A boundary line; Warrior; An Early Frost; A Congress of Crows; World without rhyme     

A boundary line

to intimacy. There are legalities
here I refuse to see. She is the one
who speaks to me in a black tee. 
Blue painted nails, a tapestry of 
connection by words, by ministrations 
time limited, sensation confounded. 
One-sided? There are 
multiple dimensions to affect- her
hands are treacherous and painful but
there is complexity to connection.
I cannot help emotions that are
inexpressible, that must be suppressed.
And yet, I feel cheated, a quirky thirty
minute interaction is all I have.
She chops the edge off minutes,
refuses to say goodbye. The more
we speak, the less there is. I am
a segment of her working day,
no more and maybe less than
a notation in a weekly journal
restrained, my sentiments possibly

The metal plated skin is betrayed
by the human heart within.
As the barrage of armament 
is hurled without affect,
without reflection, without
concern for innocents who die,
that man who directs the tank turret’s
blast, himself is put at risk,
and those he most regards.

Air strikes against the ectoderm  
that harbors newborn life,
sound penetrates the womb
with drums of death.
An Early Frost                          

Alone, again,
again alone.
In coldness gazing
at the phone. It doesn’t
ring. There’s darkness there
inside her chest, a shadow 
ghostly brightly shown 
by a scan that penetrates 
each brittle bone.  So cold,
she shivers from the chill
despite the radiated heat,
despite the warmth of wool
despite the furry teddy bear
she clings to-it’s comfortless.
It was a gift from years ago,
timeworn, from days long gone.
Her slightest breath now aspirational,
inspired although labored.
Parting the window’s solemn shades 
she sees
a little streak of pallid sun.
A Congress of Crows   

The crows are blackened
by despair.

The American eagle has killed
again, his bald head smug, uncaring,
 despite their caterwauling, despite
their swooping penetration
of his nested fortress.
The crows are blackened
by sundry air pollution
by soot that flies in free fall
from chimney tops and
wingless smokestacks.
Irresolute they squawk 
in congress, planning strategy.
Frantically they circle
the man whose burning debris
threatens every household tree
every avian that swallows air 
every duck that paddles oily streams and
even Mother Earth itself is
carbonated and combustible.
Settling on a stalwart branch
the elder three consult,
gowned in dusk as justices supreme,
their beaks pecking in agitation
their offspring safe 
in armored eggs still white and clean.
World without rhyme      

There is no poetry in war
because there is no rhyme
no reason, no scansion determinable.
A poet lies
when addressing war, 
when caressing war
with phrases harmonic-
such lines are duplicitous, crooked,
unromantic, sycophantic. 
A poet lies
defeated, dead,
deadened to the conflict
deafened by the gunner’s thunder,
the erasure of words by
unspeakable acts rubber-stamped
by a hierarchy bent on obliteration
of all artistic creation, 
of the beauty of humanity absent
commiseration, absent justification,
allowing only iteration of bombast,
of explosive blast. Already dead
poets quaver, they cannot savor
the futility, the fragility of pulpy poetry
set against the jagged profundity 
of war.