Marching Past You

March 2018- Doppelganger

Of texture and Color

With one eye warily watching the door

the bartender with some

exasperation shrugged

all I heard was a spicy bloody Mary.


I nodded in agreement and immediately wrote down

You change the pens color in me.


It was the creme feel to the page

somewhere in the sheep and oil skin


To the touch that defines the lines content

in context calling in a fluid hue

all that two parallel paths

can carry between them

all they can contain

in the ear that listens

closely for what the eyes sees

left for you upon

the crème of the page.


You can’t touch color

or so they say.


However the request to bathe

in tone and shade is to extend

to reach out the hand and try


Touch were all the colors

never answer to their proper names

and refuse to simply run out and dry.


Perhaps then it is that desire

to request the color of the pen to change

is what so very few can do for each other

-to each other.


No one chooses anything here

The first glace into the other’s face

that rings the bell or

reverberation between

the four eyes looking into

the creme of the page

as it goes……………..ding.                                                      3/11


Mad March World 

In this light

March simply has

nowhere to go



The step in the day

a longer presence

of illumination into

the afternoon later now

every new year born

in this same way.


There is this sense of urgency

a sort of headless Madness

that ignites

brittle tree limbs to

fan fine struck fingers

in complicated silhouette


flung across the horizon

like a bottle of India ink

spilled and splattered

upon a pale blue sky page.


I send these words

mere reflection

auditory stenography

purely dependant

on perception systems

beyond my grasp or control


Along the prescribed channels

as the pale blue light

drains the light

from the sky’s page.




Still Time


The Romans named

the month March

I always thought

Drag would work

here much the same.


Not a new year anymore

quickly the cement days


into a pattern

a past

a clear path of either

charge or retreat.


But in this illusion

thinking there is still time

fades Winter evening

as Spring light lingers

longer in the sky reach

forestalling twilight longer.


The anchor of passing days

leaden, barbed, heavy ways

digs in to the bottom every passing day

arresting progress in the cruelest way


to drain away

in being held back

securely in place.


March nowhere

Drag all the time

crying some feeble



There’s still time

            Still Time…


We are

fresh out of still time



Fragments of the March

Light upon in the Sound

Waves frozen in mid-break


Broken Shafts of weak March sun

newly poured upon cracked and

shattered sheets of hyper-white

entrenched ice

a history of persistent bitter air

trapping flowing waters still born



Light upon the Sound

waves frozen in mid-break


Barely Marching sun

arrested impressions

strange frigid contours

rivets of pressure

compacted tighter

isobars deceptive surface

unlikely to support any weight


Yet enough to entrap

a fool’s misstep


Light upon the Sound

Waves frozen in mid-break.



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