When the Poets Run Out of Things to Say

The saddest word

I ever heard

I heard of just today

that loving her

was to defer

more love to self some way.

How crude,

how worn,

how deep forlorn

that view of love so flawed!

How evident

of life that’s spent

in vanity’s own fraud.

If only you

could see right through

that lie you’re holding close

then you might see


it’s not love that you’ve imposed . . .


Looking at the Clouds of Rain

The clouds on the horizon look

like snow capped mountains,

something I haven’t seen

in a decade or so.

Their shape is implanted

in my brain.

These clouds are real

but they are not mountains.

The mountains seldom change.

Right? Right?

Perhaps I’ll see them again

one day

if the clouds don’t drown me first–

I know they’re still there.


The Weather Vane

The weather vane, it got confused,

the howling wind made sure it bruised

as all the animals did cry

when static air did fill the sky

and spinning clouds no one could stop

made easy work of all the crop.

When all was leveled, soaked in rain,

when all was gone, spare for the pain,

mortality was seen quite plain–

none wondered whether it was vain.



“Things ain’t the way they used to be,”

at least that’s what they’re telling me.

“The crimes went up, the morals down,

there’s widespread panic all around.”

But looking at what’s said and done

there’s nothing new under the sun.