Poetry with Titles


All Content Is Protected
Copyright Protected

This is the direct link to my webpage at Outskirts.com with the ordering information for my first novel, ‘Real Magic’.

“Poetry with Titles”

New poems added weekly. There are a total of 178 poems in this folder. Newest poems are now at the top.


“How often do they fade”

forever downstream it goes
her voice
only if there is sound
will her echoes
remind me
long ago
vows we made linger
still can hear the quaver…
have you ever remembered a vibration in your ear ringing your mind as if Murano glass blown centuries past suddenly appeared on your table while you with your lover sucked strawberries dipped in molten dark chocolate sipping a vintage too robust for words?

“Three dimensional delusions”

nothing is real
everything a mirage
music only vibrations
flowers only vibrations
silky skin only vibrations

oh what a glorious deluded existence
phantom blue light streaming from distant inferno
all of that meaningless
we cannot ever know place and vector simultaneously

to us
our minds present an unbreakable chain of events
one step
two breaths
three kisses
four orgasms
five tears
six seconds
seven hours
eight days
nine years
ten times ten becomes faded dreams and pressed rose petals

only a gossamer bubble are we
alive because we believe
the music
the flowers
the silky skin
all deluding the mind
roaring defiantly at the indifferent cosmos
I am here
I exist

only the present quantum collapsing wave front of probability is real
and future
did not/will not/never was/never will be
cast aside your mind
tell it to be quiet

extend the present into infinity

“In wise eyes”

during the storm with sleet piling high
four weeks before the norm she arrived
tearful parents prayed she would survive
named her Grace by somber sunrise

a father’s love
a mother’s hope
nurtured dreams
within her soul
grew up slowly
without fear
saw only truth
in wise eyes

followed by siblings no longer alone
dignified grace she welcomed them home
bothers and sisters each thoughts unknown
being eldest not role to despise

a father’s love
a mother’s hope
nurtured dreams
within her soul
grew up slowly
without fear
saw only truth
in wise eyes

competitive voice pushed her hard
on school stage all roles were starred
blessed by friendship still kept her guard
poised grace behind vibrant disguise

a father’s love
a mother’s hope
nurtured dreams
within her soul
grew up slowly
without fear
saw only truth
in wise eyes

moving away she bade fond farewell
held in high grace rang pure as a bell
reckless young boy thrust through her spell
left new life behind plans to revise

a father’s love
a mother’s hope
nurtured dreams
within her soul
grew up slowly
without fear
saw only truth
in wise eyes

“Seeking divine intervention”

couldn’t remember why
on her knees
idling motor
impatient fingers gripping
see nothing
hear everything
suppress panic
no place to run
hiding never worked
only the rats ever understood
dignity was a luxury

sleep elusive
window open to smothering heat
sudden zephyr
scrap enters
an A

she laughs
mocking sound
alien in the hostile night
she leaves
enough take for a ticket away
first bus
a single bag
memories fade with hiss of brakes

over the driver’s shoulder
one hundred miles traveled
three more ahead
wind tower spins
steady shadows
reflection off the blade enters
an N

she smirks
fellow jetsam oblivious
they snore
examines dirty sneakers
swaying aisle
restroom in rear
accepts a twenty
renders service
a girl needs to eat

maybe it’s noon
or two o’clock
hardy matters
wise now to the ways of transit
avoids procurers
good samaritans
locks stall to count
only two-fifty
blank stare
normal graffiti of numbers
lies and slanders
over the dispenser
a lurid orange mark
a G

fleeing now
never answered before

another quick blow
feels nothing

meal value
stomach rumbles in protest
inner-city crowd
she blends in
even with color
clothes worn
faces worse
children everywhere with mothers
hard-eyed men watch




unfolds paper napkin for lap
tucks another under chin
always manners
bloody juice
cheese and pickles
sauce reminds her

on the wrapper
printed on the shiny foil
an E

this time
finishes burger
washes hands
lifeless eyes in pitted glass
she wonders
about the sink
would it stain
does it hurt
finds herself outside
lost as ever
concrete covered with old gum
fresh vomit
brown bottles
and homeless

she smiles now
all the comforts
a grate
some cardboard
patched coat
no need for prayers

looks to the skies
sun sets behind towering city center
black finger touches slum
an L

head down
she sprints
ignoring the feathers
probably left by scattering pigeons
fear pounding
lungs bursting

curses fluently
fingers ripped jeans
notices red dripping
levers up
she’s left something behind in the shape of
an S

only now does she break
racking sobs
huddled inward
her mind rebels
she cannot
will not
ever believe
an angel
would care about her

“Full frontal poetry”

you like it
don’t lie
I can tell
your pupils
throbbing pulse
open stance
thrust and parry
my words penetrate
or maybe
you suck
swallow offering
shiny skin
reveal all
a quick rinse
tell me more
read out loud
the one about love lust
finch whistles behind muslin
frangipani swirls
cool cotton
satin arm draped
fingers playing
raising the dead
concentrate on reciting
warmth encases
slowly rocking
my words penetrate
the bell rings
we glance
hold knowing smiles
full frontal poetry
nothing’s better
you like it
I can tell


“all roads are not smoothly paved”

Faith. What it is? For these pilgrims, faith is hope, faith is joy, faith is love. They come. The lame. The sick. The handicapped seeking a miracle. Not for them the skepticism of non-belief. On foot. In wheelchairs and litters they come. Some alone. Some surrounded by family. They come for reasons both tragic and divine. Each a journey unique and identical. Some on smooth tarmac. Some on rutted tracks. Life. Expressed in terms of roads, we all take different routes, in different vehicles. Some in luxury. Some on calluses. Some die. We all die. But for these pilgrims, death is not the end. Faith tells them the road merely changes surfaces. Healed or not, most leave this sacred place lighter in spirit. Ready to once more take to the road of suffering and pain. Who exactly is alive here?

“some will never see”

to be blind, not to see the dawn
how would it be?
never know colors, light
clouds above, grass below
a cat, a hawk soaring on thermals
rain, gentle torrents rushing
lightning, scorched oak
puddles filled with life
drying air, currents flow
at last, the rainbow
then night, we sleep
creatures of the day
waiting for dawn
some will never see

“The terror of darkness”

locked in a pit
no illumination
only fetid damp
and writhing worms
for companions

remember flowers
cerulean skies
tangy ozone
life bursting out
up, up, up

oubliette is external
a prison of man
built to forget

in my mind
live in the dark
waiting for the door
hearing nothing
seeing less

no escape
hope left long ago
desire followed
until now
only despair

blind to truth
they come
together lifting me
ladders of love

gnarled fingers slip
strong arms catch
weak soul rebels
soft lips coerce
everywhere pink


“Somehow we arrive at the end without ever buying a ticket”

We have a finite number of days
of breaths between life
and death
the journey through space-time takes minutes
and hours
and years
through it all
we watch
out dirty windows
and closed doors
while the world rushes by in a panoply of choices
We have a finite number of days
“She should have listened to her mother”

warnings unheeded
too sophisticated
all she believed
read on blogs
sex was free
a girl never feared
one night
lit from a fingernail moon
and four raspberry vodkas
she fell in love
a man
in the way never real
tall dark and handsome
all the same
paid in cash
took her home
stripped her
kissed her
restrained her
and then ate her heart
while she begged
for more orgasms
in the morning
he paid cash
the taxi came
she went
minus her heart
pleaded to remain
he slammed the door
she cried
and never loved again

her reign was not without pain
her children liked to play in the rain
when she pulled back the rein
they started to complain
so she had to explain
how hard the campaign
being a mother was such a drain
and unless they wanted the cane
then quickly inside my domain
where oatmeal you may obtain
as long as you remain
and kindly refrain
from breaking the pane
or swinging the chain
perhaps slicing a vein
if high spirits you can contain
then we will try to ascertain
how else we can entertain
in a shoe so mundane
but at least we’ll be out of the lane

