rosebuds.

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Beach Dancer

The fire burns low,
two empty wine bottles —
a white and a red — lay
forgotten on the sand.

Light from a crescent moon
decorates the waves.

I recline on the blanket and watch
as the music
of the night coils
around her as she dances.