When winter comes
even the drips stop
to heed
the inward time
iced
blackened by early night
when kitchen lights glow gold
and we face ourselves
reflected in dark windows.
Category Archives: Poetry
Disconnections: November 18.18
Monument
to lasting function
or rouged and blowzy
extreme unction?
Wizened perhaps
in carburetor
atrophied
in accelerator
rusted, dented,
sedentary
yet with vital
commentary
to give me hope
there’s still some good
within my own
antique popped hood.
I do not know the creator so I cannot give credit,
but I can tell you this is part of a stop-the-car! display in Fortville, IN.
Is it public art or capital joke? In the eye of the beholder, yes?
Disconnections: November 17.18
Aplomb is where you find it
in any habitat
some kitchens wear an onion
like a Hedda Hopper hat.
More thanks to the S.W. Berg photo archives.
Disconnections: November 16.18
Even a little plastic tree
deserves a kinder place to be
away from marbled symmetry
squared into sterility.
Stark it stands dejectedly
illustrating pointedly
how we are compelled to see
the world anthropomorphically.
More thanks to the observant eye of photographer S.W. Berg.
Disconnections: November 15.18
Winter sketch
ice lines
hard and bright
crystal’d maple
catching
freezing
lamplight.
And so it starts, dear reader: winter comes on crackling ice feet, and it’s here this morning.
Disconnections: November 6.18
I cast a shadow
in my shape
but taller;
I am this
but something more
yet smaller.
Each of us is more
yet less,
his/her own bellwether,
in far-flung shadow
mindful that
we’re all in this together.
Casting our shadows today, dear reader, in this country.
Disconnections: November 3.18
My front yard may be small
but in gold it’s very big
ruddy, blushing yellows
on every branch and twig.
I raised my trusty camera
to capture golden riot
but was dissuaded from my focus
by the egotist too nigh it.
I had to zoom behind
to my neighbor’s tree instead
because nothing photobombs
like the high and mighty red.
