I don’t know the reason
The magpie enters the
Garden at this time daily.
I have yet to cast the bread
Leftover from breakfast.

Does he just want to say
Good morning? Or, remind
Me not to forget him?
As if I could, this foreign bird.



Dreams deferred are still

dreams. Hope. You know,

something to help cope.

A preserver on the chest

of one treading water in

life’s darkest deep; a cushion

on a stone cold & unforgiving seat.


A dream denied

is a dream that’s died.

A balloon pressed

against a Gothic ceiling:

out of reach & slowly deflating.


There is something hypnotic
About the way the roof leaks
It’s the rhythm.
It’s the rhythm.
And the pauses
In between,
In between
The punctuated piercings.
It’s destructive.
Eroding our material
World with continuous



Our Father, now I lay me down

and count away the ceiling tiles,

and the dots in the tiles,

and the fan’s RPMs

(anything but sheep).

I know that somewhere above

my hovering prayer there exists

a stratosphere, an exosphere,

and beyond the spheres



Solomon speaks:

When I consider

life under the sun . . .

As one thing dies

so dies the other.

All that have breath are spirit,

all that is organic decays;

      night befalls them all.


How fortunate for those long dead –

more blessed are they than the living.

    But better than both is one

    who has never seen the sun.