It’s just Spring

The quiet of the naked trees release

The spores of pity. Chevrons, white and red,

From blackbirds flash. Mechanicals are still.

Ascending from a silent fairy land

Life groans, gripped by winter that has overstayed

It’s times. The ceanothus pushes out

Against a past where Arthur and Sir Gawain

Are holding still beneath the meadow oaks—

Burnt alarums shutter thought and time

Is needed to release the anger, pain

While redbuds, dogwoods struggle for the sun.

Wait, oppressive, suffocates the hope

That struggles trapped beneath a shattered land.

In the Punjab at the Zoo



The Punjab of the Zoo

In the Punjab grey-haired tigers roar unheard

And elephants are swinging by their tales.

“Remember when the coronets were herding

Sharps and Flats into the water hole

Where they attacked the muddy, clashing teeth?”


Ponderously pound, pound the words themselves

To mash, mush for toothless minds to trumpet

Thoughtless crumpets, crippled by design—

Staggering around with thoughtless minds maimed

By alcohol and academic”

“Stop!

“Butterflies are feeding. Floating danger’s

sucking out the meaning, understanding, myth.”

Philofiles, sophistry, delightful obfuscations

Coruscate, reverberate, reverberate, re . . . .