On The Fish Pond

Like little flickering flames
Dancing within the depths of a mirror
The little red fishies evade the
Staccato swishes
Of my tender ten-year old fingers
Roiling the surface of the fish pond
Like the clumsy clowning of an errant god.

On The Idiot Box

There I was, sunk into myself, eyes glazed
As a parade of beguiling sights and
Sounds charm me like a beady-eyed serpent
Needy, greedy in my des’prate desire
To forget, to beget my own slumber
Against the roaring din of existence.

On The Miracle of Modern Flight

Beyond mere sight, the drone of jet-heeled thrust
Propels these numbered souls through sky, through clouds
Aboard this metal wing we embarked, flocked
And flecked with hopes and honeyed dreams ablaze.
Hurtling through the smoky night, we sail thus
Within tubular confine, nonchalant
At the miracle of modern flight, such
Being this, our present state of blessed grace.
Lives thus emplaced in Techne’s steady hand,
We embrace the calm slumber of meek souls.