Poetry

Paper is a Time Machine, but it only goes backward in time.
Don’t ask where it begins, I don’t know where to begin,
but I know when you read you’re transported back in time.
I’m certain of that, but not much else. Is it part of the pencil

Santa Claus of the garden,
you bring snap of winter
to the mouth, crisp frosty heat.
Some call you icicle, watermelon,
breakfast, French, pink, orange, purple
(dirt had a real grip on that one.)

Music: up and down
Art: line and colour
Poetry: more or less
Philosophy: existential or ideal
Mathematics: point or plane

Gods are murdered in ritual,
with family in attendance.
If not as executioners, then moral support.
The god must be torn apart
thrown into all that is and is not.
Sister brides always grieve
journey to join the god together,
as he has always been put back together.

worst is best
because best
never is worst

Call for Mom.
She’s needed on deck;
no one else will do.
Who could possibly replace her?
Santa Claus or God?

Paleocene had a light tawny appearance and a semi sweet palate.
Eocene was the name of donkey in a play by Sophocles that became an eponym for stink.

some people say
black is the colour of chic

this evening, my neighbour’s red brick chimney,
lit by the dying sun, glows brilliant carmine
against a pure black blue sky that penetrates my blood
and fills me with insensate ecstasy

the moment before the rain
after the garden has been planted
while children play, the air riven
with silver laughter, let them be
soon it will rain