Heavy Hand

Daily, the broom says to itself,

“I will no longer soil my hands.”

But fate’s heavy hand holds fast  

Until the broom falls apart

And is itself swept away with the dirt. 

Cold Open

A stately Lexus leisurely

Steals through the street,

Its red neon rear lights

In tone with garish bars

That pound bass rhythms into

The mystical three a.m. night.

The limo chances upon

A girl – all legs and rhythm

And the two halt instinctively.

She dissolves into its depths

And the limo slithers on –

In its wake a heady mix of 

Cheap and expensive perfume.  

Senryū

Curse her demon soul!

O yellow dust of time

Bury her someplace deep 

U

m

b

r

e

l

l

a

Lightning bares its gleaming teeth.

Even as the storm pummels

And the thunder growls,

The umbrella smiles

At the fuming

 Skies.

                                                                                            - for April

Ruba'i

Across Life’s wind-toss'd Sea I blew, and swore,

“My Soul can bear these Crushing Whirls no more.”

And lo, from the foaming dimness, a Voice –

“Thou shalt take thy Lot, or else the Black Door!”

Unremembered Keepsakes

The empty seconds, pared of meaning,

Tick and slink like a thief in the night.

The days tiptoe facelessly into the void

Of moldy unremembered keepsakes,

And time, in artful artistry, tattoos 

The horrid nothingness on my face.   

Dear

The hard wintry gaze

Of granite in the moonlight

Could you be any colder?