Thoughts

Whoever considers their thoughts

To be sacrosanct 

Dwells in a delirium of self-indulgence 

and secondhand philosophy

No one lives beyond the scrutiny

Of their peers and the 

opprobrium of their enemies

Think what you will, 

wear your imagination like Merlin’s robe

You can’t escape your place between 

one step ahead and two steps behind 

where a shadow hovers just for you

One Or The Other

 When lust becomes love

dedicated patience must

stand against choler

that love might thrive

for the only thing easy in life

is putting oneself first

the hardest thing is

not doing so

the difference between

holding back and holding forth

is truthfulness

which can be a bitter pill

or a settling elixir

one or the other

never both together

Cycles

 I could go to the forest plunge my hands through the leaf litter Into the mycorrhizal network of fungi letting my fingers take root to draw me down Into the symbiotic life beneath the surface, thence to rise with the nurturing sap taking a place  amongst the foliage, joining its dance of colors, thence to become a fallen leaf many veined and transparent dissolving into the earth and beginning a new journey upward to welcome a new season with my brothers and sisters, a reflection of the cyclical nature of existence.

Corners and Creases

I watched you fold your napkin after dinner

as precise as an architectural drawing 

it reminded me of what you said this morning 

that for a romance to flourish 

lovers must give as much thought to the

corners and creases of their relationship 

as they do to the marriage bed 

and the gifts they give and receive 

Mask

I dare not reveal

my private idiosyncrasies

less you think me perverse

they like everything

are subject to misinterpretation

Don't think me obstreperous

because I won't follow the leader

or that I am melancholic

skirting the fringes of friendship

My private idiosyncrasies

mask my mediocrity 

fend off mendacity

and keep you guessing

Retribution

Shedding listless thoughts

that follow me like an empty train

I'd rather the maelstrom

than this boorish complacency

the retribution for my

palpable delinquencies

when the future held no sway

Now time has run past me

will I get handshake

at the finish line 

or be abandoned to the 

ignominy of walking

through a crowd that 

already can't see  me

Chanteuse

There is a song in her soul

a truth pressed against

her misgivings

a whisper of a melody

like metronomic sighs

foreshadowing a

crystalline coda

Her audience reflects

in the bathroom mirror

the most discerning

anxiously anticipating

a change in tempo

the chanteuse smiles with song

and her audience smiles back