Category Archives: Poems

What is in a category?

Snow, a Poem

It flutters down from skies grayed and shrill

Nonchalant at first,

An afterthought.

In the silence of this beginning,

It is beautiful:

The heavenly sphere deigning to

Bequeath us some of its particle perfection.

A gust howls a sudden,

The still is shattered.

The flakes grow in magnitude

In speed

In number

And in determination.

They tumble over each other,

Racing to the ground,

White with menace.

It accumulates,

Burying us in Igloo-tombs,

Frigid monuments to

Winter’s malevolence, and

Imbued with merciless terrestriality.

Flight, a Poem

I’ve always had an interest in birds,

I’ve always loved to watch,

When I have the time.

But then, sometimes too much seasoning is a bad thing.

Like winter.

The winter of my discontent.

Too long, sometimes, those tables.

Longer than the books themselves.

I’ll admit it: sometimes I judge a book by its cover.

Now I’d better take some, lest I take an arrow to the knee.

Alas, I don’t play as many video games as I used to.

I circle, instead, the rim of the drain, so to speak.

Or squeak, in my case, mouse-like as I am.

Where was I? Squawking, that’s right.

My apologies: flight of ideas…

Flight of birds, of ideas, my ideas.

Free, free, they’re all libertines.

Unchained, unfettered–

Although not unfeathered.

I hated that game as a child.

Stiff as a board always struck me as such a stupid turn of phrase.

Sorry–again–my mind gets carried away by her own flights

Of fancy.

One day she will fly too close to the sun.

But not the father or mother.

They’re quite done with the whole thing.


As I often am.

My wings beat incessantly.

They cannot stop.

An eternal roundabout.

Cars roaming and not yielding.

Circling and circling.


And without the benefit of Pythagoras.

Math’s all Greek to me anyhow,

Philosophy too.

Owls are my favorite.

Nocturnal things.

Preludes and Nocturnes.

First part in a good series.

Gaiman at his finest.

Not a comic comic,

But still humorous.

I broke my radius once,

Which hurt quite a bit.

Later on things came full circle,

Much like the Lion King.

I don’t care for scars on men…

Why are you looking at me like that?

Oh right, birds.

I like them, always have…

The Three-Headed Snake That Lives in my Vagina

Based on a patient’s hallucination, not on any personal experience on my part. 

Haunting the whispering caverns

Of my Vagina

Slithers a creature who thrice-headed burrows


Whose scaled flesh slithers

About my fallopian tubes

Whose fangs sink

Far into my womb

I urinate

And it complains

I wipe myself

And it snaps at my fingers

A penis looms large

And the serpent strikes

Deflating the trespasser

Driving the man away

Driving my family away

Driving my health away

I grow fat

The serpent’s opulent palace

My rolls

Are its accumulated wealth

I grow heavy-gangrenous

Consigned to inactivity and decay

It hisses upon its moist throne

 Reveling in the corruption

It has wrought

I do not die

But like monstrous Asia

Am made to exist in undeath

At the behest

Of a despot

A Puzzle, Human

I’ll publish another article eventually. Promise! For now, poems galore!

Puzzle half-done on the table

On the box a luring label

Must needs finish, I am able

Piece together person stable

The edges begin to coalesce


Work my way towards interior

Making whole this form inferior

Motives pure and not ulterior

Parts connect in whole superior

Close to the middle, nearing success


Coming to the puzzle’s core

Fragments complex to the fore

Task uneasy unlike of yore

Parts do scatter to the floor

Piecefully interrupting progress


At long last the puzzle I forsake

To grim reality I awake

A world both unsimple and opaque

My tinkering thirst at last I slake

To each their own; this I now profess


The Nature of Victory

Conan achieved victory over his foes, crushing them mightily. But what does victory really mean? Is it ever complete? Ought it be?

Men bicker,

Battles fought,

And histories written about them.

By common consent the victors

Pen these bloody tomes,

Confident in their paragraphs,

That their compatriots’ exploits,


Were worthy of posterity,

Worthy of the cost.

Counted in coin

In men

In time.

A problem emerges,

One of definition.

How does one assign victory?

Did Sparta dismantle Athens;

Or gain imperial doom?

Did Rome subjugate the Greeks;

Or sow declining seeds?

Did the North federate the South;

Or submit to cotton politics?

How often do the Victors

Find themselves enmeshed, subsumed,

Consumed even

By those they suppose to have conquered?

Spartan culture collapsed entirely

In the face of empire and dominion.

