Click the grey arrow above for sound.

As a child her favorite color

was black,

an omen I guess.

I remember her in

Ms Mason’s art class

crouching over a sketch pad,

her hair hanging

in thick clustered tendrils.


Now, near the end of her death march

she steps carefully across

the stage at graduation,

a victim of chemical warfare,

bald and bony and ashen,

smiling bravely at the

harsh flash of the

commemorative camera.


Who would have thought

her frail form could

muster such majesty?

That such a young girl

could model for her elders

how one might die,

bravely, beneath the buzzing

of early June’s whispered promises?

The SAD Roundel Rag


Click the great arrow above for sound.

Snide winter suns don’t heat

on their blustery ride;

flashily indiscrete,

snide winter suns don’t heat.

Winter suns glide,

bold but effete,

expansive as they slide

over the edge into the deep.

No matter how you search for the bright side,

that lackluster light spells defeat –

snide winter suns don’t heat.



Elegy for the Brew Pub

As the last few hours of my solstice break leak away (an unpleasant analogy hovers just beneath the level of consciousness), I’m faced with the unthinkable.  My favorite drinking spot, the bar where I grade my essays on Saturday and Sunday afternoons is closing tomorrow. Think Bret Harte’s “The Outcasts of Poker Flat,” Jack London’s “To Build a Fire,”  Nevil Shute’s On the Beach.  I feel hopeless, lost, and abandoned; set adrift on a leaky raft as my former cruise ship heaves it bow before the plunge.

What will become of my beloved bartenders?  The regulars, those connoisseurs of craft beers? Those other regulars, lovable losers like me?

Oh, I know there’re other bars on Folly.  That’s like telling Romeo, “Hey, Bub, there’s other chicks,”  or Dante, “Florence ain’t the only city state in Italy.”

Watch it and weep!