moves slow
when sought out

ever waiting
within the shadow
the master of patience

indifferent to your plight
he offers peace to the sleepless

a welcome choice when her joy no longer
brings you joy, but only lesser misery


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The End of the (Seven Bridges) Road

I think we all (of a certain age) dreamed of deciding
to go,
of following the stars
in the southern sky,
of being loved tame and being
loved wild,
of standing beneath the trees
in moss filtered moonlight.
I find trepidation in the hints of what
might lie beneath the shadows on that road.
Perhaps it is my tendency to
over think,
but what if we were to go,
what if we were to cross
the seventh bridge
and reach the end of the road
with the taste of honey
sweet on our tongues?
What if we never find it again,
or some other road
which calls the soul,
or another taste so sweet,
or stars so warm?
What if there was never
anything better,
or, perhaps more,
what if there was?

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January Brown

It is an ugly time of the year

in Georgia,

brown is the prevailing color.

The brown of dead Bermuda on the lawns,

the brown of trees stripped of all

but crisp, brown straggler leaves refusing to fall.

It is the brown of dried mud tracked into every home

and left on every carpet,

the clearly marked pathway of repetitive lives.

The clouds are low, soiling themselves

as they drag through the dirt,

tomorrow the dirt will return to mud

for it will surely rain,

rarely cold enough for the fleeting joy of snow,

just cold rain and mud,

always, there is mud,

and tracks on the carpet.

January brown is the brown of wet wood

and pine straw littering a forest floor,

it is the rusted out carcass of an old car,

it colors the mood and dampens the soul

like a shallow mud puddle

laid across your path.

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Our Veterans

I am remiss in not posting something earlier in observance of Veteran’s Day.

from view,
with acceptance
or recognition,
deserving of all praise.
They face the things you will not —
do not belittle, nor forget —
for security, freedom, and peace.


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Post Election Haiku – Working Title: Get Over It Already

The sun rose again,
odds are it will tomorrow.
Our lives have not changed.

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Fall/Election Haiku

The leaves swirl and prance,

moved by the force of the wind;

no will of their own.

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The Advance of Kudzu, or Greetings to the New President

Each summer I fight the continued attack
of kudza on the edges of our backyard,
the creep and climb of the intrusive vines,
tendrils of new advances appearing daily.

It is a strong, stubborn invader,
ropy and stringy, it insinuates itself into
the metal grid of the fence, twists around
trunks and branches, reaching for any opening

to infiltrate and establish a hold.
There is a feeling of sententious resistance,
a will opposing my attempts to remove
the encompassing presence from my property.

There are occasional small victories,
a growth perverted, an encroachment stalled.
More often it is a false triumph, the last bit
of growth out of reach, half of a root left

in the ground to grow another day.
I can see it happening, watch the unwelcome
intrusion of the green wisps as they infringe
upon the ability of other plants to freely grow.


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