I am filled up with it.

I could float to the Moon.

And beyond.  To places

no one has ever gone.


I went to the water

thinking it would put out

the ire that consumes me,

my grey hair turned scarlet.


I sat down in the woods

but had to leave, fearing

forest conflagrations

too large to be put down


by mortal firefighters

used to dealing with a

forgotten cigarette

or a careless camper.


How can one stop anger

that is sparked back up by

each new day’s outrages,

every pore blazing.


Perhaps skyward is best.

I can search for Vulcan,

ask him how thunderbolts

can be forged from my flesh.








A Sampling of Poems:


Late Autumn in Woodstock




Piano Man