Green Apples in Winter “They’re best when sautéed with cinnamon and butter.” But the scent that first fluttered the air, A sweet spring, a green blossom, Was winsome youth, And love so fair, In truth.
What would fall be without turning leaves? Spring livens and beams fledgling dreams; Summer burns white bulbs of seeds; Winter winds clear the streets. Here: the present memory of yellow leaves: A voyage to drowsy Byzantium, Fading into an absent reflection, But rising-ahh-to breathe.
Perhaps its their true essence, . This spiced verbena. “Oh it does seem like a refined fragrance” Offer this then to Deianeira, Who knows its sense.
“Throughout the centuries, in publications of eminently sane, if uneventful, editions of Latin grammar books, the subjunctive and indicative were referred to as modes or “ways” in which a writer could express his attitude toward a subject….”
Zen Meditation #3 Leaves fallen Deep in a well, Know nothing; Become silence; Become surface; Become raindrops; Become the sweep Of a fishes’ tail, The sun, The moon, A bird’s whistle, And a scooping pail. But not a buddha: The sun and moon together Cannot occupy Such a small space.
A Sonnet-Ode to Ovid on Departing from Exile It is known that you were captive on your way, Some say, a captive stray to your exile. Were you tempted then, by the seaside sway Of other fates all the while? Did you chance to see, recalled from your wilting while There, above the swirling cape, a…
A while after it began to rain, The golden cat streaked across the lawn: The Robins enflamed And there was song.
Rumpled, fashionable, and deliberately poised: Her hat indeed said all that. But what is more and despite the noise, Was, O boys, a perfect love for cats.
A Bee in my apartment When I came home, I chaunced to fee a bee upon the wall. It was crawling thereon. I retrieved a plaftic falad container, and managed to get the bee therein. I then releafed the bee into the air: goe bee and doe thy work.
Boring Critic: “Does this novelty have sufficient escape velocity To rise above the gravity of the past?” Plans were made for a futuristic city Time was counted beyond its seeming last. Dung Heap: This question was not properly framed at all. Time is but the trajectory of chaotic messiness: This, surely, is a lovely mess;…
“I’d like that to go!” -Doo wop, who-oah “With dairy please” -Wahhh, wahh-ahh “I, Jacques, cannot live without Derr-y” -Daaa, da, da, da, da A certain text says so, And I thought you should know.
A simple music composes a noble look (For so it was) Ever fair, tuned and in time with her Nature. They say, long ago, A sailor, an errant adventurer, once mistook His self-desire for the net of her gentle capture (For gentle it was beneath the rolling above), But deep, his shallowing deep, was her…