Thursday, November 2, 2017


Today I am retracing
my steps through old
pages.  Moth
sounds accompany my
soft journey.

I will make intentional
clambering noises
so part of the trip
is louder.

Am I a closed loop?
No, I do not own this
description.  I am
an ongoing chain,
an open hand, a word
that would sustain.

Why were these old
images important?  Who
can say now.


All Things

I tried to be All
Things and many voices.
Farmer and doctor
and housemaid.

Soon, my trying became
tired.  I held up
a small mirror, like
Sara in Isak’s dream.
At last I saw it.

Then I woke to hardly
remember what I had



Everyone hides
a little even as they disclose.
Or maybe it’s just me.

Maybe I am the actor
on stage and everyone else
is an honest player.

There’s too much to know
to share in a 30 second

We switch the scene, until
the play has ended.



The camera tilts up.
An enormous set.
The main character
utters a tiny phrase.
Cut somewhere else.
Tell me more.
The follow-up scenario.
Bring it home.
More mystery.
A sequel ensues.
Then we learn there is
nothing new.
Then we learn the contract
was signed.
The clowns are all saddened.
The dancers were all
just special effects.
People are people.
Even on the screen.



We loved it at first,
the plates, busy young
people bringing us

But lately the meals have
soured.  Was it always
this way?

Did we take some minor
suggestion and run with
it, ascribing beauty
to plainness?

Oh well.  We will find other
offerings down the road.

JD Dehart

Helpless I do not know if good intentions prevail among the elected, among the appointed, leaving me apprehensive that the fate ...