Small Rhymes

Widow
Her grief was a church bell ringing
from deep within a forgotten lake,
the resonances silent, yet bringing
shivers to the surface with their wake.

Moon Pie
Split in half as if by pizza cutter,
the moon glazed yellow with garlic butter.

October Ghosts
Is that the glint of vigilant eyes
or the glistening dew upon the grass?
Beneath the moon-crowned October skies
I approach, I pause, I ponder, I pass.

Alienation
It is an uncomfortable paradox
as I walk these busy city blocks
to think the city was made by Man
for Man, yet in its concrete span
there comes an alienation for us,
whether on a crowded tarmac bus
or in a dumpster-jumbled alleyway
of both trash and waifs, heaped where they lay,
or down by a lonely nighttime lamppost,
washed out in neon light, feeling as a ghost
in skyscrapers, with or without people,
or beneath the pigeon-plastered steeple
beside the graveyard, or by the park
where the burnt-out souls gather, dusk to dark,
or down in the rattling subway station
and at all levels of elevation—
by making a home for the human race
we have only made an inhuman place.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s