I’ve been writing poetry since college (mid 50s).  Fortunately everything before 1974 has been lost.  Since I don’t engage in good practices such as setting aside a time every day to write, I’m occasionally surprised at how much I’ve accumulated.  Some of my published poetry appeared in Poetica Magazine.  The rest is out of print.  I’m Professor Emeritus of Anthropology at the University of Louisville. I’ve just submitted a manuscript for a chapbook.
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                   Seasons
 
 
                   Unlike the scars of winter,
                   the moral wounds of war
                   are not self-sealing,
                   but fester beneath
                   facades of peace.
 
                   Unlike the rains of spring,
                   the moral drought of war
                   brings no swelling fruit,
                   only desert dust to choke
                   our greening hopes.
 
                   Unlike the storms of summer,
                   the winds of war blow
                   desert madness and arctic
                   hysteria to our minds,
                   so we run amok.
 
                   Unlike the autumn skies,
                   the plagues of war
                   bring a harvest of shame
                   and we look in vain
                   for salvation beyond ourselves.
 
                   The Gehenna Hilton is
                   full, yet still has space
                   for those who want
                   a room with a view
                   of the world they have made.