ONE LAST MOMENT (August Postcard Poem 2017)

On the corner of Fort and Ferry,

on a late Tuesday afternoon,

the hydrangea bush near the statue

explodes into bits of poetry.


The hydrangea is ancient,


pushed through time

from ornate to eyesore.


Neighborhood discussions

favor substitution

of a young pink azalea.


So he cuts blossoms

out of blue-velvet paper,

writes metaphors

of beauty and love,

dignifies the neglected hydrangea

with one last moment of life.


Copyright 2017

NO SUCH LUCK (August Postcard Poem 2017)

Some are born with it

welded to their souls,

others step into it

like discarded gum.


Big luck is the big thing:



the stock market


Why bother playing

unless the promise

reeks of motherlode?



He protects the habitat

of the elusive minimal luck.


Once as common as the cold,

minimal luck suffers

from habitat encroachment,

its survival dependent

on diving into dark corners:

pennies on sidewalks,

deposit cans left in parks,

treasures unearthed on trash days


Once he had worshipped the ordinary,

never realizing how soon

it would become rare.


Copyright 2017

ACT OF REPRESSION (August Postcard Poem 2017)

The fist of judgment pounds the front door,

demands proof of identity,

presentation of papers.

Revelation of the truth, the whole truth,

and nothing but the truth is demanded,

even if it is counterfeit,

glued together with lies.


She never leaves through the front door,

sensing the trap.


Her documents are false,

written in code,

bearing the seal of no actual origin,

the brand of refugee

tattooed on her soul.


She was never legally born,

a pariah in her own skin,

wearing a disguise to camouflage the sin.


She has learned to caress the right one,

while yearning for the wrong one,

disappearing out the back door,

a spy in the war on love.


Copyright 2017.

INSURGENT (August Postcard Poem 2017)

The shadows of chaos

float over the blue of her eyes.



be he has noticed.



he has already sensed

that she is a child of Armageddon,

her soul an assemblage

of knife blades and nails,

her emotions held hostage

behind barbed wire and lies.


It doesn’t take an operative

to locate the pipe bomb

duct-taped to her heart.


One false kiss between them

and they will both be blown to pieces,

not enough remnants between them

to resurrect their love.


But he is a risk taker,

wired for danger,

so he holds his breath,

overlooking the odds.


He will either disarm her

or haul them both into disaster.


He is content either way

as the question will be answered.


Copyright 2017

MERCY (August Postcard Poem 2017)

Mercy tiptoes uneasily

on the razor-thin edge of pain,

wearing a black felt fedora

and one white glove.


He could easily be mistaken

for Mr. Michael Jackson.


But his awkward presence

and voice from Antarctica

pull the curtain away

from any such mystique.


The hat hides bruises,

masks a bald spot

from wrestling with demons.


The glove is merely a barrier

against forbidden skin to skin.


It is not easy being Mercy

in a world consumed with pain.


Copyright 2017

FOR MY MATE (August Postcard Poem 2017)

In the land of Willoughby,

where the wallabies roam,

there lives an echidna

sprung from a digeridoo moan.


Down under, down deep,

under the strange Aussie moon,

this echidna waltzes matildas

to a ridgy-didgy type tune.


They spin and they glide

along the billabong’s rim,

dining on bush nuts

and casks of aged Pimm.


I salute you, Master Echidna,

guru of wahoo,

and weep crocodile tears

for the Land of Oz,

known solely for its roo.


For Elizabeth Woods

Copyright 2017