You are

Not just a clever exercise but a song, weaving rhyme and rhythm through truth’s frame, a work which brought I am sure and will bring even surer many smiles.


You are the ink that runs in my quill
Becoming the colors that my dreams spill.
You are the letter that shapes my word
Spanning the page like wings of a bird.
You are the thought that fills up my sense
You are the longing that is so immense.
You are the breath that escapes in a sigh
You are the memory in my mind's eye.
You are the peace that whispers in my heart
The oxygen that gives my heart a start .
You are the tear that I hold in my eye
You are the yearning I cannot deny.
You are the rhyme in my April sky
The twinkle in the stars that pass me by.
You are the light in the black of my eyes
You are the answer to all of my why's.
You are the arms that embrace me tight
Together in a love so…

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A waterloo

I would commend to you and all: Mark Twain’s “The War Prayer,” which he declined to release until after he was dead. “In this,” he said, “I have told the truth as only a dead man may.” When you ask for victory in war for your troops, your nation, you really are praying two prayers, Twain wrote…and the John Groth-supplied lineart graphics further emphasized the prayer. This poem, Yassy, I feel could use its own John Groth-supplied art. Very well done, Your Ladyship.


Flowers grew where gunfire thundered
Unrelenting, the bullets plundered
No one listened to no decree
To spare dying humanity
Broken soldiers blindly blundered
Women, children helpless rendered
Amidst chaos reason floundered
None listened to compassion's plea
The war brought peace down on its knee
A waterloo
They walked leaving trail of tears, blood
Homeless, they might as well be dead
Losing loved ones and family
Justice became a tragedy
A waterloo.


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“When I Was A ‘Snapped Whipper’ Stories”

(May 7, 2019)

fifty-three years ago*

may came by chilly

wait next sun-cycle

*(I did The Math. May of my high school senior year. It often was a jacket-month, not his attempt at steam-oven saturation. I recall too much. And hear too many claims of “Back in ‘The Day’ from someone who has yet to prove his pre-, during-, and after-math acumen. Weather changes with a whim and sometimes a sunspot cycle. I keep wool socks, shirts and trou to hand, just as I do nice, heavy sweat-soak cotton tee shirts. And repeat to myself this mantra: would you rather be counting roots than leaves?)