Midnight sports a spot of white,

green eyes flecked with gold.

A starving kitten from the brush

Her coming was foretold.

She met my wife in a dream.

Come morning she arrived,

Begging us to take her in.

We fed her; she survived.

Lapping up a bowl of milk,

fortified with egg.

She ate her fill, went belly up.

We scratched, she shook her leg.

Right away she seemed at home.

She ate and slept a week.

Then began to fill the house

with happy kitten squeaks.

When darkness falls she roosts up high,

enthroned above the floor.

She stretches as we stroke her fur.

She knows whom we adore.

Ambush hunter she will play,

attacking high and low.

Tags one gently on the knee,

the other on the toe.

She stays in sunshine ’round the house

as it keeps each window warm.

She has some secret spots as well

for hiding in a storm.

She senses when we’re in a funk,

a slump, or gloomy day.

A quizzical tilt, a playful nudge –

She drives our blues away.

She loves us. We love her.

The bond between us thickens.

She’ll come back as a human one day.

Or we’ll reincarnate as kittens.


The plan goes well

Banksters keep sending me card after card.

I have enough plastic to cover the yard.

Downtown looks dismal, foot traffic crawls.

Factories closing; real wages fall.

Radio puppets, sloganeers on  TV.

If you love your country, you must think like me.

Johnny can read, but don’t let him think.

If he asks questions, give him a drink.

Cold cash controls the law and the land.

Voters stay clueless, heads in the sand.

Liberty weakens day after day…

freedom to buy, conform and obey.

Witness the death of Everyman’s dream –

Corporates perfect a self-serving scheme.


Love is the energy that unites all life.
As I love myself, my body heals.
As I allow myself to be loved, my mind grows peaceful.
As I love others, my spirits rise.
Love brings health, peace, and happiness.
Let go and love.


I have no time for guilt,
it seems a waste to me.
Can I be a problem solver?
Yes, I try to be.
Yet, if I can’t, I must adjust,
Without a doubt or plea.
When I test this timeless truth
from the Bodhi Tree –
a soft bell sings,
fear takes wing,
the window clears. I see.

Man purse

She bought a handsome man purse

to modernize her mate.

His eyes grew wide and she feared

his frail ego may deflate.

Then he paused to think it over,

saying “Honey, this is great.

“It will be the perfect place

to stash my .38.”


The tiny Carolina Wren belts a boisterous tune.

Appearing on my porch rail, April, May, and June.

He starts at eight and keeps performing all the way ‘til noon.

His simple song won my heart. Just love to hear him croon.

Tribute to the writers of British mysteries

The missus and me makes a fresh pot of tea

for the murderous mysteries of British TV.

Homicide cops with professorial airs

deducing how granny got pushed down the stairs.

Cute thatch-roof cottages and big manor houses

besmirched and bedeviled with criminal louses.

Half pints and bitters and single malt whiskey

after a sip the Brits may get frisky.

Shotguns and tweed coats and hunting dogs running.

Cagey old codgers with criminal cunning.

A fiddler, a wry grin, a sly sidelong glance –

murder so foul at the masquerade dance.

Soft footsteps outside by the vine-covered wall,

the lord of the manor from the window did fall.

Her slipper alone by the side of the lake,

that cold little miss was truly a snake.

Choir master slaughters with malice and ease

so he and the widow can do as they please.

Blade in the moonlight, blood in the river,

corpse in the boathouse, gives us a shiver.

Shopgirl so sweet gives a peck on the cheek.

Her secret revealed … she’s a satanist freak.

Last will and testament, ready to sign.

Poisonous powder poured into the wine.

A carriage with grays slips off in the night –

a dagger, a death, a devil takes flight.

Head trauma killed daddy, tossed in a thicket.

But Junior’s not guilty – he was at cricket.

The fancy young stranger finds a rich wife.

Instead of her fortune, he gets a knife.

Herbs and amphibians brewed into a potion.

The bishop arrives, the scheme is in motion.

Marple, Poirot, Barnaby, Frost –

without their keen wit, the case would be lost.

Cadfael,  Lynley, and Adam Dalgleish –

their struggle for justice will never cease.

Tennison, Luther, Lewis, and Morse –

criminals quake with these on the force.

Cold-hearted killers can’t help but frown

With a prayer and a clue, here comes Father Brown.

Dear Watson and Holmes who started it all –

your names forever inscribed on our wall.

The actors so real, frumpy and flabby.

They take us to Denton and Shrewsbury Abby.

Through London and Midsomer County they lead.

Onward to Oxford and St. Mary Mead.

We inhabit the states, ornery and free.

But when the tellie starts glowing, we adore BBC.


The wellspring of my life:

My tender, timeless wife.

Strength and hope she gives me;

we’re branches of the same tree.

Our souls danced before

on an ancient, silver shore.

Again, I found her here

in these, our autumn years.

And when this act falls away

another we’ll replay.

This knowledge grows more certain

as we gaze beyond death’s curtain.

Such love as hers and mine

transcends space and time.

No grave

Dig no grave for me,

spread some ashes in the sea.

Remember me as one who laughed

and one who tried to be

A hand for those who needed help,

a light to let us see

the truest wisdom ever found:

Compassion is the key.

Carve no stone for me,

toss some ashes by a tree.

May I return ten billion times

‘til all of us are free.


Seasoned hunter

had his fill.

But the forest

beckons still.

He stalks, he shoots

yet does not kill.

A Christmas camera

his new thrill.