“No matter how much you write the thoughts never quite come out right”

he stands
you kiss
he pays
you offer
he declines
never calls again


“Not part of the past after all”

leather did little to cut the wind – winter close – blue bridge above – crackling brittle underfoot

warm kitchen – dense food

to be here – under the plane tree – is it any wonder we wore a mask

She slept
He walked

How do we go back – to what came before – how does time reverse

we can’t stroll the cobbled hopes of our youth when love was breathless and hope an abstract painting propped up by government grants

How large is your closet – now – filled with boxes: shelves: post-consumer plastic containers: bags – school mask = dating = sex for the first time =relationship/heartbreak/breakup/dating =jobjobjobjobjobjob= mask – mask hiding pain – not part of the past after all

“does it really make sense?”

varied size glass screens
synchronized images move
pretend I know them
people living far away
hard wall between we call time

“No one does melancholy right”

I fancied I could sense the haze rising from the peppercorns.
In the market.
Old men and older women.
Dark brown leather.
Etched seams filled with dust.
High-pitched wails beseeching my attention and coin.
I saw none of this.
My eyes downcast refused to acknowledge wisdom.
All was there for my salvation.
Failure met success and I shied.
Without my robe.
My staff.
I was nothing.
A spirit not of this world.
I could not reach out and none turned from their labors to say:
The man who tries to change his destiny through emulation of another should study instead how the peppercorn simultaneously burns and transforms simple mash into manna worthy of gold platters served to the mightiest leader ever foretold.
“The flashlight needs new batteries”

under grandma’s quilt
the one she made for your birthday out of goat hair
you smiled a child’s smile
given when crying isn’t a wise option
the party continues
adults drinking and laughing
talking as grownups do when the kids are out of earshot
the roar swells and recedes in regular intervals
while you
with your favorite Radio Shack flashlight
read of dragons and hobbits
of magic rings
and mad dwarves
and wizards older than time
and elves older still
you walk and ride as the sounds of your parent’s friends become the vocalization of a story you never imagined could be written
waking next morning
book on the floor
hand grasping the light
the soft maternal murmur calling you to breakfast
without hobbits
but they are still there
part of your mind forever
“It is so heavy Master”

smooth against my callouses, it lay. a bar of pure gold, heavy, the weight of two ripe melons, plucked from the vine and sold the same morning in the market.
as I pointed out to my lustful apprentice, when he gazed with slack jaw and rapturous eyes upon the bane of men, melons will keep you alive in the searing heat of dry summer.
so will gold he drooled.
you are not beaten, robbed, murdered for the lump of metal deemed worth more than an ass. A fine ass I might add is worth more than you can know.
do you have a fine ass?
Alas, I do not
my ass is slow and stubborn. He refuses to work between third and forth calls to prayer. No matter how I use the stick, my ass simply sits on his ass and sleeps.
then use the gold to buy another ass, one that will work between third and forth calls to prayer.
I would, if this bar of pure gold were mine
it is not mine
it belongs to God
for he
not an ass
decides when men should work, and when they should pray. This object, this soft metal you crave so much, it is temptation, it is written we should resist the call of wealth, when that call drowns all other calls. Do not be an ass like my ass. Work and prayer, those are the twin pillars of faith.

can I touch it?
my ass?
no! The gold!

“The Vanishing Point”

contrails condense
robin’s egg blue
real ones
the birds
flock/frolic in the rain
one high
and low
move beyond
the vanishing point
where sky curves
and earth
goes on forever
wouldn’t it be nice
to go as they do
blowing the curve

in the deep dark
before others awake
I rise
sandwiched between my loves
stagger into the door
cats yawn
blink against the lamp
another work morning
leaving warmth behind
every week I wonder why

we are not evolved to live in this age
the more we are exposed
the less we know
angry debates
our existence
hated focal point
ranting voices lobbying
we are not evolved to survive this age


TURTLE CAT!!!!!!!!
“pain feels good”

if every surface was silver
or linoleum
we’d never get sick

if every memory was perfect
or happy
we’d never get angry

I never think of you between the hours of sunrise and sunrise
how you reached in and tore out my hope
ate it raw
right there
in front of my crying
mushed up
hiccuping diaphragm
then sneering
slapped my face

it was then
the past became an anchor

the scent of summer
fresh cut hay
motes dancing in zephyrs brought east from cool reaches and snow-capped peaks teasing of stories wrapped in deer-hide fringes and scalps
the cast iron chain plunges off the capstan

I go with it

I don’t bother holding my breath

I want to drown

funny how water’s not much of a trampoline
not much use ingesting water without gills
kinda makes a person dead real quick
except if icy
the brain freezes before necrobiosis begins

that’s how I felt
after you slapped me
my brain died
I died
all that made up me flew away
on wings of thirty pound paper
bound in leather
and cardboard
characters more real than life

now I no longer have any idea who is ‘me’

me is a composite of brilliant authors
their past creating my future
and now
being slapped
was the best thing that ever happened to me

“Can’t let go”

There is a fine line at the junction of anger and hate. It’s hard to let go. Hard to understand the past is past and nothing; no therapy, no drugs, nothing can ever erase the pain of abuse. Anger fuels despair. The hopeless feelings of worthlessness lead to self-abuse and suicide. Hate of them becomes hate of self. The meeting point of these two powerful emotions becomes not a way-point but a permanent dwelling of shame. To forgive them is not a betrayal nor an acceptance of the abuse. It is an essential step away from the junction and towards healing the open wounds. Forgiving does not mean going back, forgiving does not mean continuing as a victim. Without forgiveness of self, the anger and hate will ultimately consume whatever remnant of hope still flickers in the soul.

“What makes order in my mind”

ragged or perfect, a spider’s web is proof of our desire to explore. we use it in context of breaking apart, yet, a real web is strong, useful. when the ordered files in the mind blow in gales, scattered to the four winds, lost in a honeycomb, something catches them. for me. love. snared in sticky silk, piece by piece order returns. i can’t help but love. it’s the nature of the thing.

“The annoying buzz in the ears which, when working, is such a distraction”

I punch in, on time, every time
desire is strong to leave
weekly pay
weekly bills
to distract
and annoy
I write
at work
in my mind
mixed up creative thoughts
she’s been quiet
I miss her input
she’ll return
and we will write together
the sum greater
than the two minds
buzzing as one


“Conversation Stilted”

past lives in the tarot – future unrolls in weighted dice – spinning in place – behind – ahead – behind – ahead – memories unceasing in each and every word spoken by family – friends – lovers – work in progress- grasping for logic in reactions – behind – there lies danger and fear – ahead – there lies opportunity and happiness – advice should always be positive – reflection should always be negative – there lies the success of fortunetellers – the client is always right – when always wrong – chicken bones – tea leaves – bloody entrails – none are truth – in each present – each single moment of living – we are reborn – remade – remolded – reincarnated as a different person that we were a moment ago – advice is free – so is pain – so is love – so live in the moment – reinvent your story and abandon the horoscopes – the I Ching – the Magic 8-Ball – luck is no coincidence – neither is coincidence lucky – we make our presents out of flawed pasts and fantastic futures – that’s it? – I’m not paying for this – this sucks! – where’s my fortune cookie?


