Patterns of Sand

Elaborate granular legends



Continuously reshaped




By elemental sculptors
Of dead fish





Bone and scale epitaph



That one day rolls back
To the sea from which it came


For my sweetie, who teasingly said I would write poetry about dead fish.

Brain Rash

apocalyptic apparitions rain like ash
on an otherwise clear day
mushrooming delusional brain rash
keeps contentment at bay

boredom rolls in
befogging a creative high
sacrifices begin
mediocrity must die!

clarity becomes a blue sky illusion
passing clouds irritate
scourging syndrome cycles toward confusion
when aversions animate

darkening doom
locks me in a room
imagined tomb
infectious fume
that consumes

emptiness rolls in
befogging a creative high
medications begin
numbing desires to fly

extremes too surreal
what do I really feel?
driven to zeal
strained and concealed
only haziness heals
when you’re…
locked in a room
imagined tomb
with infectious fumes
that consume


This poem is for my stepson, who's going through a tough time. He's a poet, and is into rap music.

Look What's In My Backyard

I think they're somebody's pets, because you don't see this in an inner city neighborhood everyday. They wandered in while trying to avoid the dogs on either side of us, and then found a hole in the back fence to continue on their journey.



I count 15 babies.



The only other place I've seen this type of duck was in Mexico. This last pic was taken in Puerto Vallerta. I googled them and discovered they're called Black Bellied Tree Ducks. They are only found in South Texas and Mexico.

No Way Out

"Is there no way out of the mind?" - Sylvia Plath



outside the air is real
and ascends in currents and streams
unpolluted

I breathe dust and ash
wipe silt deposits from my eyes
swim through a smoky mire toward

stage lights cast blue reflections
on musicians playing with passionate fury
cast highlights on an inebriated audience
artificial fog obscures the source that is

shrinking room at one end of a tunnel
the other end twists and turns
culminating at a dead end with a peep hole

outside the air is real
I strain to study and then
turn back to the smoky mire