The Sword That Cuts Down Scepter and State

When among men will come the cost of deeds?
what mad pursuit of silk and gold is this
that we, we happy breed of men have let

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The Compass

My conscience is a needle’s point
that is thread through the days behind;

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The Crib

I must have toddled as well as the best,
but being uneasy by my crib

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To Future Lands

I’ve heard the talk of proof that is puzzling you

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Yellowish pad

My breath fogs the window,
some promise out of science
has arrived,

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On Loss

I wished to see your smile,
but got only pain the while—

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Visions of Dust and Dirt

It’s things grown old that hurt my bones,
a spread of green can easily fold
to visions of dust and dirt, and worse.

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Blue Birds of Love

If I)
May make my heart

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Chicago Poet

Among the smoke and fog of a coal fire,
the steel and the city

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Doomed

Some say the times are changing fast,
Some say they always have.

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The Gallows

Let the elite country clubs become grave yards.
Come and erect the boards,
and let low the noose, and let known the deeds

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I didn’t say

Sometimes love is cliché.
Damn the cost of being so young,

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Should I Compare You To a Winters Morn – Sonnet 18 Shakespeare Mirror

Should I compare you to a winters morn?
You are more bitter and more discontent

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A Pharaohs Rise

Among the worlds most pressing ruins I have seen
artifacts come rising as phoenixes
to part their form from the fierce driven wind
and sand that whirls around in its dying

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The Stillest Things

The summer crests and meets
fleeting flecks of dyeing dog days,
an era vanishes into the past—

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Tracing that Long Path

Our lives pass like cherry blossoms,
snapped from hurried branch to ripened fruit.
We flit from first to fledged to finished,
put out to ash one hundred years an instant.

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Beeping Machines

My flesh stripped from the bones,
the body miraculous
stands but as a series of groans
and gears in breach of trust;

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We Wish to be Kings not Free

We wish to be a king not free
of the autocrat or tyrant’s
immortal knee on our airway—
easier to be chained than change.

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The Plunge

Around her I was Icarus
with wings alight and burnt to nubs,
now glowing as embers and garnets
as I slowly descend into the adjust
of knowing there is no longer an us
and longing to submit to the plunge.

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To be

This rusted throne of kings, this gilded smile,
This divine right of blood, this gift of sight,

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