For Good Men To Do Nothing

For evil to triumph all that is necessary is for good men to do nothing...........Edmund Burke

He watched his students who had
little promise of a future, job market
bleak, building debt as they learned,
while fat cats in the counting house
smiled with glee at the returns.
He could see, it was just another bubble.

He'd been in Chicago for McGovern,
against the war in Vietnam, still felt
the scar over his ear from the cop's
club. Marched out of Lincoln Park
that cold, crisp night in '68 behind
Allen Ginsberg to the convention
center. Now he was the elder poet,
led hopeful soldiers down Wall Street,
faced another phalanx of dark blue clubs.

A Lifetime

A lifetime ago the blonde flower child/woman smiled at a grim faced
soldier as she placed a daisy in the muzzle of his upended rifle.
Today she clutched a folded flag from the casket of her grandson to her breast. .

Photograph by the late Bernie Boston circa 1967

Three Years

Since you left me behind
I have traveled so far.
I did not find you, only
slightly softer places to be.
A cloud near the moon, a
ladder of sunlight, a crystal
shower of stars, a turtle's
secret place by the sound
of a strange turquoise sea.

In a dream, we waltzed over
a golden meadow. You told me,
"One day, my love, you will come
to me and we shall dance on the moon."

river rocks haiku

Cares of the mind like

        Rush  of water over stone

                 Smoothed by time passing.

Stone Angel Illustrated by Keith Supley

Watching over
one small grave
granite palms
exposed to rain
and snow.
You seem to know
the secret of repose.

Is it that your
heart is still,
mind clear
of worldly cares?
Or simply
how meaningful
a part you play   
for those who       
put you there.

                 Susan Supley 

Parisian Rhapsody By Susan Supley

A magical place                                                                             
lived in  dreams
that came to be.
He moaned her name,
hands in her hair,
moved to her song,
while a city waited
to share secrets.

Jean Paul and Simone
lying together under
cold pink marble in
Montparnasse, left
one to wonder..

Street people
wrapped in layers
of coats and scarves
huddle at a mouth
of the Metro in
shadow of the Louvre.
Asleep on pasteboard,
tented in bright plastic,
are they unaware,
as they seem to be,
of crowds that step
around their lair?

Ghosts of Ulysses,
Alice B. Toklas and
others lurk in corners
of the little bookstore,
tucked away in view
of Notre Dame,
gargoyles smile
grimly over all.
They know secrets.