“The guilt grows and grows”

remembering touch so fleeting so ethereal was she even here in my arms
where have the memories gone why do they haunt my days my nights

the twilight fades

it leaves
shame does not

guilt shines in deepest dark and brightest hate

Oh Lord! Where do I turn I need something a sign a portent the pain drives me

to drive
and drive some more

never escaping shame
pain elusive

ever elusive
ever present




what is the point

you meet someone

elusive friend
shame flares


all tides ebb
all cycles return

pain never leaves
but in the right arms

hope heals


“And I’m wondering”

what would happen
if I continued
my descent
lips close
breath sweet
eyes wide with wonder
what would happen
if I continued
our first kiss


“The Judge”

If ever there was a man born to hang,
it was the scofflaw
he’d steal a pittance
in his haste not,
to conform
extend his trembling limb
grasp the sweet confection
then scurry, scurry
hide in clover
away from the limelight
sucking the plum pastry
until only the husk remained
soon the judge found him
on his hip
sprawled in sleep
the only remedy
to succor the multitude
of angry citizens
was to grab Lester firmly
by the scruff of the neck
and listen to him purr
as he washed his face clean
of purple stains


I sit
sun in my eyes
drone of lawnmower
chirp of birds
I sit
another holiday Monday
out of bed
out of sorts
wondering where my Muse is
what tropical island claims her now
that bitch!


“Don’t give up the reason you are here”

in the land of plenty
there was discontentment
and all that hardship
all that pain
was the key
the key to everlasting life
or so the churches would preach on high
and behind walls
holding at bay
those in need
the key
the only needed was not
in fact
but government
that was the solution to all the problems besetting a hostile nation
not so cried the mobs
it is corporations that care the most
paying benefits and wages
profit to few
tokens to many
a white shirt flaps in autumn’s cooling breeze
pressed with love and a heavy heart
silk ties pawned for food
Sunday’s sermon does not fill belly
Monday’s alarm clock no longer buzzes
Tuesday’s talking heads make no sense
what was the key to life?
The two-car garage and five-star vacation with maid service and turn-down?
Is that the key?

Tell me gentle reader, does love conquer all or is life simply all there is?

What is your key


“Hot meals and utensils”

Every Sunday, at the local Methodist church, after the 9:30 service, a group of volunteers, most from the church, but not all, went downstairs. Below the vestry and the waterline – the basement had been resealed last month – there was a kitchen, a storage room with long folding tables, chipped and battered, not unlike the congregation; still serviceable, needing replacement parts, too expensive for now. Long years of practice, a gracious ballet, chores done willingly, yet, every Sunday, there was more to do and less to offer. By 11:30, the side door opened, the line, patient; seamed faces, ragged cuffs, whimpering babies, vacant stares waiting, waiting for a free meal: for most, the only food of the day.

“Hot meals and utensils”

more to do
less to offer
always patient
they waited
every Sunday
a free meal
long folding tables
chipped and battered
they waited
only food of the day


free meal they waited
more to do less to offer
long folding tables


“Dragon ships to double glazing”

from the outside
no one ever writes
a façade, harmonious balance
ascetic ranges
banal to austere
praise for form
scorn for function
hide and bone
gave way to turf and stone
human scale caves
portable or not
soon, the eye needed access

to feel safe

the wind brought danger


quiet now
at long last
my inner voice

not what I want

I want passion
a reason to live

my inner voice
who cares

quiet now
too much so
still fighting the shadows
of long ago


“Stillness is not natural”

wool scratchy
roll bottom
eye cushion, tassels call out for comfort
stern rejoinder
square shoulders
deep exhalation
mind clear
mind clear
mind clear
mind clear, tap on knee
tilt forward

…long pause…

rock back
deep inhalation
mind clear
mind clear, an itch, on the thigh, fingers flex
eyes open, look down, again

…longer pause…

mind not clear
must have been the spiced lentils
or maybe the lamb
there is not a djinn, squatting on my person
is not
mind clear

I do not see you
I do not hear you
I do not want you here disturbing my meditation
go away
mind clear
mind clear, a slap on the cheek, hand whisks frantically
laughter, mocking laughter
why you!
tension, boiling pressure, ragged and harsh breathing
that’s it!
no more
stillness is not natural

Leaving so soon?
Master. I cannot do this, I have not the patience, not the understanding needed to go within
Perhaps then, instead, you could simply ask your little guide, he knows what to do.


without a reflection…
…I would not recognize the stranger before me. All angles and lines worn deep with worry. Avoiding the inevitable
by turning off the light
the stranger
utters a pungent oath, walks away, finds a salty puddle
sees without a reflection.


“The Flowing Blindfold”

fear – it oozes-

puddles at my dirty feet, calloused,

bleeding – quivering lower lip – fear

it slides, harsh words, hard men, harder use

fear – it melts – forty flavors

and none,

for me: only fear – fear only… everything,

everyone hurts

lack sight, knowledge, to fear normal

to become someone else, different, better?

Please? – no, no… please…

to swallow anything but that! Not again!

unmoved by tears


unable – years of thought

finally understood

mother was afraid too

“Bricks and Sticks”

I worry about money
but I’m fine
I worry about health
but I’m fine
I worry about waking up
going to sleep
eating out
and dining in
I worry about being too light
but I’m fine with being dark
I worry about growing old
but I’m fine
I worry about youth
but I was fine when I was young
it was everyone else
who had to worry
I’m fine
no really
I’m fine
no need to worry on my behalf
it’s fine to worry
just not
about that


“The Nature of things”

without a watch, a clock, a timepiece of some kind
the day is both long and too short
in the morning
when the sun rose in a clear blue sky
tossed with flakes of white and gray
this gladiola
in the yard
faced that sun with anticipation
chemical processes both creating and destroying
an endless means of life

in the morning
there is no sun
slate blanket wringing out a steady patter of liquid
thirsty soil
soaked with last night’s two inches
eagerly swells for more
the four month rainy season
has begun


“Learning to care”

it matters not
the circumstances
of our lives
it’s too easy
to pull away
the overwhelming
and rage
it appears so daunting
it is
to withdraw
and huddle
the past
present pain
the future
gripping the soul
and creating
a truly

“Love and Hate consumed by Locusts before the Drought but after the Harvest of Millet”

There are no fat farmers
in the land of honey and dates, the land
the lacerated land groans with anguished
cries of slaves worked past edge of endurance
then beyond, beyond the tenth well to the northeast,
northeast of the brick city housing the magistrate
voice of the sultan, collector of taxes, the law without
or grace
or compassion
what does he know of the labor, of the blood, of the calluses, of the broken bones and broken hearts of the peasants toiling before sunrise and after sunset to fill not their shrunken bellies but to swell his growing coffers.

what does he know?

he knows not of love and hate
those twin passions
consumed by locusts before the drought, but after,
much after the harvest of millet
a fine, fine harvest it was
for the farmer and his new bride,
married with words
and deeds,
the cycle of seed injected into fertile womb
truly a splendid event, the ritual spilling of virgin’s tears on the moist tilled soil to ensure a bountiful crop and it
worked, yes it did, in both ways that mattered,
the fecund womb and
robust green shoots, both competing, racing to the end, the nine months of labor
culminating with most of the crop taken
as is the norm

giving voice the newborn wails, the cries of hunger and discomfort succored only by nipple and warm milk
one more mouth and one less worker, for now, for a week
for in the field, the stubble tilled under, seeds reserved and bright sun ignites the earth
and passion
for him
not for the mother overwhelmed
duty now clear
produce sons
or else

