Selected Poems

The Marsh Is Mallard-Free This Spring

The marsh is mallard-free this spring
The murky marsh is mallard-free,
The fish float belly-up this spring
In the murky marsh that's mallard-free
And children do not dip and swim
And chickadees don't skim and sip
And life does simply not exist,
In the murky marsh this spring.

---

Wilson Park, Chicago

Olive-skinned couples kiss
Helping melt the last of winter's mess,
As springtime's achromatic mist
Winks and whistles, lending its approval.
Iridescent pigeons sip from less than limpid puddles,
Flock to flight when stirred by
Leashless dogs and children rampant,
Laughter shares their carefree air that canopies
The tire-swings and climbing apparatus.
Overfed red squirrels ambush built-in benches,
Begging for a handout, which they get.
Barely budded Elders play spectators
To it all, and wave their branch'ed hands as if to clap.

---

Cymbals In The Wind

Thunder's rumbling gutturals
Thump heavy on the housetops
Disrupting slumber's residence within,
The raindrops humming hymnals
Counterpoint disjointed rhythms,
While the hypnotizing lightning
Highlights cymbals in the wind.

---

Mister Whippoorwill

Sailing through this placid pasture of malaise
lazily I lurch along and linger still,
willing to succumb to nature's knowing ways
listening to wordings of a whippoorwill.
Languid language lends itself to whispered song
filling me with comfort levels, I'd surmise
could not be lessened, nor be made more able, strong
by any other grandeur, any other guise.
Transcendental riffs of whistled lexicon
tremble over tepid waters well within
dampened caverns of stagnation whereupon
treble clef summations stave chagrin.
Treble clef summations sung with wisdom's trill
fulfilling twitterings of Mister Whippoorwill.

---

The Midnight Hour's Ridin' In On The Wind

The midnight hour's ridin' in on the wind
sorta silly-like
piggy-back style
with the eyes of a child
wide and wild, full of stars
and two fists overflowin' with licorice
just ridin' on in
with its silverish grin
and its satchel of pitch-black transition
hour twelve's ridin' in
with its whimsical din
sorta silly-like
piggy-back style