Coating the side door’s handle
Winter keeping me
Another cold day
Side-roads slick and slippery
Speed on the freeway
Frosted white tree tops
Highlighted by early sun
As I drive through fog
Late winter sunset
Highlighting the bulrushes
And the moon above
The sun was peeking
Shy behind the hazy clouds
Be my Valentine?
The sun fighting with the clouds
To get a peek down
Early morning moon
Brushing light snow off my car
The wind frustrating
Looming over my doorway
Sword of Damocles
Perched high in a dark, bare tree
Leaves with her bright mate
A coiled shipyard rope
Writing haiku in my dream
As a river snake
Cold air bites my nose
And steals the heat from my skin
Bitter cold morning
I thought I heard a robin
Just wishful thinking
The sun not yet visible
An unopened gift
In the snowy field
A lone tree’s long, dark shadow
Running from the sun
Salted winter road
Such treacherous traveling
A squirrel pancake
Who let that idiot get on camera?
Who gave that nut a microphone?
Who put that bigot up on the stage?
Who gave that mouse a megaphone?
Who let that idiot have a talk show?
Who gave that nut a chance to run?
Who put that bigot on the podium?
Who gave that mouse an assault gun?
Some people think poets walk with their heads in the clouds
Drifting through life filled with fanciful notions, not in reality
Some people think poets wear their hearts on their sleeves
So easily swept away by some kind gesture, or a pretty face
Some people think poets get carried away with their anger
Raging against stuff beyond their control, even death itself
Some people think poets swoon over things like the sun rising
Too ready to surrender all, too willing to let themselves fall
Some people think poets live for wading through pools of despair
Wallowing in self-pity, wildly exaggerating their every heartache
But poets think people simply don’t understand life’s mystery
Despite how often, or how desperately, poets try to explain it
(Wow! My 1,000th post on WordPress!)
I’m not sure where to go
Not sure what I should do
Just stuck here in limbo
Wasn’t there a man?
Isn’t there some plan?
What does this all mean?
I thought there’d come a day
When I would know the way
But still no path is evident
Who’s writing this story?
What is the key to glory?
How will it all end?
Hitler nailed upon a swastika cross
Arian martyr, mistaken messiah
Vainglorious zealot, egomaniac
Delusional occultist and mad man
Set upon a chaotic, genocidal path
When his youthful, artistic dreams
Were quashed instead of nurtured
By narrow-minded, judgmental authority
That fatefully deemed him not worthy
To follow his muse, to pursue beauty
So, rejected and hurt, he turned away
To find another, terrible way to go
And the whole world paid the price