English Riders

Their backs perfectly erect,
English riders pettily gaze at Western riders.
Pointed toes poke through iron stirrups.

Legs wrapped around mares, stallions,
In perfect sync with their mounts;
Their backs perfectly erect.

Fields of green, broken by fences
Chestnuts, browns follow baying hounds.
Pointed toes poke through iron stirrups.

Zigzagging prey dart from bush to bush.
Felt jacketed riders spur their warmbloods,
Their backs perfectly erect.

Tempi changes on the diagonal
A pirouette at “B.”
Pointed toes poke through iron stirrups.

Obedient beasts directed until the end:
Superiority complexes spike off the scale
Their backs perfectly erect.
Pointed toes poke through iron stirrups.

Plowing In The Niverais Painting

A chestnut ornate frame to border
our march through muck
my brothers and I
in front,
next to,
behind me.
We haul the heavy planks, drawing lines.
My tongue lulls
from my gaping mouth. Our drivers stride
to my right flexible hide
swaying in the wind, cracking when our steps
falter; the other pressing
pieces of wood dull and shiny
into the ground, corrugated.

Old and young come to view
our painter’s handiwork. Some move in close
to see the clumps of dirt
or the distant rolling forest.
Others stand back to admire our strain
on this forever hot and muggy day.

Alternative Music, The Keys to Childhood

A song to pull me

Toward the past

Distant and gone.


A song to lift me

From one of many 90’s

Car drives, music blaring.


Picking and strumming

Basic beats that carry

The mini stories to their conclusion.


I stroll down moving stills

That reflect a blissful ignorance

That kept difficulties at a distance


Which only now 

Can be reflected on

With solemn observance.