Here are a few examples of my poetry.

*

Goodbye My Love, Goodbye

Retreating inward from the pain,

I smell the sweetness of her hair

As we move along the path. I strain

Uphill, dragging muddied weight to where

Headstones squat like sacred peaks between

Mowed grass where walked mourning crones.

Stoic statues weathered, weeping, still serene,

Guarding lengthy rows of buried bones.

We halt. Crows pass, loud caws abating.

A portal beyond the pale awaits, silent.

The gaping hole lies open, waiting, waiting

For my dearest here quiet, broken, spent.

Farewell, sweet beauty, unfaithful miss.

I weep. Red lipstick on blue, icy lips

Beckons. Entranced, I take one final kiss

Before tossing splendor into the dark abyss.

Goodbye my love, goodbye.

*

Do The Dead Call

Do the dead call?

If they did, could we hear?

Would the voice be from afar?

Or would it seem quite near?

Would we listen with our minds?

Or would we run in fear?

Would we open to the chance?

Or would we jump and swoon?

Would we think it summer breeze?

Or howling at the Moon?

Do the dead call?

You tell me.

I wonder if you know?

Do they call on summer days?

Or whisper in the snow?

You tell me.

I’d really like to know.

*

Do Not Speak Ill Of The Dead

Do not speak ill of the dead!

That having said, I shall

flap my lips, wag candid tongue,

hoist the verbiage black and read,

speak truth about the dead.

Outline all the right and wrong,

unblemished reputation splattered.

Far better now to say instead,

it’s only truth that matters, go ahead.

If it’s not lies, speak unpleasantness,

illuminated veracity,

impolite accuracy.

Thus having said, I shall

speak ill of the dead.

*

Oh, Greed

Oh, Greed, so obvious your smile;

Want and Desire so blatant.

Reveal your Lust for material gain,

Of Profit and minted coin.

Omitting Oaths you have fore-sworn

As the pucker of your Aspirations

Lead you into Darker stations.

*

Death Knocked

Death knocked upon the door,

The workman stood most weary.

Tired and spent and without rest,

From labor dark and dreary.

Time, he felt, to quit this job,

His muscles knotted, tired and sore.

Just one more thing he had to do:

Answer the knock upon his door.