Lady Selene

"We were both looking at the same moon,
I think," she replied.
I'd overheard her in passing
On the Upper West Side.

Where players and poets,
Tune cellos and turn words round,
Where sidewalk cracks snag you,
And dogs, well, enough said.

Maybe that's it.
There are twin moons!
Shining down upon us
their celestial lights.

Might account for…
Conspiracy theories,
And political unreason.

Moreover, might explain…
The Color Wheel,
Hues of hierarchy forever depicting,
the Favored and shading the Forsaken.

Twin Moons!
Silly idea, really.

Of course, merging two moons,
	That's a job for the fair Selene,
		Backing  up the chariot,
			To seamlessly unite the pair.

But, I'm not sure she's prepared,
	Learned the shift pattern,
		Uses the rearview mirror,
			Turns her head around,
Or is interested much,
 In, reversing her course.

dVerse Open Link Night


I am certain Covid broke us.
Slid right in and commandeered
The anterior insular cortex,
Rendering it feckless.

The insidious vapors of virus,
Crept through grey pattern,
like fissures in Britain's fine china, 
weakening vessels.

It challenged stoic cake-baking, 
cheek-pinching Grandmothers 
now weary, brittle like breath,
Mugged and stole delinquent affection.

Their confections and convictions
Dried up, gone to seed.
Their ovens long  gone cold
Like their parting, parched mouths.

It rankled outliers rowdy with
drink, now shooting before sighting,
Shooting mouths,
Shooting hearts, shooting voices.

Explosive, shrapnel-laden fury envelops,
The hand that shoves the traveler,
The hand that slaps the lover.
The hand that pulls the trigger.

What do we lack, for nothing?
Our coffers depleted,
Our mouth's drier still
Without the stale Body of Christ.

Our god. 
Our selves.
Our salvation.

dVerse Open Link Night


evening lavender


If history could teach us anything,
would anyone listen?
it would not, could not possibly,
squelch that itchy, curious impulsivity

To loosen a rusted, crusty lid
releasing Sorrow, Sickness, and War.
assured, the Gifts await
a clever mind’s temptation

As tin soldiers eat cake
and foul-mouthed warriors
breathe and bellow life
into deadened coals

Could History un-travel the paths
leading hordes to Fate’s end?
with promises of Beauty and

They couldn’t hear either

Words, pale and weak, floating,
hovering like gnats around reddened ears,
clotted with grey, overgrown hair,
Righteous, ripe in Ignorance

Would History unravel, uncoil,
unspoil vines wound about
berries sweetly fragrant
alive for this moment?

What cynic believes a peek
into the clairvoyant vortex wouldn’t,
couldn’t prevent unimaginable

Even with the tender release of
Hope, wafting sweetly, swaying
in a lavender mist,
did History fail its reward?

For you and I
curious, alive,
unrelenting in our passions,
became our past

After all.

Birds of a Feather

They returned today
Slinking in their new skins,
Dancing a mating ritual.

Confident, proud
Batting an alluring eye,
Gushing and puffing
Adventures near and far

As if tales and tokens
Could mask their uncertainty,
As if cool could hide hopes
of higher ranking

A pecking order of
Verbal highbrow banter,
Rainbowed lip gloss,
And slouched shoulders

A collection of humanity
Babes to golden agers,
Vying for prominence
Or to remain shadowed

Quick to dismiss deviation
As an unspoken definition of

The collective unique.

The Weight of Water

This was in response to the boys who watched a man drown, while ridiculing him


“Your deeds are your monuments” – inscription on Egyptian tomb

In a flicker,
Across the boundaries of time,
I read in granite
“Your deeds are your monuments.”

Throughout this life and the next,
Carry your monument
Of inaction and ridicule,
Feel its density.

Feel its weight,
Like the weight of water,

Pulling a man below
The surface of your conscience.