The Cycle


A fog
thick… billowing… engulfing a nation
impermeable
hiding from many that which is
teasing swirls of uncertainty beckon
unclear in shape and content
only to disappear back into the grey
leaving the child within them to interpret
that which was not there

Puffs of incoherence coalesced
a new abstract born of vapor…
there one instant and gone the next
bowing to a breeze, or
destroyed by the light of day exposing
that born in the dark…
that born from vapor returns to vapor
to engulf those who cannot see
through the fog they create

The Journalist’s Playground


Wallowing in the information abyss
Children playing in alphabet soup
A splattering of letters mixes with
Never changing streams of thought
Slipping away before they congeal
Leaving nothing of value
In their wake

Half truths, no truths, twisted words
Purveyors grasping for pieces
Hoping a length of tape
Can hold these fragments as one
Long enough to garner
Admiration and respect
And then they are gone

Segments reappear with
Signs of wear as each attempted use
Peels the shine of potential
Brilliance from each letter and word
The newness gone
Admiration and respect wane
And players pray for a new batch