To A Doodle

It was, truly, nothing

When I began – mere

Automatic scribble –

Then suggestions began

To surface, gasping,

Grasping for recognition.

Now, is it a

Saucer or a jet-wing?

You would think I should know;

The pencil is in my hand

After all …


But, still I hesitate;

Delaying decision:

My fingers begin

To twitch again.



See the Face ?

See the face in the doodle tree?

See something in music?

A room too big, too still

Without it?

Some piece of faith:

A life, not quite, without it?

A little silver-black,

Feather-light melody-memory;

As simple, as inevitable

As falling.

Green at the eve –

The kind that

bends straight lines –

Green at the finish:

We’re not expecting people

Any more.