On Tuesday (Umbrellas in the Rain)



On Tuesday (Umbrellas in the Rain)


the rain comes softly down
the cobblestones are restless
dressed in gray flannel suits
(umbrellas in the rain)

a gray sky over the city
women sadly pass by; brown tweeds
flat-bottomed shoes; going off to meet
their trade on Tuesday (a village in the rain)

didn’t even know her name
the day she caught my eye
to her it was just a game
no lies, no promises

but that’s ok
I’m doin’ all right
there’s no need to apologize
I’m just trying to get myself right
I just need to dry the skies on Tuesday
(then she was gone) on Tuesday
when the world went wrong

Chinese sailors bend and fall
down walkways of a crowded street
smiling ladies laugh and speak in a sing-song harmony
with hibiscus flowers in their hair; it’s not fair
on Tuesday (umbrellas in the rain)

The Carnival – The Anthem of the Dove




Walking down streets and empty harbors of the city;
I look for an answer; one is nowhere to be found.

A sound reaches from behind broken storefront windows
a sound that echoes in the emptiness:

“Hello,”—a voice soft and gentle.
“Hello, what are you doing here?”

But, I have searched through tome and printed page
to find the answer to that question; I found nothing but despair.

While words fell like curtains from the page in candlelight,
I’ve found nothing to guide me.

And I have tried to catch the rainbow in my hand;
for a pot of gold— knowledge more than riches.

A barren dream is what I earned—
a cauldron full of wishes—a worthless treasure chest of emptiness.

(A dove flew past my window in the morning.
It cooed a song, a soft ‘hello’.)

And tho’ I felt the sun warm roses yellow on the bough
in the distance I heard thunder.

The dove became a hawk;
and the thunder tolled (and answers hadn’t found me);
I saw a searing wind that burned the leaves off every thing,
and left nothing.

The Blurred Vision of My Eyelashless Self


A poem I found in a lost notebook from 1998. Deep in meditation while taking  a Zen class, the influence of the Tao is soaked inside these thoughts.

the blurred vision
of my Eyelashless self

a part of the park
I’ve never seen!

from the Gazebo
past the stone steps
of the walkway

a secluded row of purple Azalea
border the stone wall that rounds a meadow
to the right

a soft slope
the blurred vision
of my eyelashless self sees

the bending
and winding twists
of tree limb and trunk

branches of bright yellow
Sugar Maple in its cycle of death to rebirth
—the Fall

soft green Juniper in the foreground;
Dwarf White Pine and Japanese Laurel
roll down to a flaming Elm

and the passing cars that hide
behind an Austrian Pine
on the street below

The Wind


Originally posted July 2014, I wrote this poem during my mid-life era while I was discovering a new-found freedom of expression in my poetry. Enjoy it for what it is—a free flow of ideas marked by whimsical foreboding and a bit of comical wordplay.

The Wind

the wind sounds like a big machine
as it whistles past this house
the dust growls loudly
as it polishes the window panes

a screen door bangs
against the carcass of this house
two sad eyes stare into the winter (framed by shutters
and candlelight)

the wind speaks the language of the mournful
(but I don’t care) inside this house the wind is silenced
by the clapping of the clapboards the barking of the trees
the shuddering of the shingles and the rasping
of the leaves (this house is empty
except for me)

she ties her hair in ribbons
and cries out to the wind, why
should you scare my innocence so;
or is it you laugh at me?
“Sing to me my child,” the wind mocks. “Sing to me
of jelly sticks (and doughnuts)
of lemon pies and lullabies”

(she pauses) the wind is hungry!  (that’s why
it howls at me!) she places her hands against
the window and sighs, what a relief!


I wore my suit and tie
like a Bodhisattva wears his robes
my wingtips his sandals

I drove my Mercedes C-Class
like an ox cart and read scripture as some
revere Kerouac; or Ginsberg

all these became in me
I thought—the markings
of a spiritual man

where some climbed mountains
in Sherpa chhuba; or crossed desert in Bedouin thawb
I walked sidewalks in Armani chic

as those who chant
mantras into the wind; I spoke “truth”
(into the wind) for no one listened

and the sun set
and the sun rose
and I woke up



The Love Bomb of J. Prufrock


Evolution by AandG

Reposted from Dec 6, 2016

vapors wander
under the door sill
smoke drifting insolently
from Magdalene’s cigarettes
in the hallway like a teenager at school
lacking Self-Awareness

the Terracotta Princess holds her head
in her hands and complains of migraines
in Winter stuck indoors and camphor smell
of wooden chests from Indonesia carved
with birds elephants tropical palms
hold our memories

we read our thumbnails like tea leaves
across the picture window wall of the sitting room
desperately brushing at the webs
that encapsulate sterile
lives once breathed
now only suffocate
in stillness scrolling
the Ether mesmerized
by the Ether swallowed
by the Ether

lost in addresses unknown
our unexplored paths rerouted to
numerical errors multiplied in chaos
as we count our digits and laugh at the irony

the Dominion knocks at the door
and lets himself in shivering from the cold
outside and shakes his wet raincoat on the living
room rug with the abandon of an overzealous Dane

circles the dining room table
weary from journeys taken unsolicited
but lucrative just the same if you’re a lost
soul and he’s certainly a lost soul lacking

come in
make yourself at home
I ready a cup of fresh ground
Moka from the stainless steel pot
and sweeten it to taste and offer it along with
the finest French creme pastry you can buy
in a cellophane wrapper

it isn’t much and may not
go well with the Sumatran
but it’s all we’ve got our
last pennies gone
to the offering

god is pleased
but we are not
—the Terracotta
Princess rolls her eyes
and I in my uncertainty query
the Oracle to make sure Shakespeare
agrees and the script is canon

for I am,
what I am, Or
am I?

God and the New Buddha

buddha ke bandhana by Wolves-PSD

On Buddha becoming Enlightened:

“If the mind of a person is free from all craving, no god can make him miserable. Conversely, once craving arises in a person’s mind, all the gods in the universe cannot save him from suffering.”

Sapiens – Yuval Noah Harari

stumble on a vision
understand a psalm
listen to a prayer
beg for an alm
thirst for the righteous
sigh and groan
not enough fishes
let’s eat the bones!

left on the mountain
seeking atone-meant
for the wicked
not for ones
who have not sinned
though they’re treated like one

Buddha met Christ
and said you’re clever
you brought the message
to more people than ever
I could in the distant
past or present
but tell me why
must they repent?

doesn’t Salvation
sound like salivation?
craving for life when
death is our station
telling the poor
give thanks
for their rations
don’t you believe
in upward mobilization?
must we continue
in damnation
if the spirit
is love?

“Be not afraid
I’ve conquered
the world”
Buddha replied:
Maya is not your pearl
of great value hurled at swine
or light under a basket–it is Void
we are tasked to accept it
not avoid it


today we worship
not God
we research
and tie it in knots
the simplest of truths to find
a way to separate the gall
from the wine

Breathe in!
Breathe out!
we do it each day
while some meditate
others pray

of the outcome
there can be no doubt
God has met the New Buddha
the verdict is out
God – zero
Buddha won

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