Poetic Seasons


ink-blotched ideas
blossom on the empty page
outlast their authors

words drawn in sand dunes
whisper to the reader’s heart
beyond the wind’s reach

colored leaves falling
as old poets’ tears of ink
baring ancient hearts

secretive snow
reveals as much as it hides
writings of masters

The Last Believer


The last believer lay awake in bed
with heartbeat echoed by a sleek machine.
He tried to hold Her image in his head,
but medicated fog crept up between.

He knew his time approached on slippered feet;
his DNR all carefully in place.
No rebirth here; this death would be complete
without his Goddess there to lend her grace.

Awake he’d try to call his Lady’s name;
for maybe someone knew the Lady’s ways.
But to his knowledge, no one ever came.
As slowly passing hours turned to days.

A tech with Wikipedia knows Who;
instead of one believer, there are two.

Lady Webmaster Blues


I am the lady webmaster whose job is to maintain each page.
I try to do as I am told without anxiety or rage.
But. sometimes, people ask for things that just don’t work or match the site;
and, at that point, I do my best to placate and avoid a fight.

She asked me for a signup form, for members wanting to play games.
I took the one we had last year that asked for ‘badge’ and ‘real’ names.
She said I couldn’t use that form because she could not guarantee
that people signing up had paid — and no one plays the games for free.

I showed her last year’s archived page with old identical to new.
“Oh no one used it!”, she replied. “Okay I’ll take it down for you.”
So now the form is hid from view by comment tags, both fore and aft,
for when she finally decides that, yes, I really know my craft.

“I hope you have some time,” she said, while I worked on the program grid.
“Do you still have that signup form?” I smiled and said, sure I did.

Fan Mail


Jane Random Fan, I’d like to thank you for your recent note.
Although I didn’t read it all, I’m happy that you wrote.
Because of the large quantity or letters in my queue,
I cannot send a personal reply direct to you.
You tell me you’re in love with me (the media’s to blame)
You’re dazzled by my image, and my manufactured fame
I autographed my picture once; it’s hanging on your wall.
I’ve signed them by the thousands and I can’t recall them all.
You mention that I drew a heart around your name and mine
I don’t know how to tell you this–I do that all the time.
Although I am your fantasy, I’m really just a man
I only wrote this poem because you are my biggest fan.

That would be Telling


There is a game they call “charades”
That many of you might have played.
You act out clues and try your best
And hope the other side won’t guess.
Seven girls drank too much wine
All standing naked in a line…
Two faced forward, five away
Try to guess what they portrayed.
If the girls still have you stumped…
Rump titty, rump titty, rump, rump, rump.