POEM: A Voiceless Birdie Told Me

Notions whispered into my mind — unheard.
They’re just hot-injected scraps of feeling.
I seek a source in floor, wall, and ceiling,
but I know that can only be absurd.

This is no exchange by grammar or words —
nothing is concealed or needs concealing.
Notions whispered into my mind — unheard.
They’re just hot-injected scraps of feeling —

like the voiceless notes of a little bird,
received without a chirp or any squealing.
Wounds don’t need to hear they should start healing.
The feeling ‘s clear even when the meaning ‘s blurred.

Notions whispered into my mind, unheard.

POEM: Saved by the Breath [a Rondeau]

My mind curls up into a Breath
to wait out wild and weary thoughts
about who catches and who’s caught
and what is scarier than Death.

A toothless youth whacked-out on Meth —
all roads to hope come but to naught.
My mind curls up into a Breath
to wait out wild and weary thoughts
of men who went the way, Macbeth —
costly made, and yet cheaply bought —
iron-forged, but ambition wrought —
a shapeless agony of Death.

My mind curls up into a Breath.

POEM: The Summoned [a Rondeau]

The temple bell clangs long and loud.
It calls them all from far and near.
How’ll they come remains so unclear.
Could be in ones — could be in crowds.
They’d straggle in with their heads bowed —
feigning piety to hide their fear.

That temple bell clangs long and loud
to call them all from far and near.

Some seem so proud, but most are cowed,
their darting eyes first peek, then peer.
They hope to find the one that’s dear
before the Scout picks what he’s allowed.

That temple bell clanged long and loud.

POEM: Moments Lost in the Monsoon

In monsoon moments, all falls still —
sounds of curb flow and gutter spill.
A restful ease from the patter
as raindrops fall, hit, and splatter.
Of lost minutes, I take my fill.

By the window, chin on the sill,
I watch water far below rill.
A car passes, no birds scatter.

-In monsoon moments…

In dim mid-day, I feel a chill,
though Tropics, says the Barbet’s trill.
I’m free — the Madness of the Hatter,
drowned out is the useless natter.
Though tempests may rage; all is still.

-In monsoon moments…

POEM: I’ve Seen Sunsets [Day 12 NaPoMo: Rondeau]

[A rondeau is a closed poetic form of French origin. It uses tetrameter, a half-line refrain, and rhyme schemes of aab and aabba. The first poem I ever learned by rote, “In Flanders Fields,” is among the best known English-language examples of this type of poem.]

I’ve seen sunsets in colors bright.
I climbed Phnom Bakheng for the height
to peer above the canopy.
Fire orbs dip to Andaman Sea,
and I crossed isles to beat twilight.


Hues: royal purple to blazing fire light
I’ve watched Midwestern skies fade to night
from a tower above the trees.
I’ve seen sunsets.


Seven ridges of varied might,
were stacked from tree- to snowcapped-height,
and a different scene for each degree —
as painted clouds flared windward to lee,
and I watched from an idyll campsite
I’ve seen sunsets.