Voyage of the Argo

Dallas is a very major port. But first we had to go through Fort Worth, home of “the” bible belt.

We found the Gales who have succored and fed us. We are sublime.

Captain Roly-poly was so proud of himself. He did the laundry in Hillsboro, not far from this port. He is such a clutz.  Put too much in the dryer….took forever. You wonder why he did not consult with me? Pride goeth before the fall.

All is well.

Below are some new poems.

First Mate,

Tasha the Wonder Dog.


The Sentinels


The Saguaro cacto

Seemingly frozen in time

Each lonely

Though there be thousands

Strewn about the desert hills

Distant but near one another.


Naked Triffids

Stripped to the core-self


So very still


The wind howls about them

Complaining of their impediments

“No shelter for thee



They endure

Time measured in thousands

Of days, years

Impervious to stress and strain.


Growth comes in

Patient increments

So unlike us.




Short forests of

Scrub oak, manzanita

Cypres and Pinon Pine

Gnarled, a jumble

Back to back and

Belly to belly.


The few taller trees

Are dead and dying

Drowning in a sea of short.

Bare limbs rising to the skies

Pleading for deliverance from

The bush, brush and stunted.


They are not wanted

The large and tall…

In the land of the

Short and small.


A height limitation here.

“You don’t belong.”

And so never were.




The Texas metropolis

grows without concern.

Higgledy-piggledy around

And on top of itself.

All directions at once.


Then the dawning comes.

No highways and byways.

We must push and pull,

Stretch and strain,

Chop and crop

To make them fit.

All, after thoughts of transportation.


Now they swallow you up

Jostling the drivers hither and thither.

Anything to make ends meet.

Soaring ramps, cramped corners

And windy, winnowing connectors.


The maze in the maw

A wretched and dark place.

No freedom for the drivers here.

Doomed until finally spewed out

Ejected and seemingly unwanted

Used up.

Grist for the mill and maze

Of the maw.




Clinging to existence

Any fresh blood and oxygen

Delivered on the Interstate.


They hold on though

There is no new

Just the worn and dated.

“God, give me paint!”


Generations flee

The frail of mind,

The fearful remain.


To wish and hope.

Yet, all they perceive

Is the long good bye.


It is disintegration

All about

Slow, inevitable


Even the birds

Have flown.

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