Small Potatoes

 A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.

It induces hubris.

And hubris by nature is insubstantial,

pinned to power inconsequential, like

the choice between chips

and roasties.

But when the potatoes are paths

and the peeling alone could end a life,

it's dangerous to listen to the Dauphinoise.

Creamy, smooth, rich they may be.

But unpalatable when paired with ketchup.

Even mayonnaise is too much.

The potato grows in silence.

The iron corrodes in silence. 

And knowledge corrodes noisily

shouting certainty above all things.

Sunset at the Lilypond

 Gold discarded by the falling sun

floats on the crests of waves;

caught on unpopular opinions;

rocking hopeful rafts of dreams.

 beams lashed with limited means.

Instability constant, 

crows wheel and croak their intentions.

Under the surface, scales flash.

The waves splash, waking desperate instincts.

Instead, the raft disassembles

and this pharaoh is buried

with natural treasure bestowed 

by sunshine's dying glow.