Tempus destruit spes nostras.
Fickle time has slipped away,leaving you alone and still.So little is left to say.
lives unlivedmake the heart weep
Quite sometime ago I wrote a poem about poverty, called Poverty At 60+. It was published in a print anthology titled Out Of The Depths. It has…
For J.
How quicklydeath interruptsthe narrative,the story arc,the trajectorytaken for granted.
A tattered coat upon a stick…
He is hanging onto nothing today.It is so hard to grasp.So easy to fall from…
I am too oldto learn to speakin any other voicethan my own.
After hopeful beginnings, such disappointment.You accept the strictures of your lifeknowing that each day will be terminal,less enjoyable than…
The people on the bus go up and down…