We are skidding on

thin ice literally and

figuratively.

~

Skidding and skating,

even on the thinnest ice,

sure beats falling through.

Drawing a deep breath

opens up many options

beyond those deafening screams.

~

A good response to

tweets from individual

referred to as # 1.

Just a reminder.

Seventy-six years ago,

your awesome mother was born.

~

How many more ’til

she begins to acquire

a patina of wisdom?

Our first scattering

of snow, pretty, but to all

kids’ dismay, it will not stay.

~

A fleeting dusting

to be sure, but winter’s young.

I’m trusting more is coming.

All our denial

can’t suppress the growing dread

borne upon this shifting breeze.

~

When hope grows grounded

roots of will and willingness,

we withstand such breeze borne dread.

The weather’s become

a quick-change artist and has

left us to quickly adapt.

~

But adaptation,

an evolutionary

process, is not a quick change!

Even though we know

better, we still succumb to

anger’s bitter tongue.

~

Some vomit anger,

others cultivate drama;

neither solves any problem.

Why must folk complain

about all they do not like

yet take no action for change?

~

Why pay full price when

talk is cheap, action costs, and

those armchairs beckon?

As November fades

and December approaches,

we note plans we haven’t made.

~

Poets have long known,

from Sun Tzu to Robert Burns,

that planning’s over rated!

Sharp spike of rack

flaming razor shard of ice;

most unwelcome forehead guest.

~

Sometimes it’s no fun

to meet manifestations

of the cutting edge.

On this crisp fall day,

let us linger awhile

and not fast-forward to May.

~

Dry crackling leaves

and fresh November breezes

are preferred to springtime sneezes.

Seeking to preserve

National Integrity

he stoops to gassing children.

~

How low can he go

before even the blind can see

the lack of integrity?

It’s been a contest

between bright light and shadow.

Is it always thus?

~

In some darker times

it’s harder to distinguish

dim bulbs from lighter shadows.

In the dark of night

A voice calls out, “Who? Who? Who?”

I call back, “Not me. Not me.”

~

Who can argue with

any speaker wise enough

to call from darkness these days?

Shall we gather by

calm waters this Thanksgiving

and await the certain storm?

~

Each year we gather

and each year we are joined by

many thunder birds.

A midweek break in

 the usual routine gives

 us a chance to mend at last.

~

This broken routine,

like a low country levy,

makes way for a different flood.

“Form follows function

modernist architects say.

Does this apply to fashion?

~

As far as fashion 

goes, nothing much is followed,

certainly not form.

As Thanksgiving nears

what advice do you have for

finicky eaters?

~

The world will not end,

contrary to your belief,

if, on your plate, two foods touch.

Feeding the spirit

can satisfy some hungers

no mere food could ever fill.

~

Whether it’s spirit

or body that needs feeding,

we must be awake to act.

What was lost has now

been found, and NO, I am not

speaking of my mind!

~

Perhaps you refer

to those jewels that tyrant fears;

our collective cojones?

“There’s a whole lot of

shaking going on” – could this

be Trump’s new theme song ?

~

Maybe “Fools Like Me”

is the Jerry Lee Lewis

tune he needs his fans to feel!

Another year passes.

Immortality whispers

enticing lies to mortal souls.

~

If only we were

 enticed to be completely

here in mortal dress.

The fortunate few

find real satisfaction in

doing what they have to do.

~

For the rest of us,

our vocational pursuits

fund our real satisfaction.

After traveling

miles in a driving rain,

after-images remain.

~

May fresh images

come to you in restful sleep

now that driving’s done.

Our own Neros are

fiddling while the world

burns. What can we do?

~

Fling open the gates

and embrace the Visigoths

as they rush in to plunder.

Bitter arctic winds

place an exclamation point

upon protracted autumn.

~

And yet we’re warmed by

the spontaneous kindness 

of strangers, family, and friends.

In your poetic

opinion, which nursery rhyme

best describes these times?

~

 “He stuck in his thumb”

seems like the modern model

of ill-gotten gains.

Where, oh where, has my

fellow poet gone? Where, oh

where  can he possibly be?

~

Gone to the city

to prevent the deranged from

committing atrocities…

Fetch Rocinante,

would you, Sancho, my good man?

This windmill needs much tilting!

~

Perhaps if it were

tilted, it wouldn’t go round

in circles and things might change.

Ever hopeful, we

wait and watch. Will folks turn out,

vote sanity in?

~

If we must rely

upon the electorate

we may be disappointed.