Thursday, September 26, 2013

Pinched Nerve

Pinched Nerve

The first touch of fall
Pushes the leaves
Towards yellow
And gold.

A pinched nerve in hip
Arrests my gait
In its natural rhythm
Am I old?

Autumn is my favorite time
Spring’s over rated
Easily blemished
By an inconsiderate touch

Summer is overblown
Vulgaire in its extremes
Base in its green or blue
Lacking the sophisticate’s brush

And winter

Well winter is cold and old
A time to reconsider
And philosophize
And wait for that longed for breath
Of fragile spring.

Saturday, September 14, 2013


The twirlly bits are most thrilling
And frightening.

In a flash
I lose my sense of self

Of balance
Of adult hood
No longer the grown-up
I throw myself
Into the air

Hoping to end

But happy just to do it

The beat
The beat
Dance on the beat.

Dance on the head of a pin.

Angels watch me
Dancing together



In remembrance of the great poet Seamus Heaney

An old man dead
Or a dog that breathed a fetid stench
Irish both
But neither suited for the trenches

The old man glowers
With a 3 year old's jealousy
Of dead scholars
And poets
And soldiers
All past to dust
But having lived

Whilst he reconsiders
His dread of criticism
And sulks
To beat the band