Procession of Mary, Queen of the Universe

Mary is slightly on a slant
and shudders with every step
the four men take
as she’s marched under
the baking sun.

Sweat drips down slowly
clinging to the bald head
of the cantor
as he sings to
time beat with his trudging.

Then the mic passes to
the tall priest and
his next mystery.

Traffic meanders and many gawk,
the children openly,
and their eyebrows knit
as the parade
of strange
old fashioned believers
rings barely
discernible bells.


The omega.
The culmination of
a long, creative challenge
doesn’t mean
an anticlimax.


How about a satisfying
A well earned rest?

No more sad haiku
to clip, to stunt with cutting,
meanings long curtailed.

The silliness is
to end with
no bangs
as I’m cut short
no whimpers
as I’ve been squeezed silent
no accolades
as it needed none

but a celebration
as I was blessed with
thirty years of non-solitude
with a woman I love
who likes poetry
not prose
and music
not pop
and cares for me
and the family
more than she can say
and that’s no short essay.

So here’s to the triumph.
Pass me another. Anything.

It is accomplished.


The Ynsoleanos Cult
was rooted in the fiction
writing of Holoctuar Sel.

They saw the future
always brighter,
yearned for the good new years.

Of their number
there was a brilliant
biologist who perfected
a suspension technique
that preserved Hizad bodies

They were outlawed
so their activities went

They carved tunnels in a remote asteroid
as a place where they could await
as many years as they wished.
Yenning for the glories ahead.

Some stayed for a century,
some two,
but most went for the long haul,
one millenia.

On the fateful day
they bulk first emerged to their
caverns layered
with a thousand years of dust
the signals yielded with
their communicators
were non existent.

Their smart computers
had passively received signals
through the years
but fewer as time went by.

None in the last three
and forty-six

Others awoke.

The mumbling grew.
What was happening?

Soon all two
and sixty
were up.

Word spread quickly
of the deafening silence
outside their secret retreat.

Worry rippled and waxed thick
upon the revived.
Some Keened. Some yelped.

It took some time
for them to learn that they
had outlived a terrible wasting
away of their species.
And they were all that was left
of the once great and interstellar Hizad.

Some futures could
be found in yesteryears.


When writing an X poem
(not my X but yours
(that’s more applicable))
one is often obligated
to the well known territory
of the X’s
like xenon and xerography,
Xerox, X-ray and xylophone.
But I don’t want to be so xi
square or xenophobic

when I could be breaking new ground
and telling you,
reader of poetry
(rarest of that dwindling breed),
about how wonderful it would be if
X was used in a new way

True, I bestride the world
like a Poetic Colossus, but
my bulk is not my only talent.

I’m an unbiased
member of the IT Crowd too.

I tell you
that X would be an awesome name
for an operating system.


In fact. Let’s name all OS’s X!