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A Space All Mine and a few other poems

A Space All Mine

Here is where I am

Planted next to

You near the




Next to the pile

Of dated magazines,

Letters, notes,


To be


Along the river

Where we walked

On morning




Quiet days mine

And Yours to share

Those days’




A Time Bottled,

Scents abound near

Where you stood




Your thoughts, signs

Read through fog

Of yesterdays




But I will stay,

As I know I must

Reliving joy of a




Morning meditation on rhyme

Words that fit together in rhyme are

the second hands on a clock that tells

perfect time.

A skip, a hop, a full stride gallop

one can see the effort as the

thing develops.

Once in rhyme it is hard to leave

because so much of it is something

up a sleeve.

Paul Simon was called Rhymin' Simon

the words just flowed, honey rolling,

sparkling diamonds.

Some use a dictionary of a kind

to find words they may not know

or yet to define.

Like the couple who complete puzzles,

the missing piece may be a lost die

some call a trussell.

One must leave the land of rhyme

or risk becoming enchanted in

Don Quixote time.

Thus, as with all meditation

even this one must end,

lest it become consternation.

The 3/5 Reprise and the Fight for One Vote

I did not get at first

but now I do; the folks

making voting harder

just want the people

of color vote to be:

down to 3/5.

Even the fool knew that

11,000 votes or so just

means watering down

the vote in hand in

some conniving way:

down to 3/5.

Slavery in a free society

starts with limiting those

who can vote, making

their dreams of democracy

just an illusion of our scheme:

down to 3/5 vote.

Shouts of thunder ring

in the halls of legislatures

in the South, no water,

no food, no standing

in line, we need just cut:

down to 3/5 vote.

What brilliant constitutional

scholars are we; it was right

in front of us the whole time;

how do we ensure slavery

as they did in olden times:

down to 3/5 vote.

Let's call out for what it is!

Let's gather sisters and

brothers and let them know

lashes come in different forms:

down to 3/5 votes.

And lashes and slavery

we will not stand for,

not this time around.

One person, one vote!

is our rallying cry!

3/5 no more!!!

Easter Sunday in the Time of Covid

Ennui pervades the unsettled air.

Reaching for escape, continual caution

perfumes a pilgrim's list

Of medically approved do's and don'ts,

evasive maneuvers, dodging bullets

shot, unseen rifles near and far.

Longing a renewal, a return to

a dream of free yesterdays without

security lines and vaccines.

Knowing that retreating does nothing

to shade the disappointments of our

own olive garden betrayals.

Feeling the joy of forgiving those

that sold us for silver and whose

feet we washed together.

Treasuring the humanity of it all,

time's dyed egg surprises, reminding

of youthful carousels.

Wearing the scars of the injuries we

fought against but could not repel,

heart tattoos we wear.

Sheltering ourselves from annoyances

around us not keeping safe distance

from now missed humanity.

Resurrecting our frolic and dear

times when you believed and I

believed in better times.

Loving the memory of a time before

COVID and the comforting nostalgic taste

we savor lest we lose tomorrow.

No better answer than the blues on a Saturday night.

I've met enough liars in my life that people speaking truth are out of place, they don't belong, innocents among the sharks I know so well.

And yet I watch the honest ones as they navigate the pool. Holding on to the side walls, inching closer to the deep end dwell.

I want to tell them that eventually you touch the bottom and just when you think you are out of breath, fly to the surface before you gasp.

I don't have the heart. The innocents need to feel the fear that lies bring and hopefully not become so afraid that deceit no longer flabbergasts.

Those grounded in truth will win. I believe this to the core, because if I did not I would, as Ricky Nelson sang, might as well just drive a truck.

I'd be lucky to drive a truck. Good honest work that by the hour pays, but got to be honest, on time, not late or you are out of luck.

Tonight, play Albert King, cue up the BB, find the Elmore James, get KoKo on the phone, I'm tired of liars; truth me with the blues.

Saturday night blues like a winter fire, warms to the core, you, me and the innocent Miss Daisy all dance to forget liars and what is due.

Birds on the porch eave showing off

Small brown chested coastal bird with a pronounced

yellow beak flutters, turning in half circle,

natural helicopter, holding still but shuffling,

amidst the morning air.

Dancing solo waiting for his partner to continue

their duet, Astaire and Rogers of the feathered

set, wearing their plumed finery to appreciate

another day without despair.

Larger black chested and subtle silver trimmed

warbler flies near not wishing to call attention

to itself or the designs he has on the ladybird

on the wire, his love bared.

If wings I could sprout, I would be a humming

bird, speedily searching out intoxicating nectar

of the top shelf kind, the sugar that costs money

to show off for my lady fair.

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