At home
my aimless mind
writes poemless lines.
Homeless under
trees or sky,
my lines take aim
to fly.

Thursday, May 20, 2021

havoc

 the world is a riot of terrible things
every bird is a monster that sings
someone is dying every minute
because the world has people in it
what dream is joy, what use is hope
a pendulum only needs enough rope
toppling, toppling everything
as the ball of havoc swings and swings