spontaneous short snippets


melancholy crickets
playing their last tunes
before the chill of autumn
sends them to their doom



the goat’s name was bucket
on a barrel he did stand
he seemed awful friendly
until he bit your hand

bucketon art

what is the point
of a a swirl in the sky?
the effort to hang it
to catch someone’s eye?

what is the point
of songs gone unheard?
of plaintive lyrics
sung only to birds?

what is the point
of a simple verse?
of rhythm and rhyme,
moroseness and mirth?

what is the point
of throwing time
at questions that simply
aren’t yours or mine?