POEM: No Rage Left, Mr. Thomas

Some rage against the dying of the light.
Some rage at the neon glow through their window,
catching them in the eye after midnight,
slowing time’s movement to a viscous flow.

Some rage about the sassy, sloppy youth.
Others rage that the old can’t understand.
Some rage when strangers sit down in their booth.
Others rage when things don’t go as planned.

Some rage about how time moves too quickly.
Others rage that we’re all stuck in the past.
Some rage until they’re tired and sickly.
Some rage they missed out by saving best for last.

You wonder why the lack of deathbed rage?
Let’s call it the wisdom of the end-stage.

POEM: Tesseract Rest

I had a patio into 4th dimensional space.

It was in a shape I couldn’t imagine,


I painted it a color that doesn’t exist.

Sometimes it warped into a torus,



it popped in & out of existence without warning

on more than one occasion.

But it was a fine place to watch the sun come in at the end of a long eternity.

POEM: Ode to Cheese

“Poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese.” — G.K. Chesterton

Ah, Mister Chesterton, I must concur.
The Camembert love is lacking, Monsieur!
If there’s a way to make bacon better,
surely it’s smothering it in Cheddar.

On bread and water prisoners endure,
but brie with bread is the height of grandeur.
What, say you, is more addictive than crack?
Just a cracker topped with Monterey Jack.

Yes, poets obsess on love and death,
but you can smell the Roquefort on their breath.
[OK, there’s no budget for Roquefort,
truth is, it’s a canned cheese of some sort.]

POEM: Missed Message

I heard the Buddha from the banks
of a river gently flowing.
Long before throngs swelled his ranks,
in the days of heaven knowing.

I sought the ferryman to cross,
to hear more than a faint mumble.
I felt missed words as a great loss,
and was made both mild and humble.

But, having missed that wise sermon,
my own truth I must determine.

POEM: A Mile of Murder

On a moonlit midnight —
between the bands of rain —
stretched a mile of murder.

Marched through the night
to keep day roads clear for troops,
Fascists sought to free themselves
of the ugly evidence of their crimes.

But sweeping the weary and woebegone
under the rug is not a rapid task,
and so a mile of murder
mass migrated towards the morn.