For Jane, it was gulls

High tide hyperbole,

skin art and a barrel of fish

without scales, tossed by the

strength of the hurricane.

Corralled in her current calamity,

between land and the vertical, she

clamors to crawl through the tundra.

For Jane, it was gulls. 

In particular, those with that

herringbone pattern, and her

flask filled with rye,

to keep her dreams piping, to

somehow untangle her latest


Red wine rendition

Soon the roots rot away in 

the negligence, little resemblance

remains on the branch; the bend

on the stalk more pronounced

with each other’s thunderstorm.

We’ll continue to bury, along

with the stones that still stick

on the side of the thistle, in its

quest to grow over the sycamore.

I sent you six poems; four were

in sequence, terse, but forgiving.

But the ink’s getting rancid, along

with the rant of this red wine rendition.

So, sadly, dear friend, it’s time that

I stop the obsession. 

45 milligrams with a disclaimer

Heart attacks, dizzy spells, bloating

and brain fog.

Morning is madness; the sun brings

the sparrows. She opens the shiny

pink pill box.

Angina, dementia, hair loss,

delusions and hypoglycemia.

“Take one upon waking; 45 milligrams

with food or with milk.”

Not much to decipher here, when 

pain is persistent, as

Joanne starts her day of sciatica.

No more “I’m sorries”

Sometimes they’ll saunter a bit,

then inconspicuously wing off to

alternate worlds, where the wrens

lose their shadow.

Others dismembered, diminishing

colors combine with the ground.

Between the bare branches, the

tree’s lost her legacy, little remains

on the limb, to let go of.

 Having said it redundantly, leaves

on or leaves off.

I can no longer echo “I’m sorry.”

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