Tuesday, March 28, 2017

Third-eye Nystagmus

Stress, like dirt on a lens,
has my auto focus out of whack.
Gears grind back and forth
as thoughts flitter from work
to the grocery list to work
to wondering if I should get more coffee
to work to a new craft project
to work to remembering the car needs an oil change
to work to scheduling another doctor appointment
to work...

I sit spinning still
listening to the clicks and whirls
waiting for reality's ever-ready battery to run down.

Phthalo Fantasy [Haiku]

A little blue pig
frolicking among flowers--
an imagined joy.

Tuesday, March 21, 2017

Turning to Straw

Having passed the point of productiveness,
the little cog can no longer offer herself as grain
but chaff--
a reed floating to entice the grasp of a drowning man.


Yeah, a little esoteric. Look up the origin of "grasping at straws" if you want to better understand the inspiration behind this one.

Sunday, March 19, 2017

Waiting on the Dog

Standing in the morning cold
more than half asleep,
I’m startled by the screams of a cross-eyed crow
demanding that I write
and not crawl back to nightmares.

Anticipation of Summer

The diamond sleeps beneath
a blanket of unmarred snow
as empty bleachers bask in the late winter sun
longing for cheers
and the crack of a bat.

Clawing at Sanity

Frantically searching mental corridors
for safety,
I scream silently
clambering away from the determined echo
of hallway heels and the boogeyman's pocket watch.

Wednesday, March 15, 2017

An Angel Decended

Through sixteen inches
in blizzard conditions,
a middle-aged woman
with a worn plastic shovel is
unexpectedly
met halfway by a young neighbor
digging his way to her door.

Monday, March 13, 2017

Thursday, March 9, 2017

Punched In

There is an underlying static--
a hum
in the semi-silence of an early morning corporate office.

An occasional rustling of papers,
the clicking of keyboard keys,
a cough from a few cubicles over...
but the hum pervades--
constant,
insidious,
and unnatural.

Wednesday, March 8, 2017

da mihi virtutem Deus

Another 2 a.m.
and the demons drag me from my sleep.
Back buckling from the burden
of bearing witness,
I force myself to find water--
a vain attempt to quench
the insatiable thirst
for rest.

Tuesday, March 7, 2017

Nefarious Needle [Butterfly Cinquain]

Some words
slyly offered
from both sides of the tongue
strike cold without provocation
to kill.
Knowing its victim will succumb,
the hateful nettle waits
for the first drop
of blood.

Monday, March 6, 2017

Sunday Breakfast

Dishes clatter
adding accompaniment
to the cacophony of conversation
as a favorite waitress waves
and the hostess gently rubs my back in passing.

Savoring scrapple
and a second cup of coffee,
I sit softly smiling
surrounded by this extended family of strangers.

Sunday, March 5, 2017

Personal Place Setting

I took so many forks
  wielding knives
    in search of simple spoons
that I see myself
as a set of old china--
  mismatched
    and chipped
but loved.

Saturday, March 4, 2017

Trifling Office Tanka

Three cubicle walls
offer little protection
and no privacy.
A torrent of offenses
crashes on the ill-informed.

Friday, March 3, 2017

Matryoshka

A core figure sits at the center
surrounded by numerous layers
of intricately decorated effigies.

Only the seam,
gapped and uneven,
betrays that levels lie beneath--

Only the enamel,
pressure cracked and chipping,
hints of inferior artistry and a forced fit--

Evidence made plain
in the clear light of day
that its maker is not quite the master.

Thursday, March 2, 2017

A Lenten Fibonacci

Gray
sky,
ashen
like the day
here at this work desk
thinking of my father's forehead--
a cross, creased and smudged hovering over his bright eyes.

Wednesday, March 1, 2017

A Grave Marker

The cowardice
that tips over tombstones
treads heavy over history
in its steel tipped jack boots.

Phoning in anonymous bomb threats,
hiding behind hatred,
the petulant child hunkers low in murky shadows
deathly afraid
of what it refuses to understand.

Hopeless Haiku

The sewage backup --
cleaned but the drain is not clear.
The sound of flushing.

Knee Deep

Having fallen trying to fix
what isn't broken
but what is,
I pound my fists on the high well walls
of monotony.

Dragging bloody knuckles
across this cold keyboard,
I pray
for angels to turn pain
into poetry.