The Pon In Winter

The pon is on the board.
It follows the knight up two blocks.
it doesn’t move.
it turns into a vine with round bulbs on the shoulder of the stems.
in winter it droops
like a thing only the chess master
can resume in position.
in spring it takes a breath long deserved.
in summer it blooms.


Free Verse-

a bridge over the sharp rocks
that roll over the water
cant make a decision
on which of them
really rolls;
The river or the rocks.
the sorrow is there to see.
in the indecision.
The bridge brittles.
but the rocks and waters
and all’s a toll on which really
a balance of something
to god only knows.

Pigeons (poetry)

the bell sleeps gently in its grey dusty nest up high
in the tower.
that rings at 5 am every morning.
the pigeons hoot and shoot feathers all over the place.
they know how to stay but
they don’t
they fly off.
and land on the adjacent building at 5:30 am every morning.
after that the people stray , come and shuffle around. picking up
from off of the pavement.
and dripping their coffee
at 9 am every morning.
they meet in a place that knows also how to stay
in a way that is cordial
but forewarning.
they do not know the meaning of the day.
its a thing to stay.
when it leaves
they’ll leave too.