The voyage, now, is at an end.
The anchors have been cast.
The fleet bobs silently offshore,
looking boundlessly vast.
For fog has settled on the bay
and ship shapes fade to gray.
They count themselves infinite ships
while bounded by that bay.
The sea deceives, that much is true;
the rest we’ve yet to know.
Some will swear that trawlers sit there
that were lost long ago.
There was a sweet girl from the Netherlands who worried the hard rains might never end. When the streets became moats, she traded bike for boat, and rowed fast that girl of the Netherlands.
under jungle
creepers, trees, and moss
lost cities wait
one clean edge
of rough chiseled stone
peeks from mound
when we’re gone
something will remain
of us, and not…
The sunset glowed orange in a wrap of clouds,
looking like the interior of a hollowed tree trunk —
fallen, split open, and with fire burning inside.
The vibrant colors fire my child’s mind —
colors as unsubtle in hue
as the clumsy building blocks were in shape
that I played with as a boy.
2020!
You are the time that tried men’s souls…
not to mention those of:
-women
-children
-the non-binary
-the undecided
and the un-huddled masses,
yearning to be close.
There was a hairy man from Nepal,
more hirsute than a Neanderthal.
One would be hard put
to tell him from Bigfoot,
’til turned gray that old man of Nepal.
sun-fired cloud fringe —
a jagged crack
across the sky
an old cracked dome —
light streaming in,
burning brightly
rays angle up,
radiating
grace and glory
I watch the hawks —
watching me watching them —
and wonder how many of them I don’t see.
They’re better watchers:
-stiller
-more patient
-less swayed by boredom.
They stand, cloaked, as if in judgement —
Chief Justice of this street,
roving eyes in search of
one false move.
They are literal swoopers.
I’ve been accused of “swooping in,”
but I’m — at best — a figurative swooper.
Watch, swoop, catch, repeat…
I wander though the fallow field.
The weeds and unintended plants
are stealing food of increased yield,
but soil is churned by worms and ants
whose labors stay subtly concealed.
It looks like nothing at a glance,
but bold heroics are afoot
to till the soil for fine output.
There was a young woman from Myanmar
who had the longest neck around, by far,
but when she shed the rings
her neck drooped like a string-
she was the flex-necked gal of Myanmar.
