Down To My Last Dollar

Nights in White Satin
Cold hearted orb
That rules the night
Removes the colours
From our sight
Red is gray and
Yellow white
But we decide
Which is right
And
Which is an Illusion


Makua Beach

As one Civil War nurse (Walt Whitman) said, “I am large, I contain multitudes.” When we pay close attention to who we really are, there is no one else, no one who is left out. At Makua, with time on my hands, I put together a couple little poems:




If I Were A Poet
(A tribute to Walt Whitman)

If I were a poet,
chaos and confusion would cease,
inconsistencies vanish with the setting sun,
the abyss would fill with luminescence,
and the mustard seed would sprout.
With a whiff of a flower,
malice and hostility would dissipate,
enigmas would become harmless,
pain and suffering would diminish.
God, I envy the poet.
The poet inhales nature and exhales humility,
caresses life with every breath,
celebrates variety,
experiences unity,
and obsesses love.





Hunger Again

On the stage of the absurd,
attention freely wanders,
elapsing into fanciful dreams
A brief interval by any stretch.
Desire's pains attack, panic ensues,
occupation becomes eminent,
the hand reaches for a cigarette.
The palliating surrogate offers
a short-lived reprieve.
Hunger always waits.