August’s Augur

March 16, 2016

After the lunar new year,
Forty days and forty nights
Of winter finally surrenders
Our city, if only just a little.
There is a distinct pleasure
In driving in March with
The windows down, when
You can feel the change of
Seasons waiting in the wings.

Rains will come and go before
The sun returns to our corner
Of the world, but on days like
This one I can taste August’s
Sharp, eager rays. And I smile.



April 28, 2015

Warm rains mists onto the hood
Of our car during a May shower,
Obscuring the windshield in waves.

An ominous blanket of fog descends,
Taking with it any sense of visibility.
While harmless, a vague feeling of
Grey isolation creeps in silently:
The rain doesn’t make a sound.

Our tiny world muffled, we’ll wait
For the fog to lift and reveal the
Sun-kissed city once again.



September 23, 2014

Leaves changing
Their palette to the
Most charming shades
Of orange and crimson,
Each morning, the sun
Sleeps in just a little bit
Longer, and the cold
Breezes bluster,
Preparing for their
Wintry debut.
With every sunset,
We march onward to
An autumn cadence.
The longest nights
Lie still ahead



May 23, 2011

Amid the suburbs
And winding streets,
Miles of debris cover
Once-green yards with
Garbage and treasure.

A woman carries a
Small infant child,
Both of them barefoot,
Through what used to be
Lincoln Avenue.
The bag strapped to her back
And the plastic bucket full
Of damp clothes and diapers
Were all she had left
But at least
They lived.

A two-story home,
Ripped from its secure
Wedges itself comfortably
Between two light-poles
A hundred feet away.

At the foot of a
Pale sycamore lies
Half of a small sedan
Wraith-like metal
Cold, wet, and silver
Bowed in the shadow
Of nature’s fury.
The tree still stands,
But the bark is gone,
Hours of wind had
Stripped it naked and
Left the white rings
For the world to see.
In place of leaves, it
Now has a canopy of
Insulation, cardboard, and
One bright green dress
High in the skeletal boughs
Tattered by weather’s shrapnel
But still in one piece.

It is a terrible sight;
One lone tree, daunting
The wasteland of
Lincoln Avenue.
However, it is almost silent.
The eerie quiet is only
Shattered by the sound
Of a distant siren:
One more lost soul.


As The Crow Flies

March 7, 2011

The pardoned wish
For warmer weather
Idle clouds won’t switch
Ten tons of feathers
For across the grey and blue
An empty aching heartbeat
Lashes out in a natural hue:
Tears, blood, and sweat.

The blue smoke of winter’s scorn
Gives way to spring-time bloom
In this way a new season’s born
(Unknown to most, it’s over soon)
As thawing ice breaks and cracks
For the growing green of grass,
A careful eye will discern the facts;
The curve of beauty cannot last.

After all, there are only the pursued,
The pursuing, the busy, and the tired.