The Bus

A lone vulture circled 
carrion now quiet
along a lost desert road.

Carmen played her guitar
singing a lugubrious song
of desperate lone lands
where blue sage grew 
for my Shaman’s magical wands.

She cannot strum.
Wind does not blow.
Rain does not come.
Rivers can’t flow.

Tarantulas silent under 
their rock for cool.

The vulture had long ago left.
The blue bus was leaving.
Carmen finished her song.

Wearing a Mask

FIrst of all, I wear a mask in public not for me but for YOU.
I am educated enough to realize I may be asymptomatic and could give YOU the virus. I don’t “live in fear of the virus”; I just want to be part of the solution and not the problem. I don’t feel “the government is controlling me”; I simply feel I am a contributing adult to the community at large. The world does not revolve around me and it’s not about my comfort wearing a mask which I have found not to be at all uncomfortable, even with me having asthma. If we could all live with respect for others, it would be a better world. Wearing a mask does not make me weak, scared, stupid or controlled, it makes me considerate.


Raven flew along 
beside the one eyed man.

Raven asked, 
“Why is there is something rather than nothing?”

“Define something,” said the man.

“Define substance,” said the man.

“Define reality,” said the man.

"What's exact?" asked the man.
“Graaaaack,” said Raven.

AM Radio Revisited

Driving through a song on AM radio
like I was in Biloxi fifty years ago
or in 1950 Mexico with Jack and Allen
writing sad stories and verse with no end.

Reminiscing about past lives and songs
is only a lie laughing at me wrong,
like being lost in a poem of war.
Dark children die in ocean’s roar.

We all have less than the moment before,
this no end temporary terminal time core,
only sad existence is white noise.
Commiserate over some dying rose.

Voldemort rides the golden lift’s last breath.
TV talking heads worry about someone’s beaded dress.
Planets do not align with raven’s flight.
Coyote hides in a dry desert night.


Cherry, peach, apple, pear, and plum,
all blossoms do they come,
only to snow upon the ground,
falling without a sound.

The beauty of spring comes on slow
sometimes too quick to go.
Blossom’s beauty lost in the wind
to my soul’s sad chagrin.

April May green come and remain,
bide for flowers to stain      
gardens and parks beauty refreshed
bring color ’til fall’s rest.

Empty Canoes

Like two empty canoes 
we floated through narrow canyons of lost time
oblivious of tall mountains hovering like 
dark foreboding giants waiting to pounce
upon our reverie.

But cold piercing rain came
closing our solitude of memories
replaced by a barren abandoned road
wrinkled in empty time devoid of life 
but for sharp lightening filled unknown skies 
crashing down around us.