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Sunday, June 4, 2017

"look for the helpers"

as the departed but always present Mr. Rogers said... 

“look for the helpers”

some will say such is a sign of a soul
that will spare no cost to tear the
fabric of freedom forever –
some will say that terror is a gift of
love toughest that will lift all nations
to rise to their better selves …
I say that despite the fierce or flighty
Despite the deeds that dismay, taunt or
Terrify –it is the mercy of morality that
Shall always open the jar that holds the
firefly to soar sparkling – and thus bind
all wounds despite origin of infliction.

photo by 
The Sunday Whirl

Sunday, May 28, 2017



oh it lay there - small neck
snapped - each tiny limb 
crimped on the stones 
oh it lay there 
it could just as easily 
been her hope-itself
still-in this season of
cold grass turning -
something lovely
dank dread 
the seep of 
soul as she 

Saturday, May 13, 2017

Ah Mother's Day

Ah Mother's Day..

filled with spectral 
color, depth and 
dimensions of all
the beating heart 
can bear, memory
of first cries - and
satin skin - of tears
of joy and anguish
of parchment good-
byes and joyous
hellos -of heinous
heartbreak and
inexpressible joy
Ah Mother's Day...
when the Great
Mother Earth her-
self sighs and
sends crashing
seas and gentle
rains to flourish
power, passion
and love beyond
measure or
replication -
Ah Mother's Day..
for all those who
emerged from womb
or entered a welcome
room - for those who
now sparkle in the
whisper of the wind
to those whose power
stirs conflict and heart-
ache ...cry silver tears
Ah Mother's Day...
may all find the
sparkle of love in the
gift of life and for those
fortunate enough to
attach joy to a particular
mother ... be she in your
arms or ensconced in the
mystic magical memory
of your heart
because of
or inspite of
the dance of life

Ahhhhh..... Mother's Day.....

Sunday, May 7, 2017


a twig snapped in the slashing rain
and the mother weary with labor lifted
her head wobbling on thin stalked neck
and looked toward the sound only she
heard – the others off to side swapping
stories sitting in ash around the small fire
one blackened limb touching another their
shadows stretching up the cave wall – she
could feel the rain as though it poured clean
and cool – she could feel the rain as though
spirits of the grand mother of all walked with
clean feet and soft hands and lifted her in
this cavern of pain and indifference, washed her
body and hair free of sweat and desperation and
agony and delivered born unto her a swaddled infant –
as the rain stilled to the mist – radiates of a new dawn
showering her shoulders as she stood infant to breast
in the doorway looking out onto a ribbon of tomorrow
poised to walk …. 
she smiled 

Thursday, April 6, 2017


Oh Omran and your bloody buddies
the grownups play at messages, missiles
and airplanes – gassing up and guessing
gawking at convulsing pre-rigormortised
contortions – Oh Omaran, they’re talking
and shocked at the pictures of hoses and
water trying to wash away the sin and
stain … talking about strategies and coming
consequences, droning on about droning
and force, playing at messages and missiles
when you know – you know that all it would
take would be to pull up the tanks to the border
open doors and arms wide and pull you all up –
gather you all and drive off to safe sanctuary
leave those who play at murder alone –
allow your still living buddies the breath of
unsullied air into far flung freedom – for it
would be they who would blossom across
this globe until those who revel in death and
destruction dried, abandoned in the rubble
of their creation consigned to wander without
target for lunatic rage. Oh Omran, and your
bloody buddies – move over – for I must sit for
a while, pulling at my own hair – staring blankly
in helpless confusion at my own blood- stained
fingertips – typing words into an unchanging wind –
military might -
but rescue is certain –
If this seems ungrateful...
catch a surviving speck of
ash floating in the histories
of six million and far far more
Ask the ghosts which they choose
Oh Omran and your bloody buddies....
You know.

Saturday, April 1, 2017




To that primal place I follow ...
into the garden of youth – rise in
conflagrated- creation of shadow and
shame – come near – reach - eyes
touching - the base of an other throat
with first kiss –
to flame

Sunday, March 26, 2017



I am the cask and the imbimber
Come to a stop at the base of
your rolling foothills resting on
velvety sweet green on this morn
Come to a stop at the base of
your rolling foothills of this long
journey – months falling into years
longing for a whisper through my
slatted boards, longing for a passing
touch – day to day – month to month
adds molten time to the burgeoning
pain – I can feel the blood red of me
bubble through a slivered crack here
and there – once I was the vine - the 
wine - the beginning and all for you -
loved you and was loved in return – 
now I lay pulped strained -
     Cask and imbiber of all that was and
     all that seems will never be …trapped
     here at the foothills of your indifference
     left to inhale the scents of the stew
       of life swirling outside – I exist on sips
       of perhaps…here hidden in the sunshine
       history and future-decomposing in a field
       of butterflies and smoke

The Sunday Whirl
Photo -Peter Griffin

Thursday, March 23, 2017

Looking Glass

Looking Glass 

I ask no questions of you 
yet you speak-in silvered
tongues wavery watery 
versions fall - one atop
the other – no truest –
chubby cheeks give way
to koal-lined glimmer –
Ebon - sun shot hair then
now platinum stranded –
there an infant blinks
held to see his first look – 
ask no questions - yet you
speak – incessant murmur
watery, wavery, forever
flickers – there in just
the right light – with a
soft self-kind smile – 
all reflected back and
forward to 
peering me..
all except 
what lies 

(photo by Piotr Siedlecki / www)

Sunday, March 5, 2017

Time bend or The Railroad Goes

Time bend or The Railroad Goes

Miss the bits of you-
blue smoke drifting
parenthetical arcs
around your words -
Miss all you turned
  my head to see 
until I saw -
the flat calm
of a lake at sunrise  - 
the brilliant flash 
of a jay's cocked eye - 
watching -
all of it -
in the solid
temple that was you - 
I swing 
between each sense
of you - off track - 
your smoke trailing over the
horizon - as you clatter off
heading toward an unseen
curve - a dip -an ultimate
until then -
I miss the bits and 
hold the smoke ...

Thursday, February 23, 2017

Gone where?

Gone where?

Where have you gone
baby boy – the scent
of you – turns my head
looking – your skin slips
silk against my chest –
I feel the hot imprint of you
curled as though you would
melt back into me and again
we would be one – where - oh
where have you gone –
 baby boy – you linger
in the air –