The Quiet Area

It’s a quiet room within a place,
That used to be much quieter.
There are about fifteen of us here.
Refugees from the non-quiet part of the library,
With its dozens of overlapping conversations.
A library should not need a quiet study area;
It should be a quiet study area.
Like the libraries of my childhood,
Staffed by stern librarians,
Who would shush you,
If you spoke barely above a whisper.
But libraries are different now, I guess.
When you first walk in the door,
You are greeted by the smell of coffee,
From the cafe on the first floor.
When did they start putting cafes in libraries?
The old brick n mortars tried that gimmick.
It kept people coming in,
And staying in for longer.
It worked for a while,
Until it didn’t work.
But libraries aren’t book shops.
They are quiet areas, to study, to read.
At least they used to be.
That’s what was so appealing about them.
Allow them to visit and chat,
And text and talk,
And drink a coffee.
Then the essential libraryness is gone.
It’s not a library anymore.


By the Onion Fields

This arcade’s collapsing. This lap needs dancing. Where is the pavement warmest? In the vascular troff of a dragon. Or Carlsbad, California at noon.


She, fire on the lake, flare on the lens, bubbles in her bath. She.

Said the joker to the theif


Don’t make fun of the flower arranger, Ikebana
Is self – discipline, a

Nip here, a
Snip there, and

With fullness of time, and
Passage through life,

Done with the flash of a scissor;

Bone handles,

Scissor flash snip, all gone
Extra weight, things un-needed, flash

If you stop to think about it,

You will frighten yourself cold,
Frosty, frigid, cold lock-down, too afraid

To make a wrong move, stop –

Don’t laugh at the flower arranger, Ikebana
Is worth learning;

Moving through life with less.

Photo – CCM Advertising

-short evocative poetry-

And the land had rest from war



My Gardener is enthusiastic.

He kills all the weeds in my garden,
Sweating conviction,

In purple droplets,
Muscles wet,

In the midday sun, he
Slaughters them,

My perfect weeds I spent so long cultivating,

And whites ones,
Jewish and Muslim,


Now the name of Hebron formerly was Kiriath-arba.
(Arba  was the greatest man among the Anakim.)
And the land had rest from war, 

But –

My gardener has turned into a terrorist, and
My weeds are no longer safe.

-Joshua 14:15-

gay israel muslim christian terrorism

Photo – Gay Israel on Pininterest

-short evocative poetry-

Spoon Fed

When bottom is settled into booth, the spoon-hand begins delivery, supplying mouth and stomach with soup. All other concerns fade away. Eating is a singular event.

Auditory Snow

Your radio waves pollute my auditory landscape with yellow snow.