In The Wind

Thistle tumbles in the road

as if crossing a border—

refugees uprooted

from a place that means nothing to us.

Some leap the fence

and disappear into the scrub.

Others that snag on the barbwire

and stay there, indefinitely,

can neither go on nor go back.

Once Worldly Autodidact's Drill Ditty

Jack ‘n Jill downhill zilch left in kitty

self-learned skill how to be ill

accept your limits energy, ability

now conserve, chill with nil free will.

Deceased

T’was a cemetery cocooning countable coffins, and the eerie air smelled of acid, the caustic kind that reminds of tart soup with no salt.

Satin lily blades shaded my embossed name in springtime gravestone. Shapes of chiseled initials contour with downhearted dead weight of the love that killed me – a cold corrosion etched obituary.