…I wore a black silk thong

to match my hair
and the custom corset
that normally was worn
only for bondage nights
increased my natural pallor
to match the clouds

not because

as was said by the mother
of the groom

I was ill with dread at
marrying perfection

admittedly a portrait appearing to be
from Bram Stoker


it is a lovely church

and the birds

black to match
my stockings
not my mood

are only common crows

foreshadowed with lens
not doom

it’s not what you think

it never is

so look again
and remember
when it last was
that you dressed
beyond the norm

“Instead of…”

boarding my train
attache in hand
the office called
where are you?

late, I said,


instead of coming to work today
I decided to dance

be back tomorrow
having fun instead

“I used to have wings”

up there
in the wisps of condensation
solar radiation burning my flesh
up there
I once soared


the opposite of attention
is ignoring
the desires and hopes
a passion for something
anything at this point would be better than the nothing that exists within the vast space between past and future where once was hope and excitement and now


what is left is quiet
I refuse to listen and
find fault in everything and everyone but most of all
I’m tired of being berated by myself

it’s time to watch some more television


“Chocolate and Depression”

Papa chortled at my earnest tale
hunks of greasy sausage muffling his hilarity
crooked teeth, stained by nicotine and tannin
missing molars, floppy mustache quivering
cheeks burning, how I hate eating with the family
smoky flesh
rolled into wobbly chairs
prints several decades out of fashion, opinions centuries old and
at first, I mistook the crowds to be watching an execution
the garish victims impaled
like roasted goats on a spit, the blood flowing
and popping in the cherry wood flames piled high beneath the wretched souls
my little brother
– the stinking and festering rat, long may he suffer a terrible wasting disease of the nether regions-
kicks me hard under the table
fists clench, bangs flick, I concentrate,
on the faded lily pattern,
eyes tracing the same path as every, single, meal, before
my fork pushing the potatoes
gathering the gravy into a single lake, the dam could burst at any time
gloating secret smile, wouldn’t that be neat, bobbing, bloated corpses
only me
finally alone

We have apples for dessert

“Before and After”

there was a puzzled sense of knowledge
of being alone
in a vast expanse of words
imagine that everything you see
everything you touch
is based on
patterned upon
compared to a book you’ve read
life is the fiction
not novels
those are real to me
those are my life
not memories

there is a giddy sense of freedom
a secret that no one else knows
except all of you
and the world
at least those that have read about me
it’s still a secret though
because we have a different knowledge now
unique minds
sharing life
I still read
not as much
they don’t
for them
it’s pointless
not pointless she says…

I want to interrupt him here. He tends to ramble and get maudlin. I mean please! He has the body, I just get to play with it once in awhile. The point is that reading isn’t real. It’s entertainment. I do realize that for them, it’s an escape and a way to cope, but for me, reading is inside out. I want to be the one who’s read. The writer. The person that goes on Oprah. The woman who becomes separate and real. More real than reality in fact.



not pointless
but reading
serves a purpose
allows something else
to happen
stress relief perhaps
beyond that though
reading for me
for us
the boys who never grew up
for us
is our drug of choice


“When the little imps that cavort in your mind take flight”

I sit

under the awning

I sit

I sip

waiting for the inevitable mischief from the miscreants

not the waifs I point out, those I avoid and placate with coins, and on occasion will

smite and bruise with staff of wood

I smile

the throb of unruly loins when the delicate features of a nymph under escort glides by

I seek

under the awning

I seek

I sip

the ache in my soul, the sense of abandonment from the Beloved, cast out

from Eden, we wander restlessly through the bog of human frailties, a slalom

if you will, much like her

avoiding the pinches and leers, the glow of lust, the

disgusting display

I sit

under the awning

my lunch of grilled sunfish, a rip-off, I should know better, but this is the best place to sit

so I malign the proprietor for selling such junk

for I have pride in my work, so should he

barely a flicker when I complain,

I leave

pulling the sleigh, burdened with the wrack of my life

despite my travails, I refuse to relinquish the Beloved, although

I fear

I fear, in the crucible that is my faith…

I fear

I have failed


“I knew instantly…”

when the colonial red shutters slammed hard the siding
beyond the trellis
swollen with fat to bursting grapes
and past the ancient oak
[scarred by lightning]
and woodpeckers
the vegetable garden, ripe
[with fertilizer]
birds and insects reaping the bounty
plenty to share
want some zucchini?
[courgette for some]
distant windbreak and even further
line of thirsty cottonwoods
in stark relief
black vapor, twisting, coiling
rotating, [not sideways]
feelings… not terror
Is that beautiful!

later, much later
feeling nothing much at all
trellis still stands, stripped of planned wine
garden flattened, no zucchini pie
or tomato sauce
searching rubble, alive, yet lifetime gone
swirled away, destroyed
[no one died] I’m grateful
shards, splinters, tatters, muddy pictures
wedding, vacations, Mad Aunt Emmatrude
[wouldn’t you be too?]
head swivels, east, a triple rainbow drenches the storm
west, sun slips away, colors cover the sky
like an Amish quilt, gone now forever
Is that beautiful!


“Taller in person”

I. You’ve had too much to drink dear
strident whispers, embarrassed
guilt over his weak submission to her

II. too much to drink, too much to drink
too much to drink, too much to drink
no, no, no, no, no
silly man, I need more, more, more

III. I’m not a silly man dear
fierce whispers, embarrassed
guilt over his lustful longing for her

IV. silly man, silly man, silly man, silly man
not you dear, him, promises, promises
cut your taxes with axes and we all
fall down, fall down, fall down

V. Stop saying those things dear
fearful whispers, embarrassed
guilt over his shamed feelings for her

VI. those things, those things, those things,
such naughty things are banks and loans
save the banks before they fail, before they fail
before they fail, we must bail, bail, bail

VII. You can’t meet him dear
alarmed whispers, embarrassed
guilt over his queasy reaction to her

VIII. meet, meet, meet, tasty meat, tasty meat
fetch me a fresh drink dear
popping credit bubbles in trouble
credit bubbles, credit bubbles, credit bubbles

IX. A refill please for my wife dear
casual whisper, embarrassed
guilt over his glance directed at her

X. thanks big spender, you maverick you
maverick you, maverick you, how’s my
lipstick do you want to kiss
the moose, the moose, the moose, the moose

XI. She wants to shake your hand dear
amazed whispers, embarrassed
guilt over his clothes compared to her

XII. yes I fight for justice it’s true,
thanks to you, to you, to you, we have
a home from acorn grown, acorn grown
a plumber’s work is never done, never done

XIII. That was very awkward dear
angry whispers, embarrassed
guilt over his shabby treatment of her
“Dung betwixt thine ears”

Oh wise sage – you with flowing beard –
[and ample gut]
in youth
foolish and hot-headed did you
dance with the Beloved?

Swirl in patterns
rutted in dirt
[the track not fornication]
as youth
stomped in donkey droppings?

Oh wise sage – you with heavy purse –
[and nagging wife]
are youth
wasted and bloated or did you
remember Pharaoh?

