Enigma with Cliches (or Election Theory)

A cloud of suspicion.
A veil of secrecy.
Thick as pea soup
or molasses in January.

It was all done with mirrors
but when the smoke clears
and the cows come home
keep your eyes peeled.

Heads will roll
and it wont be pretty.



On her last bed
breath was difficult
requiring effort
deep concentration.

She had no laughter.

The beautiful eyes
that shone vivid blue
when she spoke or sang
were grey.

When we all had come
the dark goodbyes
had been said
she drew a shallow breath.



The moon
cloaked in our shadow
makes its nightly circuit
horizon to horizon.
Harsh as nothing
we will ever know.

Hear cool water.
Taste a warm breeze.
Feel the song that sings us.


It rained today.

Cloud shadows lay
cool across roads
and barns
.......and buses
that carried children
back to waiting homes.

They dont wear yellow
slickers anymore.


By June

my hair had turned
light as California
worked its changes.

There was nothing of Kansas
left on me
save the fragrance of
freshly mown hay
in the memory
of my nostrils.

Now the smell
of salty water
colors every breath
The touch of it cleanses
freshens and restores.

Old layers waft away
each exfoliated from each
leaving only that part
which is alive behind.