Going in Circles

circles Going in Circles

They’d start at Point A and end up at Point Z

It wasn’t the usual predictable zigzag routine.

She would turn left; he would turn right. No matter which way he went, she kept him in sight.

He’d see a bird in the air when nothing was there.

She’d touch the back of a chair, the burden to bear.

Of words written in madness, intertwined all about.

Too often the knotting just led to a shout.

From Point Far to Point Within

The dance continued with its inward spin.

Dig shallow, dig deep

As the Thief stole sleep.

Folded Foils

foil flower

FFoil Flora

She kept the tattered books because she knew the stories so well

They picked her up whenever she fell.

The plotting, the plundering

Got her through the lightening and thundering.

The worlds created let her escape

Through Secret Gardens or with a musketeer’s cape.

What fragments of foil she could collect

She would reconnect

Into flowers and swords

Tucked in between words

So when by chance there was a window sill or shelf

She could unfold the garden and blades she made for her elf.



Robinson Astaire didn’t have a care

As the bus ride got him there

From Point A to Point B

A chance to see the whole city

On the far side of the lake

His own rendering he would take

Of the mountains afar

And the Needle, its top light a star

Somewhere in the hustle and bustle

There were quiet parks where the leaves would rustle

But that would have to wait another day

For today was his time to look toward the bay.

Dancing Eight-Step

8th floor steps Dancing Eight-Step

Ocho, samane, e-walu, acht

Wyth, ara, otto. ocht,  

So were the numbers recited in sing-song voice

The first of many a linguistic choice.

The melody fit his favorite little ditty

As he loved to walk in the rain in the city.

He remembered the movies of long ago

And for a moment, wanted to be a little rebel colonel.

Upstairs, downstairs, clickety-clack

Concrete, metal, shingles, he’d give a whack.

Tapping on everything here or there

So were the moves of Robinson Astaire


infinity bowl


He remembered the story in the old testament about the oil container that never emptied. How the mother and child had enough for them and the guest they had taken in.

He remembered the story of David versus Goliath and why there were three stones.

He remembered the story of the stone soup and wished he had some now.

He remembered the chicken soup and rice and where the wild things were. What happened after the accident – well, that was all a blur.

But amidst the rubble of the looted store, one unbroken, plain bowl on the floor. He cupped it with his tiny hands, this treasure to behold. Whatever the limited use, the scarce resources, he’d dream of more than gold.

Of what remained and what was lost, he was somewhere in between. But once he’d find a decent shelter, he’d allow himself time to dream