POEM: Immune Intelligence [PoMo Day 20 – Rondeau Triolet]

Antibodies tell other from I.
A thing my brain can't always do.
To unbid guests they're never shy --
antibodies fight other not I.
If It seems odd, they'll freely pry,
to ID that old sneaky Flu.
Antibodies tell other from I -
a thing my brain can't always do. 

POEM: Kathmandu [PoMo Day 19 – Acrostic]

Keeper of arcane secrets
A land of great escapes
Temple-hopping hotspot
Hash-haggling hippie hive
Mystical mo-mo madness
Ancient trade bazar
Never knew Empire
Durbar Square 's the downtown
Underwater, back before its day

POEM: The Falling

I am not the fallen,
but the falling --
he who never hit
the ground.
And you may hope to 
know my call,
but I was never
there at all.
I was sitting on the 
I was dropping to the 
I never emitted a
flash of light, 
and never emitted a
peep of sound.
I am the falling,
not the fallen.
The one who never
hit the ground. 

POEM: A Sprout’s Life [PoMo Day 18 – Imagist]

From dirt, the newly sprouted plant
is but two tender leaves, drooping.
Its silken shaft in subtle slant,
in shadow of gardener, stooping.
Becomes the tree standing stout -n- straight.
Its leafy limbs doggedly swayed.
Its own acorns now split and sprout,
as the old man sits in its shade.

POEM: Escaping Isolation [PoMo Day 17 – Ottava Rima]

In isolation, I took to story,
and traipsed through worlds impossible yet true,
living life from infantile thru hoary,
under skies: gunmetal to deepest blue,
in lands where trucks were known to be lorries,
and ancient cities breathed as though brand new.
Where neither time nor bars could imprison,
I found my phoenix had now arisen.

POEM: Seashore Mind [PoMo Day 15 – Villanelle]

The waves are churned to foam.
The sight mesmerizes.
My mind is miles from home.

My seated self does roam --
chaos that surprises,
like waves are churned to foam.

Like one w/ Capgras Syndrome,
hustler mistrust arises.
My mind 's wary of home. 

I focus on the chrome,
but my ear recognizes
the waves that churn to foam.

I've vagabond chromosomes,
but still the thought chastises:
"Your mind is miles from home!"

I'm sitting all alone,
and my mind surmises:
Like waves churned to foam,
your mind 's so far from home.

POEM: A Rainy Day in the Dry Season

Rain sidles up in a commanding cloud

-- early --

And so it waits in its cloud,
like the awkward party guest
who sits in his car,
waiting to be fashionably late,

but - not having decoded 
what "on-time" really means -

arrives early, nevertheless.