From Psalm Five
I cry out to You
Lord, from a lonely desert
You always hear me
It brings You no joy
Seeing Your children ensnared
By evil vices
Like a burnished shield
Cover us with protection
Praise Your Holy Name
I cry out to You
Lord, from a lonely desert
You always hear me
It brings You no joy
Seeing Your children ensnared
By evil vices
Like a burnished shield
Cover us with protection
Praise Your Holy Name
Every Now and then I get an urge to travel to the past,
To experience what I had loved so much as a child,
Cartoons and video games,
Cartoons like Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends,
Or Codename Kids Next Door,
Still hold up even decades later,
Same hold true for those games I played,
One about a sly raccoon and his fellow orphaned companions,
The other about a small purple dragon whose best friend is a dragonfly,
Every few years I’m compelled to revisited those show and games,
Leading to one of the best weeks of my life
Dark clouds hang
over
white dusted mountains
Roadside flowers
ropes of roses twirled
round the caution curve sign
Blue crosses
with red and white
plastic blossoms
Pale painted ones
wooden with fading
snowball sand-verbena
Long dank daffodils,
yarrow
angels’ trumpets
Memorials entwine pine
and gradual disappearing
Memories
What mothers’ children
Lost
on this curvy mountain road
Where clouds meet the snow
above golden cottonwoods
turning gray
Two solid white cats
patrol our neighborhood
They visit yards at dusk
slinking low among bushes
Owning the turf.
But my white Westie knows
they are not like him
and yearns to get close to sniff
Fearful of a viscous clawed attack,
I keep him tethered close
not sure if either would attack.
One night the cat eased in
they nose bumped
No signs of aggression
My dog wiggled his tail
Friends at first acquaintance.
Jack is the man. He is planted
on the front porch of the condominium,
always decked Hollywood glamorous
in accoutrements so fine
he draws attention from the men
and the ladies walking out every night.
What’s he waiting for
at age ninety four with a one pint flask
of gin feeding his frame
that fast forwards him into a bed
before eight? Shit faced!
Jack’s hair is peppered white, worn
with globs of pomade, blue
and tacky, buffed as the shiny
grey of the sporty Ford Mustang
he sadly sold last summer
because he forgot he had to haul
an enormous red hoveround,
and his doctor restricted
his movements.
Jack’s best friend
is Amazon.
He once told me the way to live
in style is to wear something
for a day or two,
then send it back.
Today, I saw him in tweed golf pants,
loafers, a bright yellow silk shirt,
and a canary white ascot after
the stylishness of Cary Grant.
The lobby always has packages.
JACK N. Unit 2 — on at least one
box every single day.
I don’t know who he’s dressing for.
He’s not a great conversationalist
unless hammered,
and I can see a fading light
in his eyes.
I don’t know if it’s too late for him,
but I think he’s so beautiful
I could cry.
god refused to develop my sickly, brittle body
but instead chose to grow my shadow 10x in size
jet black and enormous. his head knocks into a weak moon
making it sway for a bit. threatening to knock it out of the sky
he’s so wide that he sweeps the cigarette butts on the street
into the drainpipes as i walk. i’ve always envied him.
as a child found out flames don’t have shadows.
as a child just knew i would grow.
