Combine

Combine

The farmer parks the huge toothy, red combine at the edge of         

the field and goes home.

The combine sits there contentedly.

Were it human-- now is when it would:

 belch,

hike up its pants,        

and after getting another cold one from the fridge                           

watch football.

Early Morning

Early Morning

As I lock the door

to leave for work,

a mourning dove is still asleep,

on the power line

above my head.

Snow

Snow

Falling

swirling

glimme-

ring--

like 

so 

many

moths 

on a 

summer’s 

night.

No More . . .

No More

The goats are gone from their lot,

            two farms down.

Sheep are missing from their fields,

            nearer town.

On a sign, in front of the church:

            ONE DAY GOD WILL SAY

 THIS IS NO MORE.

Time passes

            And a single leaf floats in a puddle

                        on the parking lot

of the

Renaker Baptist Church

Drone. . . .Missing from Afghanistan?

Drone

The Piper Cub, flies high above

            and out of sight.

As a Red Tail hawk soars on wind

            currents little more than out of  reach

Making it seem as if the hawk is a drone--

            Missing from Afghanistan?

Dated

Dated?

My poetry is like a fine Corinthian leather,

            for which we will sell no wine

before it’s time.

Have I mixed my metaphors,

or merely outdated

television ads?