Saxon poets chanting canticles of praise
from icy rooftops sloped toward the sun.

Bards of commerce
draped in fealty to the divine,
their fractured bones

Vassal peasants
dregs of feudal injustice
subordinate to William their liege
play the part,
both benign and beseeching,
for mere pennies on the hypocritical dollar.

Hearts quake in the tsunami of misspent opportunities,
Understood only now in retrospect —
Minds unhurried to follow.
Once in synch,
Bodies quake over — and over — what might well have been.

Magda wrote her name in purple
while standing on her head.
Unsteady on her feet,
this way worked best for her.

The flour mill whistle blew
the day before tomorrow.
Comrades filed by, lunch bags opened wide.
Icy brews waltzed in their heads.

Brown-suited guards upright and stiff,
eagle-eyed for pilfered paper, pens and the like.
Blind to back pockets bulging
with white powder.

House wrens from sleek high-rise apartments flew past,
silver-gilded memes seeking shelter from wayward storms.

Waiting for the ink to dry,
Magda tap danced to Hey Jude,
those sha-na-na-na’s she knew so well by heart.

Warmth of hot chai
in my favorite mug
sitting in a comfy chair
in the morning sun
the grind of Veranda blonde roast
coffee for husband’s day off
while puppy plays killer
with a teal-blue teddy bear

I’ve always wished for a real, true friend
several hits soon became lonely misses
mama’s legacy fed my fears
and thus my non-belonging….

sisters make it look so easy
laughter, smiles, shared confidences —
downy feathers lying soft on chenille.

sustained connectivity,
somehow not my forte.

the snow was deep
deeper than I’d anticipated
I had a long, long way yet to trudge.

sinking to mid-thigh,
heart making do despite the shock
to its otherwise dormant existence,
the whiteness around me,
the stillness,
beheld a loveliness
too profound to imagine.

if I died out here,
it would be a death
couched in serenity.

and who could argue with that?

When do you
to let go
or even how to?

We reveal
our souls,
our art,
our passions,
our works of love
and revel in others’
out of joy
and respect
and celebration

yet nothing —
or very little —
circles back in return.

Does one
to do
what is right
and lovely
with no thought
of recompense
and hope that awareness
will take root?

Or does one hunker down —
to thine own self be true —
with nothing more to give?

stoplight, a gauzy green
continuum blockers on high alert
seafoam backlit by pearls of magenta
fantastic creatures tucked inside
for future endeavors

won’t you join the melee
and burrow in with me for good

or must I remain an endangered species
targeted not for any illustrious appeal
but, rather, for what I lack in contradictions?