The Actor

As I am “self,” I am more than I am.

I really only speak thus to myself.

My voice is always sweetly orotund,

But what I’m here to say is all mere sham.

I’ve earned a moiety of fame and pelf

And not once have I given a refund.

My fingers flick about like ten small swords,

Not as sharp as the edges of my words.

My visage contortions are a mirror

(That’s where I learned them) of your hapless souls;

Mine is a mimesis of your terror

As you nose up squinting from your mole holes.

Ah, dear ones, let’s be friends. (I’m just joking!)

My playwright prints my words — man, she’s smoking!

NOW, A Sonnet on My 73rd Birthday

There's nothing there we haven't seen before,

But not so many times we can afford 

To hustle past. Let's promise each other --

Never commit the sin of being bored.

Besides, so much has changed in just a year.

The sun-rustled air seems even clearer.

The pattern of the leaves left in the trees

(Yes, the postcard days ended yesterday),

Suggests paragraphs full of ideas,

Things we think but never think to say.

The colors play the best part of the scene,

And we must grant each leaf its final bow.

If we could stay to watch the last careen

To the ground, we might settle then at Now.

War II, Terzata #46

It’s possible to destroy even hell

And turn evil to dust

With the dropping of shell after shell.

What remains is one man’s lust

Mating with his own cold will,

Giving birth to blood and rust.

Each bullet or bomb’s a pill

That plugs a hole in his brain.

Nothing is as still -- 

As is Ukraine,

Where a young child fell

And didn’t get up again —

Her killer dares her now to tell. 

IF, Sonnet #608

If the end doesn’t end, what then?

This moment is already contingent.

I dare you to count from one to ten,

To ignore a found dime, even a cent.

Each moment seems to come back to us

Like the wind in the tree’s susurrous.

We’ve never been here before to be.

Yesterday and tomorrow are empty.

If I walk around the block every day —

If the houses never look the same —

If flowers grow and trees disappear —

The sidewalk means don’t lose your way.

“If” might not misremember my name,

But won’t guarantee that I am here.

Haiku, 7/30/26

Midnight in July —

A cricket echoes my mind —

One sound from many —

The Master Builder

Lizards stick out forked tongues at each other
In their race to the top of gilded stairs,
Where they'll disappear because nothing's there.
Dogs climb ladders to trumpeters. Mother
Seeks to fill her empty basket with air.
Fireworks state the geometry of the day.
The man near the dry fountain sleeps his life away;
Because he can't understand a thing, he can't care.
Each window, pillar, arch, and capital,
Each wall, riser and tread, each finial,
Was hauled into place by now frozen block
And tackle, which the builders left behind
(Should they someday return). Here there's no clock,
Few shadows, no lights, only double bind
Architecture, mind alleys of the blind.

Warmonger

No bullet can penetrate my new skin,
Sleek and orange and exquisitely thin.
I'm so perfect now, a parade of me
Runs past the black flags of the armory.
I'm joined by a smart, lock-loaded army.
As we march, everyone behind his hood,
Goose-stepping, a phalanx — might over good —
We stare down the innocent and swarthy.