As slaves ancestors toiled
straw and mud bricks
[not for them]
the youth
killed in place of Moses

Oh wise sage – you with clever tongue –
the Beloved calls
should youth answer?
[or drink deep of pleasure]
flesh is a reflection of lust

[laughter from wise sage]
foolish youth
sons and daughters of Abraham
listen well to the voice of the

Dance, sing, lift your palms
to heaven
give alms to poor
[a tenth at least]
youth is for love and longing

remember the dung
mixed with hope and
belief! you ask me?
[the old man, the old rich man]
you ask me? about the Beloved?

remember foolish children of
avarice – now shamed glances –
there is only one prayer
of sending the Beloved

A Smile.
red lives in opposition to
blue for serenity
red for rage
pain lives in joints
where I live is
yellow lives high above
green makes me sneeze
pain lives in sinuses
where I live is
within lives my others
they live through me
without me
within me
a part of me
that few see
but all know
of my others
without colors
my body is mine
not theirs
my pain is mine
not theirs
some are
some are
but all
where I live
where we live
and I wouldn’t change a thing
about where I live
with my others


“Digestion is soothed by empty sounds of rock”

sounds of water flowing


digestion soothed

sounds of water


digestion sounds of water


rock flowing

empty digestion



“Fortune Lies”

puffballs break – wispy wishes transported – seeds of disorder

a lifetime spent in opposition

holding back death and

pretending harmony

is a virtue – it is not – chaos reigns as replication ravages

all is death when the other ‘h’ word blossoms

grotesque poisoned seeds of thought

once left to word-of-mouth

spread by agents in pay of dogma and fire and hard steel

hatred is mankind’s greatest achievement

a noble one that harvests souls with insatiable hunger

longing – desire – passion

when at last we rest

the piles of fortune will not avail

our bones – our sinews – our plasma

all are lies

to comfort our actions

it is not oxygen that fuels our steps but


in a place far from the evil that we

carefully nurture

in the beautiful gardens of our homes

and our hating hearts


‘defenses down’

each step
dragging my past
along Eight Mile Road
bullets fly and blood spills
and still I keep coming back
the life I hate claims my soul
and the wealth on the other side
a trap even more gross than poverty
with defenses down the truth cuts deep
opportunity is a lie that steals your talent

“In time you may learn the truth”

The bee and the wasp

that blossom you so carelessly sunder from branch will now


not become fruit

The bee and the wasp

that blossom fluttering in breeze to the damp earth will now


rot become soil

You see… nothing


but I do! the connection between God and us is not small, I understand that and I am truly sorry for yanking the blossom off but I do see what you see, the way that things are all interwoven and we are not separate after all.

You see… nothing


but I do!

Be Quiet

Be One


A Fig

“How To prepare for a Tropical Storm/Hurricane”

13. What fools be to flaunt nature’s will and seek to ride out storms unprepared. Wind shall tear open your house and water shall float away your conveyance to utter ruin. But forgot I where I was an age of insurance for every possible calamity and suffering.

12. Unless such misfortune as to reside in a dry place the primary stock should be amber liquids of vast variety. There is little pain to be found in loss when with alcoholic haze the memories of a lifetime are swept away in roiling clouds and thrashing seas.

11. For those wretched souls who claim teetotalism as their sacred screed then quantity of potable water should be laid in. But lo you that purchase such libations in jugs shall be unworthy of saving when thunder cracks trees to the ground and roofs cave.

10. In boxes and cans from distant lands the foodstuffs worthy of empire will not be palatable without the power of the Gods surging through copper wire. Before reduced by need to scavenging in fetid gutter remember to have opener and swamp gas distilled for cooking raw flesh.

9. You there with flowing hair draw near and tell me true. Your torch burns with bright white light. What name you this miracle? Indeed? Then my second will meet yours and my fists shall be the true battery upon the field of conflict for no insult can go unchallenged.

8. I grow weary of speaking the solitude I crave is broke by squawking yonder box. Warnings and watches how do you moderns survive with unremitting din assaulting ears? Perhaps the constant flow of others’ thoughts has made you weak and fearful thus prone to hyperbole.

7. Yes I do believe I am correct. Penniless I was and penniless I died for no plastic eased my way and raised me far above my station. Charity spurned and life tossed aside but no man was ever my master. Life is an emergency condition you cannot escape no matter how many Midas funds you bury.

6. What folly now I see when those with four legs or wings or scales are not prepared for feasting but instead clothed in outfits that match. Related such tales to those who haunt waterfront dives and was tossed on my arse for being crazy. Did you hear what I said Nevermore?

5. Order slaves to remain behind as you flee to higher dryer ground. Leave a trusted servant if such can be found and with lash and fear your property be boarded and secured while safe in snug harbor make merry with ill-gotten gains.

4. Elegant clippers ply angry seas and give tribute to Neptune as ever ancient mariners have done when battened hatches fail. Widows’ weeds and black bunting for merchants while lost urchins pick rags but trade in tea and indigo must go on for those trinkets that are bought with blood.

3. Enough gloom I deem! On my father’s honor you sir are a prophet of doom! The skies will clear life will return and though I confess that death will claim me one day it is not now and not from storm wracked waves I shall succumb. With candlelight’s glow let us pass time with charades and laugh away the wind’s wrath.

2. For ’tis true the optimist is frowned upon and scorned for rose’s garden paths yet most resplendent and soft are your features in flickering shadows. A confession dear one the stress of vocation makes short tempered a man but rounded assets and feather bolsters can make short work of even stiffest necks.

1. And so it comes to this no matter the euphemism employed for tender sensibilities when danger lurks the primal force surges in all manner of beasts. So preparing for a ride of furious proportions is best spent in bed with willing partners making passionate noises and sweaty skin.


“Inverted Canines” [Three poems in one]

chronic fatigue rules waking life deeply with aches into fabric of my being
pain never recedes but ebbs and swells despite still face showing stoic
hurts to move even more to think and devise needed changes
even wild and urgent desires rarely rouse my temper much
when vivid images don’t match the smoldering fire within
doing nothing becomes the norm for good reason
little steps loom large and feel hopeful
that gives brief passion and energy
now dimming only to flicker
every day that passes
night follows soon
always so



a number that began
the month
I was born
538 times has the page
been turned
to equal
16,360 days
392,640 hours
the seconds divided
by half
and half again
and again and
again to infinity
the quantum forces
binding the atoms
that make up
in a month that seems
both long and short
the question
to ask
how many more after


“Home cooking”

Our favorite restaurant
is the Italian place with murals
and bench seats
The kitchen sells pizza by the slice
the red and white boxes
piled high to the
The garlic knots drizzled in oil
your fingers slick and
your mouth ready for the
main course, the same course, of course
every time
The handmade gnocci and
The homemade marinara
piping hot baked into a
ceramic chaffing dish
first bite, the
The eyes close
shoulders sag
It’s good to be home

“Dem Bones”

it’s over here

*sniff sniff*

no… over there

*sniff sniff*

running, always running, must run and

seek, find

*sniff sniff*

dig, dig, dig, dig, dig, dig

not here

dig, dig, dig, dig …


running, running, running,


*sniff sniff*

it’s over here

*sniff sniff*

no… over there!

“One’s Station in life is quite precise”

quite grotesque
the way she dressed
the clash of colors
and those shoes… I mean really, why bother?
forget last season, we’re talking prehistoric here
egads what a joke
when she spoke
all vowels
and jowls
it’s a pity really such people can be allowed in public, have they no standards anymore?
the trials of class
such a pain in the …
well dear, you know what I mean
so, off to Tiffany then
have a sudden yen
for some tasteful bling
that’s the thing
to sooth my eyes
and my
I’ll wear it out
no need to shout
I’m rich
and you’re not


