People just keep goingAround, across, Any way they can.Directionless,They do not notice the manWho motionless,Waits. They step over me, Their limbs stretching usefullyEven as they
Unclean,I hide myself.Lest I am seenAnd sent away,Purged from the cityWhile dogs and rats are allowedTo stay and hide in its alleys, Infect its crevices.
As so often happens, life took priority over poetry. Indeed, I fear this is one of the reasons I am not destined to be the
Recently, I had the joy of reviewing an original folk album by pianist and composer, Mary Vanhoozer. My review can be read on the Transpositions
The crowd is throbbingAs my pain isthrobbing. I have not come this far in years.Twelve years. I cannot help the tears That begin to flow,
My bones ache with hunger.My eyes strain from seeking.But seeking what? Waiting for what?For nothing,For who would help me today?This is the sad irony of