THE FLYER

In the rain

ink running

down the page

the message

the meaning

smearing

fading

like a memory

a life, washing

away.

Later, shredded

torn and ravaged

by wind and time.

You are not there

to see it

laid waste

this way.

You are gone

elsewhere

as nature runs it’s

ruinous course.

When you return

what remains is only

a nail in the wood

marking the place

where the flyer had been

along with its veiled

cry for help.

RECONSIDER THE CURRICULUM

Classrooms where toddlers are the teachers

and hubris-headed PhDs are the pupils

where flame, blue sky and moon

are the not-so-simple subjects

where questions become kaleidoscopes

and what’s familiar’s made foreign

where at the end of all the schooling

and scholarship

after everything learned 

has been unlearned

and the literacy of idiocy

has been achieved

only then are we free to make

symphonies in the sun

just by blinking and thinking 

and sharing 

mindsights inside the swoon 

of Saturday afternoons 

in parks verdant with laughter

and hot fudge sundaes we feed 

into the mouths of our imaginations

with the same silver spoon

H                

IDE AND EEK

                  S

The question I keep asking myself

over and over again is:

What would Love do?

But the answer 

evades and eludes me

more than I'd like to admit.

Like a precocious child 

playing cat and mouse

or hide and seek

it leaves me guessing

as to its current 

whereabouts.

FOR YOUR EARS ONLY

     after John Cage

*Every sound in your immediate soundscape created this week’s poem. This space is your auditorium and the poem...you are its only audience. Only you hear what you hear.