“Mating rituals”

the waning moon dodged the scudding wrack of clouds blown apart by winds howling over the jagged peaks looming high over the buildings slowly turning dark floor by floor

harsh chemicals could not mask the scent

she growled in her chest gone tight and stood on legs fluid with need and anticipation for the chase so long in coming through the dark streets empty of all but her targeted prey

moldy leftovers whiffed in disgust

he dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers and shivered when open night window allowed hint of fate amongst garbage and stale death in alleyways strewn with empty hopes

plumes of exhaust wavered from drains

on the move she loped across the silent city the few spotting knew of her quest and gave way knowing it was not their turn this time but wishing soon to smell the mate for them

sweating fear left a clear trace

despite countless warnings the actuality of flight was driven by sheer instinct as hormones reacted to the ever closing female determined to subdue the chosen male in heat

cool damp fog and sharp pine

shedding clothes the waning moon showed glistening breasts and shining thighs pumping in ancient rhythm reaching out to desperate flight and pouncing on rigid form

sunrise and satiated mix of tangy fluids


“Tough luck pal”

last whistle of my shift
avoided my eyes
tossed clothes in the locker
scared times for the guys

into the slick summer heat
the guard shack ahead
lot empties more every year
soon a lonely bed

echoes linger of laughter
poor made her queasy
too hard to swallow the truth
vodka was easy

sold off the furniture
very little left
foreclosure sale next week
gun has heft

horizon ahead of the wheels
wind ruffles my hair
distant dreams offering faint hope
silver screen is there

“I dressed up for this?”

she said with a scowl

duh he smirked

his breath so foul

turning her head

a wink from him

too bad he’s dead

for being on the prowl

“For the ones I love”

once sipped a draught of passion fires wild recklessness
constant thoughts of tender skin and heated caress

satiated gasping breaths climbing highest peaks
magnificent views of heaven cold winds caress

soft amber glow of morning clouds reveal damp folds
hidden amongst dunes lapping tides softly caress

“Vera Red”

a martyr
I wasn’t
long day of paddling
canoe slid
back waters and
sand bars
roasting flesh
young and
wasn’t until
too late
my skin
inflamed and
acute pain
slathered aloe
gulped aspirin
cool fan
did I mention
the pain
many weeks later
long skeins
dead skin
a badge
of honor

“Careful, dappled glade ahead”

confused cries
imploring confused cries
fascinated imploring confused cries
reverberating fascinated imploring confused cries

invigorating disconcerted believing muffled moans
disconcerted believing muffled moans
believing muffled moans
muffled moans


“Days when even drinking didn’t help”

back… the filthy ceiling fan
wobbled overhead, the drone of
mosquitoes and netting

darned too often to care, sewn up with whatever
was handy, dental floss and rum dancing in liver
… ohhhhhhh…
eyes avoid the mirror, cracked by a .38 and jealousy, she
back… baleful look below, even now, it stirs to life, erect
un-re-pent-ant bastard… I’d slice the damn thing off if it didn’t feel so
good to stroke and squeeze

slowly and carefully rising, the room spins in mockery, hurling…
what’s the use, the three-day stubble covers the scars…
dirt covers their graves… cheat me? no… no…

NO! Get away from me! Leave me alone! STOP haunting me! You made me do it, over and over again, you never stopped, you pushed and pushed and wouldn’t stop, why didn’t you stop? I needed you, you were everything to me, why? Why did you make me…

I loved you… I loved you… bed creaks, the oily steel of the barrel meets rotted teeth…

and wins.

“Everything Has Color”

gentle tap of showers on aluminum, the muggy morning chilled with atmospheric globules, the crack of the starter, engine chugs, click seatbelt…

rest of ritual best left to thought, 6:30 and clouds everywhere, western skies black with salty air collected from Gulf, different than Atlantic, one is hot and furious, the other cold and merciless but water it is and water it remains

twenty-two miles ahead, roads damp, traffic light, lighter every day as jobs are lost, families move, money once flowed here, now weeds grow in foundations of dreams… seven long years this commute nothing changes but time and still the road unravels beneath my feet, black, black to match the mood

no sun but high in the western bank a flash of color, a short stub of a rainbow, barely there, but a screen pulls back, frequency by frequency white light hurled in pulsing waves to intersect with rising humidity now weeping at terminal velocity to strike my wandering eyes

darker the sky moves down and light from the east slips by high above, the vibrant color arcs slowly by degrees, up, up… around the bowl of forever it etches in glorious bands, doubled and reaching to encompass the horizon of the now…

“Laugh track is for amateurs”

under the lamp

a feminist jokes

how can the actor think?

an indistinguishable adviser reckons

cheap silicon inside

names an ashamed supporter

with a career

a neat pacifier!

suffering obstruction

sister purges

every twist in distress

the head rattling

each generalizes

why won’t the myth behave?

another believer farms

can’t pardon a highlight!

continuous component composes

the precedent

a star extract

a pragmatic newcomer unaffected

why an algebra theorem wild?

each cupboard

a diameter

the latest adventure

originates in a factory

the entrances moved

will the clicks act?

within a district an accident

dashes into the bookstore

with the refunds

“Caught in a Life not of her making”

food was a hindrance, a
distraction for the driven woman intent on the top
long hours
short breaks
rapid promotion and now,
thirty-five years since birthed a
squalling infant
an itinerant carpenter
an artist in macramé
Sunbeam found herself seated
a café
with Wi-Fi, of course, no real executive worth her bonus
could rest with markets stalled, inflation
turmoil, the
notebook open, fragrant
cinnamon bun missing two bites
4/5ths full
A Voice!
dramatic license perhaps, but
spreadsheets and emails drew
Sunbeam, not people
Excuse me, are these seats taken?
startled, blue eyes beheld a man
a woman
old, lined, stooped, gentle smiles
she glanced around
empty tables, mouth
ajar to speak in negation
Thank you dear, you look so lonely
doesn’t she Elbert?
of course you are
Sunbeam wanted to leave, Stay!
said the steel voice,
we’re here to tell you a story
frozen, her eyes darted frantic and caught
mine, leaning and
listening – sheepish shrug – but still,
too curious to be polite
A story? with a lilt, the first time her
voice caressed my ears, the frisson
caught deep inside
yes, a story Sunbeam
how do you know my name? with panic
patting her hand now, stroking, calming, my
name is Dahlia dear, my husband here
Elbert, say hello to Sunbeam
a grunt, dentures chomping fat blueberry muffin,
he doesn’t talk much
A story. with flat tone
oh darling, are you happy?
startled once more, she flickered my
unabashed, an eyebrow raised in return, waited
she held Dahlia’s regard, yes, of course
good for you honey, a woman
should always
be happy
isn’t that right Elbert? A deeper
grunt, a quick smirk
A story! said with impatience, watch
moving with steady pulses
always in a hurry – pursed lips –
liver spotted hand raised in placation
A story, for you Sunbeam… and
your admirer over there
caught, blushed, lip nibbled, but
still listened to the story
a story – with resignation, arms folded, downcast expression
tracing the laminate top, connecting the dots of her
happy life
Dahlia smiled, the sly smile of one who has knowledge, but
not gloating – an open smile – perhaps
torn needing a refill, but counter too
far to hear, stealthily moved, the two-handed
pull and hop under the chair
screeched on tile, a glare from
her blue eyes, wanting to bolt, tension betrayed, Sunbeam
invite the poor girl over, she’s dying to hear the story, isn’t
that right Elbert?
A glance, a glug, a grunt, frequent, those
grunts – a language that only age can bestow – less than
gracious, she gestured, curt, angry, embarrassed,
and a nod, sat across from her, the black cropped bangs
matching her mood
thank you
you’re welcome
so, a story? do tell, eager to listen, the interloper
rubbing metaphorical palms in
hopes of wisdom
another glare, you’re good
at those Sunbeam
who asked you!
ladies, women, girls – there is more to life –
a pause,
Dahlia leaned back, at ease, in control
someday you’ll understand this story
when I was young, many long moons ago I
traveled, for pleasure and growth, so I told
the beach, the mountains –
music was playing, that irritating blend of
new age and pap, sorry the music’s bothersome
please continue
that was my calling, music – isn’t that right Elbert? –
’tis true, Dahlia plays a mean flute,
silence from us as the import sunk in. shivers,
creepy and not in a good way
picked up the pace, those days when concerts were
free, free of hate and filled with love and peace, I
was – naive – away from home, the world Sunbeam, oh
the world was mine
love of course, well lust, the lust of youth, it was all
yielding and the drugs?
frequent whooshing, the steady commerce flowed
our table – isolated – not by space but by bonds
a mystery, Sunbeam was caught – we were caught –
there are some that regret, her delicate fingers
swollen, gems sparkled, the flash of deep hues decorating
not Dahlia, not for all that was lost
or even found
you see, youth is for the young, before wisdom overtakes
fun and life becomes a chore
someday Sunbeam, the words will cease to hurt, when young
and alone and scared
I met
an itinerant carpenter
an artist in macramé

