Eternal Rock

Words march goose stepping to the songs of Jesus

Invisibly his friend Holy Ghost played the bass

God clapped his hands and made dust

which still covers Oklahoma

Texas and Nebraska

Thank Moses for some bluegrass music.

Before the War

Vietnam awaited and I was a child

I left you behind, your blonde hair slapped

with the tears a man can’t cry,

not in nineteen sixty and four.

I lied so many times I forgot the truth.

The truth that you were pure and I,

I was tainted with a letter painted on my forehead.

A man falls wide of the mark of righteousness.

Righteousness is a fog.

Wrong is wrong and I was wrong.

That was in nineteen sixty and four

When men couldn’t cry unless they died in turn.

Web of Us

You thought I was just another spoon in the drawer,

another shiny  hood ornament

You were wrong, we were wrong

The lights went out long before we pulled the plug.

The light perhaps only an ethereal hope

hanging on this spider web woven wrongly,

the spider laughed as we untangled

from what was never to be.

Concrete Well

The gutter boss throws a stiff command,

“Gimme a smoke tramps,

watch your eyes or cops will yank your neck.”

He laughed without humor, “Ever have your neck yanked?”

Hector and Homer plunged into a silent place.

A place they knew gutter boss couldn’t go,

His mind quite incapable of logic, he continued,

“I wanna smoke.”

“No smoke today Frankie boy,”

the man in blue jingled metal handcuff,

his eyes bored holes into Frankie’s.

“Wanna go down to the concrete well?”

Frankie slid down the greasy brick wall,

fighting the urge to scream.

The handcuffs whispered, “We’ll yank your neck.

Let’s go to the concrete well and yank your neck.”




Born out of water

I am fish.

My gills tired of touring the oceans

have all but given way.

A broken fin, worn gums, a rusty hook

are cause for longing,

just a small bucolic pond

Tadpoles for the taking.

I am fish.

I am the beginning.

One last bomb

will kill us all.


The story is told, the work is done, but life continues on busy breezes and you must catch one and ride it to the end of your own story.  Desolation and doom are inevitable but our ability to change the story is possible.  We are the editors of our life.  Our scribbling can change the end of the story.  It’s not an American story, an African story, a European, Middle Eastern, or an Asian Story.  It is your story and your pencil, edit at will.


The horses I rode

when younger,

younger than now

were made of clay

running in circles.

Stallions of the mind

nostrils flaring

thick flowing manes

clutched in my memory

riding high plains

of consciousness.

Thoroughbreds of thought

reaching a gold ring,

a child’s centrifuge,

a smile for no mother,

a wave for no father,

the carousel eternally

goes round and round.

Concrete Shepherd


Where the mountain dumps

its lava lipped edges

into behemoth bulbous warships

floating just beyond the reach of man,

a man of stone sleeps.

A shepherd lost for centuries

with vacant eyes dead

yet see he does more than I.

Leonardo robe ragged now

propelled by a painted wind

Sistine quiet he is the incense of history

if only I could know his story

for he surely knows mine.