December Poetry
December is a speculation;
it looms over
the fabric of destiny
December is the
death of a year.
Death in the winter is cool.
’tis the dead leaves who fertilize the soil
but it is the trees who cry
when vandals collect leaves and leave
Death in the winter is cool.
Of December more.
Jazz in winter is cool too, yeah
December improvises with snow gone fluffy
where syncopated fluffy dogs scamper in snow tones
of blues in raggy times where snow jobs make poor
December the con game, optimism as a debt
Better to be in Australia.
Poet Laureate of the Primitive Planets 