“Lost Temper”

the floor is far away… despite the contact of bare feet on carpet, the floor,
is far away
consciousness floats at mind level, peering down, condemning the separate aspects that make up the whole…
the floor is still far away
shards, slivers, fragments of colored glass… hand-blown or is that blown by hand? Perhaps we are not meant to understand, the useless posturing… the floor
is far away
velocity has a texture all its own, brute strength, energy passed from one to the other, an object at rest… flung in a parabolic arc to intersect the hand with the eye… yet
the floor
remains far away
shattered and falling… a rainbow splattered, an artiste would pause, mid-stride…
astonished visage and open hands reaching, reaching in supplication and…
narrowed squint, the floor is far away
a limp… no passive… no… the floor… each segment expands and dilates and
in that nanosecond before…

all, becomes clear, and the floor
is not now
so far away

“Things to do”

turbid water rushes by the constant change of rising prices and falling hopes the song of progress a distant hint in faded ink scratches when time seemed immeasurable under smoky incense brought from plateaus riven with famine and ideology grown dizzy in hate and passions for death of society passes for control of citizens crushed by intolerance as dogma spewed with gouts of bigotry the key to swaying the tired drugged crush of purported free willed members stacking sandbags against the information pouring through breached firewalls in a writhing orgy of minds meeting on networks fostering exchanges submerged by towering archaic opinions passing as knowledge gleaned by jaded writers twisted to meet needs of few suppressing dissent of many

“Portents of Past Souls”

trailing seas
light ground swell from distant isles
azure and celadon
mirrors charcoal flat-bottomed squalls
the pipe
drums beat, roll on cobbled squares
many years
so many, many years apart my darling
slight roll falls a degree to starboard
jib luffs
hairs prickle and squinted creases gaze
port beam
hail aloft, douse sail, weather trim, veer
round ten
drums beat, feet on scrubbed planks
many years
so many, many years lost my darling
wispy outriders bring deepening pressure
glittered blue
sweet taste of air spun gossamer white
fresh breeze
heralds steady on sou’ by sou’west
drums beat
then silence
another warning posted, switch from
the movie
to the weather
emerald waves of gnarled bark
bow outside
open door faint sense of distant souls
racial memory
stirs visceral shudders watch skies
fast ribbons
flutter low across roofs where once
dunes concealed
skeletons of ancient ship wrecks
time to go

I love trains because they go really fast

I hate that people hurt me and told me lies

Horses too, they can run far away

My horse is black and he hates to touched by strangers

And otters have fun sliding in the mud

Life sucks when mean grown ups take away what they want

Sometimes I remember things that make me cry

I may be only a kid, but I know right from wrong


“Dry Mouth”

busy talking, the words coming out just so
the connection clicking… sudden silence and
I keep typing, not noticing there’s no reply

hit refresh and watch horror stricken as
the work of hours vanishes into the blank
and unforgiving screen where ideas die

close the page, reopen browser and watch
helplessly as it spins round and round, dizzy
and frustrated message connection lost

reboot, restore, retry to no avail, the web
has fallen apart and cut off from her I feel
crushed knowing this was the last chance

when later, much later, the connection
restored, send email, send pleas, send
explanations, only silence in return


“Suggant Frambles”

for extray howand on the fore
the suggant slithed to the shore
sheve it be and never to bore
frambles crudred all in gore

for extray howand on the fore
the britats hoof were no more
graned sliming did it abhor
ovarr ronded was yonder corps

for extray howand on the fore
the hallor ones did implore
requent off wife all did adore
passutt home notting frum war

for extray howand on the fore
luyying ander far distant door
sarring duty guhhes as before
famlents graving heart be tore


“Like a Snowflake in a Margarita…”
… they both sting one cold
as the long night of a
lover’s quarrel and the
other as hot as oiled
beach volleyball players
leaping like taffeta gowns
for a coveted bridal bouquet
tossed aside like sound bites
uttered by clueless pundits in
a nightmare as if drowning in
a vat of butterscotch pudding
filled with sharks singing
“It’s a nice day for a white wedding”
off-key like an alley full of
feral cats fighting like candidates
for a house on Pennsylvania Avenue
like the one with an oval room that’s
shaped by the knees of interns
performing surgical strikes like
swooping eagles catching prey
hiding like blind worms in a cave
dark as chocolate squares melting
like a first kiss under a full moon
bright as a virgin’s blush turning
red hot in consummation of
desire to win nomination at
all costs like spiraling gasoline
prices igniting like rhetoric from
a pulpit blaming everyone else as
different as a snowflake in a margarita
they both sting one to
the left and one to
the right as if separated by
a curtain made of iron and
a moat filled with seething
emotions as if the entire
history of hate were distilled
from a aloe and served up hot
like the nine circles of hell…



“My shoulder hurts”

but I keep this cudgel handy, it’s changed

through the years,

the cudgel… at first

when young, it was

a mere


a sprig, a prig I was, but

so what… because by

teenage angst it was

a stick, a brick, a

prick I was, but

who cares… by early

adulthood it was a

a plank, a prank,

swank I was, but

big deal… I was on top

and thanks to my



all around superiority, I had

the biggest set of wood by

the time I was middle-aged, no

longer small, my mighty

cudgel smote all

who defied



and gave

lame excuses


performance as

I beat them

down with

my mighty


I sleep well at night

with it

on my shoulder but

get real,


in the mirror

is so overrated

me and my


do just


when things go bump in the night


“After the Rain…”

… comes life

when cold drops


into dust

… comes hope

when warm rays


into seeds

…comes growth

when cool nights


into sprouts

…comes color

when hot days


into harvest


“Black Holes and a Ship Called Desire”

out past the halo
where the comets
do roam
out past the halo
where the cold
froze your bones
radiation will fry you
when the light
fades away
so come through the door
take your helmet
off here

so raise your glass high boys
for black holes
and beer
raise your glass high
for a ship
called desire
drink down that liquor
before you return
to that ship
called desire
and the black holes
of home

out past the belt
where the rocks
do tumble
out past the belt
where the ice
breaks in shards
gravity will grab you
when the astroids
spin by
so come through the door
take your helmet
off here

so raise your glass high boys
for black holes
and beer
raise your glass high
for a ship
called desire
drink down that liquor
before you return
to that ship
called desire
and the black holes
of home


“Drooling I watch her skirt”

from the distance far she comes
a vision in red headers popping
as I drink in her contours and
vibrate in her exhaust she idles
rough and I stroke her skin
her ground effects skirts hide
her aggressive camber and her
gleaming chrome spokes reveal
painted calipers gripping ceramic
pads and polished steel rotors
I grip her handle and slid slowly
down inside the soft leather seat
Her cluster shows the needles that
flick up and down as I play footsie
with her custom pedals and pop
her clutch as her engine moans
the revs whine when the blower
opens the IAC and air is sucked
hard into her chamber and the fluid
is injected and sparked by platinum
fire the combustion throws me
back into her upright caress and
belted straps and I ride her fast
and deep into the corner her
rubber contact patch squealing
and smoking as the transaxle
converts torque to thrust and
by the ABS/TRAC keeps rotating
forward as I slide to a stop and
pop the hood latch to stare into
the heart of my love beating
three thousand times a minute
controlled by the PCM that takes
the input from the MAF and the
DPFE and O2 sensors to turn her
from a violent explosion into a
purring satisfied machine men
and women find so hot that love them.


