NaPoWriMo 2 Apr 2023- Free Verse. “Upon further Reflection”

I felt a certain poignancy

seeing that old and peeling

faded yellow wooden hull

rocketing motionless

over churned up clay breakers

amid the flotsam of cut-over debris

discarded with careless indifference

in what was,

not so very long ago,

a vibrant and vivacious

ancient hardwood forest.

It seems a fitting metaphor

for what we have lost,

or tossed,

in our headlong rush

to progress.

Falling Ever Downward

Ink black letters

fall hesitant at first,

marking naked page tops;

Droplets unconnected yet,

by purpose or intent.

In time, their presence there,

calls others to befriend them

adding to the depth, the weight,

pressing down upon the page

until it can’t contain them.

Now the words collect

into tiny rivulets,

scrawling narrow, crawling paths

seemingly at random,

As they come together

deepening their paths

like magnets on the march,

they gather others to them

weaving into deeper streams,

memes, ideas, and images.

And their power, thus enhanced,

they carve deeper furrows,

altering the landscape.

Flooding dusty fallow fields,

nourishing their blooming.

Onward, broader, faster now,

filled with surging portents,

deep with hidden meaning,

challenging all in their path

overtopping every bank

undermining old foundations

sweeping clean all obstacles

built by aged machinations

leaving clear and fertile fields

for future generations.

At last this surge comes to merge

with the vast and loving breast

of that bottomless expanse;

the never resting endless sea

we name our deep subconscious.

An Unplanned Siesta

Again, I find myself

Standing at a crossroads,

Pondering directions.

Unsure which path to take.

Should I? Could I? Perhaps?


The sun is overhead.

At the roadside, flowers.

Birdsong lilts from afar.

Wheat heads rustle nearer.


It’s been a long journey,

Full of rush and bother,

That led me to this place.


Beside these thoroughfares

I shall pause, breathe, relax.


There’s time for a siesta.

For the Farmer and the Fisherman

Today I walked alone,

Silently, among the fallen.

Snowy cold, standing stones

Basking ‘neath the setting sun

Stretching to eternity.

Here among these Legions,

I came across the one

Bearing my mother’s maiden name.

One of many, stretching back

To our very founding;

Fathers, grandfathers and greats.

Not all of whom retired here

To this, once, grand old estate.

Another found, I know, his rest

In a distant mountain stream,

The place he lived his later life,

The place he loved, by far, the best.

I honor them, those grand old men,

My few, among the many,

Not only for their sacrifice;

I honor them, out of love,

And, I suppose, that must suffice.



Inarticulate warbles

Muted in passage through walls

And woods.


Understood by tone

And cadence long before

Any sound clarifies to coherent








Thrumming temples

Dread descends with every step

Upward to that door

Where home fires burn


Chill beneath palm

Hand lingers

Warming brass

As crass language

And rage harass

His tired dragging ass



Knob turning



On The Borderline Again

His smarmy tongue waggles,
weaving glowing gossamers, clouding hearts and minds
with mists of glittering unreason.

His garbled glossolalia

explains inexplicable,

defends indefensible,

justifies vast injustices.

Before his words, miasmas
of fecund decay shift,
begins to resemble aromas
of lavender and roses.


crass caresses

of slimy snake oil

conceal cuts of serrated steel.

Hope and reason succumbs
to resignation and despair.
Luminous hope drowns struggling
in seas of gilded sludge.

As growing thick dark shrouds

envelop all, he pauses,

draws breath, smiles.

In that instant his spells shatter!

Plug your ears, Ulysses!
There are no second chances.

Beneath These Treads

From snowy Vermont woods

To sunny shores of Venezuela,

From Rain soaked Thai jungles

To bone dry sands of Arizona,

From mountains to beaches,

From Virginia to Hawaii,

Along the bank of the Blue Danube,

And many places in between,

These eyes have seen much,

This heart has soared and broken,

But mostly these feet have slogged.

Brutal Behest

Her invitation came

Addressed with snark and fury.

“Welcome to my chaos!”,

She offered as her greeting.

“Swim awhile, here with me

Among this drifting wreckage,

Floating fragments of dreams and plans, 

Hopes and wishes for my shattered life.”

She served this raging petit four;

Smallest sliver of her misery

With a bitter aperitif, piercing my heart

In its acrid headward rush.

Did she hope to whet my appetite

With her caustic bread; cordial bile?

In truth, I find her burden 

Shared is less a burden lessened; 

But more a sorrow spread.

“Here is my vast, crass repast! 

Will you savor with me?”