Diss

This stretch of anathema

Is as long, and as wide

As the boulevards of grace

It is an indirect virtue

Short on waste

I imagine it takes its queue

From my minds

Occasional sorrowful state

This poem is from the collection 

Tilt at True

If all I've seen

Was seen by you

What would that mean

On days I'm blue

If all those trips

Were then with you

It begins to seem

A shade undue

On a February night

3 years after 2002

I feigned to dream

Of separate clues

If all I've heard

Of stories told

The presence is there

Though passions cold

& the word is out

It's the word he loved

To be seen and heard

By the softer gloved

Under starlit skies

By mountains blue

To caress her soul

His sight askew

To praise her body

& intricate mind

To develop a crush

Such a thing of a kind

If all he'd seen

In that morning light

Was the flash of line

Infilled with slight

He could not let go

Driven by his own deceit

His urge arose, he ached

At large for the least receipt

In too deep

To see his rose

He grasped the petals

Tore at her clothes

The end had been

Exceptionally clear to view

What did it mean

As he wept, for love of blue

This poem is from the collection 

DOFP

You said you were unsure

About my motives

But took the doubts

To be all of your own making

Yet here, back in this locale

It is your name that enters my mind

As though the depth

Of deeper association could be denied

The trees are greener

Than ever I remember

And yes I do see you

And Pauline climbing high

In that beech

Or was it a sycamore

Downalong Broadwalk Boulevard

The sun is bright

Here before eight in the morning

As bright as that afternoon after class

As bright as many times

In that spring

And early summer

The doubts are always with me

They are a valuable source

For a writers inspiration

I am somewhat more settled now

But often write

On the future of past associations

This poem is from the collection 

K

Those aches I once inflamed

Lie spent, plainly dormant now

Lusts desires so surely tamed

Pain, sans pain, stilled somehow

This poem is from the collection 

Q

If only I saw this scene

Would that be of any matter

The willow that weeps 

As the Wolds turn flatter

To write these few words

Am I mad, mad as a hatter

To be neither read nor seen

Is that really of any matter

In years of invisible moons

Amid daylight’s soft scatter

Witnessed by a singular one

Yet to share; does it matter

This poem is from the collection