Roman culture fled in the face

Of Greek vitality.

And what of the North?

 Too close to home, perhaps,

So who can say…

Or of wars betwixt not nations, armies, generals,

But of majority against minority,

Of, say, sane against insane?

What do we think of Victors,

In the war against the Mad?

Patients are confined,



And maligned.

And great books are written

Detailing the grotesque

Their oddities, disorders,

Sicknesses, and perversions;

Are catalogued, collated,

And assigned treatment,

All planned out in advance.

What of these triumphant psychiatrists?

What have they really won?

The mad-consigned,

They gaze,

Thru bleary eyes,

At these medical men

Stripped bare

White coats with nothing


The mad are imprisoned,

The sane…

Are prisoners of the



They go thru the motions,



Utterly unaware,

As perhaps the mad are,

Of the tragedy of it all

And the grim humor,

That they walk in circles

Circumferenced by Victor’s reality.

The sane are guards on the prison walls,

But prisoners too,

Confined all the same,

The seeds of their doom sown

With the first steps of psychology,

Like Rome at Cynoscephalae.

Let us hope the mad

Infect their caretakers

As Rome

Was encultured by Greece.

A Sonnet about Farming

Because Grapes of Wrath was still on my mind…


Calloused hands and sweated brow on high

Ever laboring under sphere of blaze

From tilled earth, eyes turn to barren sky

Attempt to pierce through brow’s weathered haze

Crow’s call, a distance, and sigh in answer

Knuckles pale, grasp tight his handled hoe

Presage combat twixt man and scavenger

Bloody work, this, fighting feathered foe


At long last day’s darkened end draws near

Ravenous mouths driven from the tilled

Earth, mixed with man’s life-blood, o’er filled

Water from kitchen faucet runs cool, clear

Rinsing hands but never washing the soil

From him: the land infused with his toil

Empirical Circle

Trumpeted on confident air

Scientific zealots declare

Impassion’d with religious flare

Their only philosophic care:

The world is but your perception


Wrench’d from the earth that we do cull

They build with facts empirical

Hammers clink, drills hum lyrical

This and that man-made miracle

Made with progressive intention


At these metal marvels I look

With skeptic eyes that faith forsook

And notice hidden reason’s rook

A fact found in no physic book

This world is but our conception


The Law of Nature iron strong

With proof thereof in theorem’s song

Based on observations long

And read by atheistic throng

Cannot allow one exception


Expecting all to rise and fall

With uniformity banal

Because of Nature’s legal gall

And observation’s heavy maul…

Our logic’s circl’d invention

Cat-Calls, a Sonnet

A compliment in a whistled missive

Or a declaration of dependence

Cat-calls, two views, err which way you proclive

Each side panoplied in its defendants

What matters here is paramount context

And  to boot the intent behind the sound

Considered before response reflex’d

And gauntlet thrown on sidewalk’s concrete ground

Does the woman then feel empowered

Amidst these yells by turns heckle or praise

Or do the hairs on neck’s back prickle, raise

Fear of immanent life devoured

If woman feels secure and safe withal

Then let slip such voice of primate cat’s call

But if by such sounds terror produced

Then by all means, are defense’s volleys


On Banks

I have definitely been reading too much Grapes of Wrath of late. To wit:

Panoplied in clothen shimmer;

Grasping at coined glimmer;

As the world grows ever dimmer,

Shadowed by treasured piles.


Monies upon monies multiply;

The golden rule’s decency defy;

Banker’s law of profit comply;

Wealth entombed thru his beguiles.


Mansions built on land acquired

By dubious means, and laws conspired;

And built by poor men’s work, required

To keep them busy for greedy wiles.


Despite the shine of armor’s suit,

And bastions of gilded loot;

These bankers all lie ever mute,

Engraved with all in ranks and files.

Positive SI

I wrote this poem perhaps six months ago. Given the circumstances, it seemed timely to post it now.

My heart is wearied, bruised, broken:


And no longer really there.

A bloody chimera keeps me going,

For what cause,

But to suffer;

For your laws,

And at their behest.

Why struggle with this pain,

and onwards shamble?

What is there to gain,

Thru gory bramble?

I tire of

My life,

This pain,

Your obligation.

And so, I’ve a choice to make.

Not therapy, not talk,

But action!

No whimpering monologues of the to be or not to be,

Rotten words from a decayed mind,

But a gleaming  razor’s edge.

Goodnight, sweet prince.