Two Short Rhymes


Unfolded bud of paradise, petals
sprung open to welcome the bees, the breeze,
while spined with thorns, nestling amidst nettles—
gaping yet guarded against enemies.

Above And Below

And, so, thereupon the Hellmouth did yawn
with the full-throated roar of thunder,
the flames all aglow like a new dawn—lo!
I would ascend by going under…


How many blowhards talk too loud
as they spout long-winded platitudes
meanwhile dissolving, like a cloud,
depleting themselves with attitudes?
They heed not the passing terrain
as they spend their ephemeral lives
spouting gusts, gales, and spittle rain
to topple temples and shake bee hives.
They’ve much flative outrage to vent
as their stormfronts tumble overhead,
the thunderheads soon having spent
their fury unto silence, instead.
TV broadcasts them far and wide,
their squall line of faces puffing up
with outrage from which none can hide
as tornadoes spin in the teacup.
Sirens wail, the vortices spin,
and the National Guard is deployed
while we cower in shelters when
the blowhards battle, and are destroyed.
Then the radar clears, and the map,
as red pixel patches drift and fade,
but I can hear the thunderclap
of yet another blowhard’s tirade…

Noir Jungle Variations

The blinds half-open,
neon light, her nude body
striped like a tiger.

Blinds half-open, the neon light
clawed through to the wet, steamy bed,
her bare breasts were striped black and white
with hot light and cool shade. I said,
“Do you always play with your food?”
She giggled, wiped froth off her lips
and said, “When I am in the mood.”
Legs spread, she gyrated her hips.
Lounging like a tigress she growled
as she pulled me atop her pelt.
“Feed me,” she said, her moans so loud,
and the moist jungle could be felt.

Red Ribbons In Knots

Raindrop down the window pane,
slow-sliding upon the glass,
as a teardrop spent in pain
after storms have come to pass.

Two birds hop along the lawn,
cardinals singing acclaim,
two red birds praising the dawn
and the youthful Springtime’s game.

Raindrops are infrequent now
and the wet cows chew the cud,
the thunderhead calms its brow,
though the fields are still aflood.

Somewhere downhill water flows,
cresting like a Sunday hymn,
singing of what loose silt knows
when taken from where it’s been.

Silent, the old farmhouse squats
within the vale, near the stream,
while the widow ties in knots
two ribbons within a dream.

The ribbons are scarlet red,
once entwined—now unraveled,
undone by the restless head
in which they twined and traveled.

She tries to knot them anew
with sleeping, that act which frayed
the bond between brothers who
never thought such love would fade.

Tossing, turning, she ties knots
with the sheets she shared with men
whom were foremost in her thoughts;
both together, now as then.

The cardinals sing no more,
but claw at one another
for a lady they adore—
tearing brother from brother.

Gray And Green

Gray and green the morning came,
gray and green the woods and vales,
and black the copse without a name
amidst misty meadow trails.

The dreams of night’s restful sleep
linger as figures half-dreamt
in fog amassed like flocks of sheep,
sky and earth a fleece half-kempt.

Who is that among the fog?
Who is that wandering, lost?
The soundless field is as a bog
which all sleepwalkers must cross.

Had I such a sluggish gait
when I woke this early morn?
I see a figure halt and wait
as if unsure—as if torn.

Rousing, drowsing, in between,
he waits but a moment more,
then shuffles forth, beyond the scene
of gray and green, as before.

Gray and green, the earth and sky,
gray and green the morning come,
I witness with half-curtained eye
this somnambulist’s kingdom.

Routine Regrets

Lingering ghost, wraith without a head,
standing beside the four-poster bed,
reminding us of the missteps made
and things left undone, the bitter trade
of thrills for comforts from a routine
to thwart the unknown, the unforeseen
so our lives are secured by the rite
of habit, of caution, day and night.
She stands there, as headless as our lives
while steadfast in scheduled nine-to-fives,
the ritual headless, saying nought,
yet we know she would say that we ought
to have done more when we had the chance,
but each night we lament circumstance,
for she attends us at our bedside—
attends forever, our deathbed bride.


A petty thing,
a little line
between yours and mine,
that can sting,
a nicking mark
seeping such blood
as to bring the flood
for the ark;
to cut in twain
and drown the earth
beneath frothy surf
and the pain.
What can I say
of this red line?
The scar will define
what it may
and what we are
as we carve space
out of time and place,
near and far,
dividing life,
dissecting earth,
knowing well the worth
of a knife,
and of a pen,
of the red ink
which makes us all think
we are men.
For we worship
law and order,
border to border,
and we drip
from cuts we draw
along our skin
to demarcate kin,
tribal law.