Thank you to Herojit Philem for publishing my two poems in Literary Garland this month.


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Lakeside Drive

Part of London has sinned,

at Lakeside Drive.

say some outside of it.

This one street with provincial distinction

in this valuable world.

Inside,

once past the sign, 

resembling carved and engraved bone,

at the entrance,

one can discover that

a lack of reliance on modern technology

will still allow a place

to make great human progress.

Along this wide street,

these residents worship a subroutine,

not of computers, but of a sanctified concord

of declared harmony,

between people, groups, races.

The only apparatus

sustaining their progress,

an expertise of handiness, versatility, respect, and love.

The reversed significance of data processing,

the process of having a pragmatic outlook,

while using both the head and heart.

The denizens on this map

trust no inept theist rabble.

They trust only the preservation

of unchastened optimism,

and the flame of level temperament,

and they balance the optic

as neighbors shaking hand with courtesy.

There’s no fallacious brag about Lakeside Drive.

It simply exists

as a beacon of hope

for a more appropriate now.

Hail On An Old Tin Roof

 I can’t shake 

this prayer recited.

Its song,

its thoughts pound like hail

on an old tin roof.

It becomes a mantra.

I stay awake all night,

for all the thinking,

not even having gray dreams.

Realize,

even hurting,

a poet searches for dreams.

I repeat,

repeat,

repeat

that which I know by heart:

Counting sheep

Listing all the countries of Africa

Reciting poetry.

Static drum rhythm,

hail on an old tin roof.