Charlie

Fan of the Rolling Stones or not, 
Raise a glass for Charlie Watts. 
Keeping time is no great thing, 
But very few can make it swing. 

Terminal Punctuation

She left the question 
Hanging in the air like 
A tiny parachute. 

Jetsam

After the war, they stopped to fling 
All of their regalia into this lake — 
Rifles, standards, death’s head rings — 
Anything that could finger them; so later,
The bushy-bearded Austrian 
Who found them said that all he did was take 
The nearest rock and throw it in,
Then dove wherever it fell. He had a case 
With glass doors where he kept these things, 
And made his living selling what he called 
His trinkets to the tourists in the spring. 

Grip

Literally still
Is sitting, still is sitting 
In a little windowsill
On the third floor, never flitting, 
With some branches from Gad’s Hill; 
Freeze-dried; stuffed up to the gills — 
And her glass eyes still are gleaming, 
Though their glance now has no meaning — 
Like an empty word repeating 
On an endless loop, no more. 

Balcony Seat

Sitting in the palm
Of a house’s great hand like 
Fay Wray in King Kong. 

Superstitious

A waterwheel throws 
Handfuls of white salt over 
Its wooden shoulder. 

Flibbertigibbet

When the witch trials 
Were in full swing, the gallows 
Never shut its trap. 

Stickup

Riddled with holes, 
The old saguaro holds 
Its hands up late. 

Wind Farm

Beside the highway, 
The dusty turbines waving 
Their arms in warning. 

Trumpet Player

The cool water 
Welling from his faucet winds 
Through tortuous plumbing. 

Sirens

Now they only sing 
After you’ve already been 
Dashed against the rocks. 

Housefly

Sitting in the chair 
Beside me; knitting a pair 
Of socks from the air. 

Nemesis

The last man who tried 
To match James Bond drink for drink 
Died at fifty six. 

Bookcase

Which book makes it spring 
Open on a hidden hinge 
This time, do you think? 

Hypnotist

The grandfather clock 
Swung its golden pocket watch 
Slowly as it tocked. 

Dawn

Sitting opposite 
The chair where you used to sit
Slowly getting lit. 

Post Meridiem

The headstones’ shadows 
Open into the green grass 
Like yawning archways. 

Motion Picture

Huddled in the dark — 
Waiting for the sail to start
Bellying with wind. 

Tulips

The older they get, 
The heavier their thoughts
Seem to weigh on them. 

Barnstorming

The rain’s iron hooves 
On the corrugated roof 
Beating as we moved. 

Stump

Pallid roots trickle
From the trunk like the cold wax 
Of a spent candle. 

Writer’s Block

The empty pages 
Of an open notebook waving 
Like a white flag. 

Amanuensis

For the Author’s sake, 
I wish that I didn’t make 
So many mistakes. 

Busker

The wide-brimmed basin 
Beneath this warbling fountain 
Glitters with loose change. 

SOS

A single dewdrop
Keeps frantically signaling 
From the windswept grass. 

Light Rain

The lonely street lamp 
Standing on the corner hangs
Its head and cries.

Afternoon Shower

Bubbles in a beer 
Rising to clouds of white foam:
Rain going backwards.

Shooting Star

Tip of an old match 
Scrapes the sky but fails to catch — 
Fizzles as I watch. 

The Answer

Biting its top lip, 
Hand held high, a mailbox waits 
Patiently to speak. 

Liberty

Verdigris — the green of Greece — 
Gives our girl her nice patina. 
Free? Not quite — but you can lease 
Its shade with something slightly greener.