The Recent Blizzard

Fingers cold from morning to evening.
Ice glosses the recent snowfall
The white outside is appalling
"Cabin fever" is what I'm suffering.
I am a mausoleum prisoner.

Caroline Taylor Green

Insults have a way of killing,
but the pure of heart prevail,
the pure of heart endure.

Hither

Emptiness asks to be filled.
Fullness begs to be emptied.
The middle man wants for nothing.
He is hard pressed to be found.
He was gone before discovered.

In all the wrong places, we search for him.
He does not show while we are business.

Che Who?

The gainers are few
in lottery drawings.
Do most of us believe
we really can win?

What about J.C. ?
Wasn't he a loser
badged by the bigwigs,
booed by the crowd,

crucified naked,
crucified blood,
what about him,
Son of God?

Goes to show I think -
you surrender life,
you resurrect one sunny morning.
Some might hope,

the same holds true for Che Guevara.

The Kids from The Block

The Information Technology Beast,
more wondrous than magic carpet,
more toyful than winged mechanical horse
that can fly over Islam's minarets.

The caring monster of internet emotions
spirits me off to my old neighborhood,
shows me associations vaguely remembered,
faces none recognizable. Woe is them, grateful.

That is - we become our grandparents,
who we had not the privilege of knowing,
less so even crinkled,
we victims all of child abuse, for sure.

Structure

core, perimeter metrics
to infinite power extrapolations

attract repel
constitute binary particle motion

gravity and structure

Half Moon over Harlem

I'm a cat paw stepping man;
suede - fur - satin - back to bottom.
My lips wrap around the tenor sax
like moon-lit wraps a lamp post
for a birthday present.

I'm on my merry way.
Be forewarned, though, a set follows.
Xylophone, too, is about stepping.
We clang the percussion like steam pipes
when it's snowed on 40's Manhattan.

Am I kidding? Only partially.
It was raining when I started.
Saint Nicholas Avenue is wet and shiny.
I'll be jeppers.
There's a half moon over Harlem.

I hear a renegade organ playing,
"For All The Ladies." It's my turn,
band me the sax.
Dedicated to Yusef Latiff
and the oboe.