A Man of Meager Mettle

He hands out pyrite

in seeming oblivion

that his glitter has no gold.


…and, still, fools grovel

in sycophantic ardor

of his worthless dross.


Ionic Ironies

Air filled with portents,

intangible potentials

seeking easy paths to ground.


How that huge old tree

must feel the charges building;

dread their incandescent leap!


And, yet, there he stands,

reaching up, ever higher,

as though to taunt the lightning.


Will that shocking bolt

strike him by complete surprise

when it rends him asunder?


What of his remains?

Will they stand for the ages;

A monument to folly?