Quiet Noise of Aging

Scant luncheon diners

Their muted conversations

Just insufficient

Even with the mood music

To suppress my tinnitus


Rondeau (experiment)

Caution! I’m beginning to play with a 13th century French poetic form. Read with care!!—

“On The Border”


Beneath early autumn sun

Across crystal azure skies

A solitary owl flies

And tiny, frightened, vermin run,

Homeward, nightly battle done.

Under ever watchful eyes

Beneath desert morning sun 

Frightened desperate people run

From the torture and the cries

As the wounded die beneath.


From high above the “shining” shun,

Mouthing, loudly, lofty lies

As, far below, the “vermin” flies

Hiding from the haughty gun,

And gilded boot they shy beneath.

Fractured Gems

Pedestals again

Thrust themselves to the forefront.

Must one be flawless

To warrant veneration,

Or is human good enough?


When humanity 

Struggles to be their best selves

Despite many flaws,

This is the heroism

That warrants veneration.


If our heroes must

Be alabaster figures,

They will not be found

Lest we manufacture them

And plaster them with whitewash.

Neither Pedestal Nor Pit

How themes repeat.

Aroil in Pain

He’s not what he seems.

People seldom appear just

As they really are.

The worst are often much more

And the best, often much less.

It’s best to reserve

Both worship and scorn until

Long acquaintance shines

Revelation’s light into

Their every crack and crevice.

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