Brane-theory …

It is said by scientists that dimensions, more than three,
all wrapped up inside a universe of what our eyes can see.

The wonderment of what that means is lost,
beside being more than solitary. In our daily lives.

Brings and comparisons, perceptions of size.
From our brain we look out. Along a central axis, length it defies.


Up, which way is up? Makes a second dimension we may understand?
One that is oblong, round or squared

Then we see the depth, if one is so blessed? The depth, or length, of which is perceived in physical edge.

Dimensions we still see, the boundaries are set
perception are met 3-D world and time, are functions

Parallel worlds in possibilities yet hid within,
the delicate Calabi-Yau, manifold of the heavens


Backstabbing …

Backstabbing, backbiting, back’atcha’?
Backdoor, clean floor with windows.
The nation’s press is full of woe
from those who intend to govern

With schemes and machinations
Back behind the scenes
Sneak one through, get it passed.
Is dream-ed, Sleep with the plunder.

Section ‘D’ is what they need
chase the whim
Follow the master; bow at the feet.
when asked, “a name”? They but mutter

If you oppose be on your toes
be ready for snakebite and venom
for one may suppose, what is done
Robespierre has little equal

Satellites, big lights. dark knights
Anti matter or quasars?
Gathered in like original sin
spewed out on the sphere

In the cool chill …

…morning air. The mist from the night’s cooling.
Flicker in coiling eddies, around
the softly flickering tendrils into the ethers.

Stepping out the door, entranced by light’s
caught in this scene.

Dancing solar heat
pink, gold, gossamer strands of dawn’s intruse




Pulled into this scene,
the rush of cooler gases on the face.
Held the absolute peace. of Saturday morning



Birds of a feather …

Dawn breaks! dimly, we may see
The birds swoop from the few trees around.
Anxiously looking for food

Even in the benign winter,
late autumnal daybreak
A clear night, foggy early morning

Sees the early morning visit
Around the hotel trash bins
Moving stealthily, hopping around the sleeping tires.

A few minutes, with the deed done
A dash back into the sheltering trees
off to the next spot where food is easily got

Their silent fluttering forms
as if falling leaves, gentle in their descents
Grey, white feather filled, early morning assault.

Crows …

… in the City,

Are sent to try us,
To see if we’re alert,
or just simply posing

The raucous call is calling,
to those far and wide,
he’s the master of his turf, also just aside.

They show no sense of ego,
just birdie sense of pride
they own all this and more of it .. beside.

They seem content to rasp their call
then look about in consternation, to see,
A challenge or interruption


Would bring about hasty retreat
off their feet
up into the world above

Crows likely dream of a world of garbage spread before them ?
they dream of a pristine world?
Where they have the only garbage piece.

Either way their prissy attitude? Is the same …

Carrion ..

… rule the skies, in the city …

In the early morning, we are ruled by gangs of birds.
Descending on the city like Genghis Khan of old.
Beaks for their spears, eyes for their bows

They bow their heads to no one. In empiric bird world
Early morning with sun, fall upon the herd,
Garbage bins and parking lots, as their main quarry

Out of the sun they drop onto the unsuspecting foe.
Detritus of human life flyblown greasy paper, polly cups
and special cardboard carton bags

First the crows then the gulls come upon the the ground
they strut their stuff, swagger with quiet kerfuffle.
silently they grab the hoard and make off up above..

Eyes bright, claws sharp, best to defeat their prey.
Mighty styrofoam monster and wax proof paper tray
To repeat the sortie. On another unsuspecting day.

Music man in the early morn …

Sing out, sing out…


Pose me a riddle, quote me a rhyme
toot me a fiddle, sing out the line

Play us a melody, sweet and sublime
give us the treble, things of that kind

Play us a tango, mango and lime
lay on bassoon, clarinet, ones that go wang

Come oh music man, pluck us your line
waltz, foxtrot, twist, cha-cha or salsa lime

The pipe sound of our music, the conch sounds of our heart
pound upon the soul’s own; sweet drumbeats of time