a rhyme a rhyme the poet cried
oh oh woe the thesaurus died
I’m lost lost left two syllables
deep just four iambic feet wide
Four Lines
prodded by memory I stand
transfixed on an old stomping ground—
sixty years later my feet still
recognize this sidewalk’s odd tilt
Four Lines
how many times must a poet
rhyme oranges by changing mid-use
to bananas only to find
no fruit except dried sultanas
Four Lines
a hot day in early autumn
rustles glum among the dry leaves
held hostage by the wheezy squeaks
of a dawdling eastern phoebe
Four Lines
time flows like water in a stream
never the same hours or days but
the landscape still remains the same
thus masking the years pushing by
Four Lines
on this Memorial Monday
smoke from cookout fires and early
July 4th rockets drifts lazy
on a flag waving breeze
Four Lines
isn’t it inevitable
that the day my phone doesn’t charge
i’m stuck in a beige waiting room
listening to Frank Sinatra
Four Lines
we’re beset by an ill-tempered
wind blowing a southwesterly
tantrum of last-year’s leaves, upturned
cans and old lawn chairs
Four Lines
I hope when I am old I can
sit in a comfortable chair
asleep with my nose in the air
and insist I’m awake deadpan
Four Lines
it’s morning and the wind blows
west upriver dimpling the water
just enough to become a prism
scattering sunlight through green leaves
