Another Pointless Poem About Summer Nights

It may just be chemical in nature, 
the rough stew of daytime odors 
boiled long,  then cooled
in a three-sided cedar pot, 
stirred by drooping lavender stems
in a lazy breeze, limp-wristed,  silent.

It could just as easily hypnotic 
the way the geraniums bob
in small circles,  suggestively
while the crickets gradually find
their metronome voices amongst
the tall grass and the concert begins.

In the end,  it's likely what isn't there
which speaks to us most loudly 
like hibiscus megaphones in our ears, 
the lack of expectations and prying eyes, 
the eyes we turn on ourselves elsewhere
where the sun leave no stone unturned

Poetry Contests

She asked for my fears

but I shrank from her.

She requested tears,
I peeled an onion.

She asked for my dreams,
I gave someone’s.

She sought memories
I’ve since forgotten.


She wanted the truth
of course, I lied.

When asked for my soul,
I offered my heel.

Wake Up Call

I prefer to look at the morning
- its round,  smudged shadows
draped over someone else's
artifacts like forgotten furniture -
before I open my eyes.

The shape of the morning dove's song,
angled,  ornate, refracting the first light,
the drooping weight of the hibiscus' breath
shortening as they fall asleep,
the sheen of shutter-filtered sunlight
like melted pastel in my palm.

Shadow of Myself

Some take it badly
if they take it at all,
news that one and

one ran off the edge
of the screen together,
nothing in their wake

but an empty bottle,
a blank script, someone
else's candy wrapper.

Not me.

Not while I have a
willing wall for a stage
and the puppeteer's ear,

and recall without a sigh
how the script first read
when drafted.

Looking Behind The Curtain (Snowden)

The only difference
between a secret and shame
is a pair of ears