“After the feast!”

Bring forth the soothsayer, in these dark days,
we command thee now no more a deep haze,
speak up, tell us of events yet to come
from me to you shall receive a tidy sum
I have seen the future and it looks bright,
repeat after me, might makes right,
seven hundred years Your Majesty will pass
and all that gold will go towards gas
in the coming centuries lost is your name,
but who cares, life is but a game,
so says the soothsayer Sony!

Another cry across the land,
let the sibyl stand forth
and give her course
for it is said if a woman doth vow
to obey her master
without having a cow
then harmony reigns
and all will sleep tight
his firm hand tonight
What a load of crap, this ruler doth spout
truth be told he is a lout
for in distant years
another shall rise
a woman it seems
grasping a prize
the vote to the people
so says Hillary Sibyl

Tell me a saga oh wise auspex
I have heard you know
why the cock crows
for many a moon
I’ve thrust most lustily
but none of my
nightingales have
stomachs grown
I find it hard
to maintain my desire
so tell the truth
else it’s the fire
Oh great one with
lance so keen
of birds I’ve seen
what you must do
take this blue dropping
when you are drooping
soon you’ll be popping
are my name’s not

Where hides the seer I have much to ask
the God above has laid forth my task
my enemies I must smite
and with great delight
send them all to hell
women and children as well
none left alive
for we shall strive
to crush and maim
it’s always the same
victory is ours
or my name’s not Lars
Yes great leader
it is very true
off to war you go
and very soon
but the God is fickle
and the deaths
you cause
shall haunt you ever
so says best-selling author of your biography who calls you Lars the Idiot

All rise for the Divine Ruler, all make obsequence to the
almighty Emperor, the mind and heart of our country,
the one, the only
Give it up for Marius the Magnificent
as always, a truly brilliant introduction, now
utter your findings haruspex
and you’d better show a return
on my investments
my market research of the goat entrails
some names to keep in mind
in far off barbarian lands
there will arise
a market called bull
where vast hoards
of cash reside
so with your wisdom
see so clear
buy IBM and Apple
Exxon too
for the future is clear
buy stocks and hold
that is the ticket
to wealth
so speaks the
goat entrails
(please read the prospectus before investing and don’t cut the head off your haruspex when a recession happens on his watch)


“Past Due”

Sign here please… and here… and here, a hundred times to
sign your name, Truth-In-Lending, truth in
discovery and still you sign.

There was one truth unrevealed, you couldn’t
afford the home sweet home bubble, but now
it’s too late to resign.

Personal responsibility meets the truth, unless
the sign points to prosperity, credit unavailable
but for corporate largesse.

Sign here please… and here… and here, a hundred times to
sign your name, Truth-In-Banking, less oversight is
needed not more, for you can trust we have your
best interests in mind. Just sign here and spend your
way to happiness.


“I used to be a writer”

Dem rockin’ chairs be a right comfort in dos declinin’ yars, so

called Goldun Yars, makes a worn down, hurtin’ body break

out in right-che-ous laughin’ liken when Leroy jumped

da crik, he’s a mite crazy, ‘touched’ as we has a habit of

sayin’ round bout des parts, ‘touched’ don’t always now be

meanin’ bad, as in ‘badder dan a sack full of possums’, no he

be touched by da Lord.


Y’all be wonderin’ bout Brian I reckin’. He all right. He be sittin’

in his rockin’ chair and fussin’ and carryin’ on bout how he can’t

be writin’ nothin’ for nobody no how no more, it be enough to

send us even futher round da bend, not that we need no help

with dat no how. No we don’t. We’s all got problems you know,

all had our hearts durn near split clean in two more dan once, but

dat’s life, dat’s how ya know ya still breathin’.



“Rained Out”

They never get it right
I could do that
50% chance they’re wrong
What a joke
Forecast equals guess
All those fancy charts
Good thing we don’t pay
Why do they bother
It was supposed to snow
It was supposed to rain
It was supposed to be hot
Why can’t they get it right

Puny humans with your whining, I’ll
tell you why
You’ve turned your back on us, the
Gods and Goddesses of your
You think you’re so superior, you
think you have no need of
But you’re wrong, you still
worship the weather Gods, but
now, he is called
News Flash little ones, he is as
cruel as we were
bright bands of colors, swirling winds
torrential rain. You wish to see
the future and
has become your Oracle
As of old, no one

“Morning Low”

I snap awake, 4:15 a.m.
the bed shakes in
familiar thrusts
emotion flees
clinical focus

“Diane, you’re having a low”
“I’m fine”

2,000 times I’ve done this,
I spring naked, 4:16 a.m.
less than a minute
to react
race to kitchen, grab juice pouch
insert straw

“Sit up Diane”

she drinks, limbs begin to twitch
I lay her down, 4:17 a.m.
she pants rapid breaths,
legs bounce with convulsions
hands clench tight, to prevent
stabbing self
eyes go blind

“I’m here Diane, you’re ok”

No response but rhythmic
no tears this time, no
screams, only harsh
air, rapid pulse
I hold her steady, when I’m
not there, bloody and
bruised from falls

“You’re doing fine sweetheart, hold on, it’s almost over”

unable to swallow, can only
wait until 4:35 a.m.
abrupt cessation of gyrations
deep breath, sweat soaked,
clammy skin
only 18 minutes this time

“You ok honey?”
“I’m fine Brian, I’m so cold”

I kiss her, 4:37 a.m.
not a romantic start to
the work day, but
this is our life, always a
heartbeat away from

“I love you Diane”
“I know”


“Dirty Hands”

the pallid drifts cover my garden, the Full
Snow Moon and
rainbow crystals, the
deep longing for

wait for restless children to sleep, the Full
Snow Moon and
glossy pages, the
deep longing for

trembling hand caresses pictures, the Full
Snow Moon and
packet seeds, the
deep longing for

racing heart sees exotic forms, the Full
Snow Moon and
blooming bush, the
deep longing for

exhilaration in correct zone, the Full
Snow Moon and
furtive call, the
deep longing for

impatiently wait special delivery, the Full
Snow Moon and
fragrant hope, the
deep longing for

dripping ice lengthening sun, the Full
Worm Moon and
robins call, the
deep longing for

working soil tender treasure, the Full
Pink Moon and
dirty hands, the
deep longing for


“This is My Soul”

looking inward through the pain
froth buffeted by gale churns
rough passage a hard fought gain
every slight humiliation burns

past the cold walls of steel
stumble upon a wooden door
search for hidden lock by feel
sudden wave pierces core

shattered splinters tearing flesh
falling forward unto soft light
gasping air pure and fresh
wide eyes see colors bright

laughter, yes laughter
joy in greeting
welcome, welcome
you can’t mean me

come dance, come spin
shed your fears
can you feel the song
that bubbles within

release yourself
trust again
let others touch you
with healing hands

hope and faith
respect and love
drink of passion
your soul is free
“This is My Brain”

cowering under bush
twitching noise
scents danger
crunching leaves
snuffling sounds
closer and closer
start to run
sharp teeth
slice throat
gasp for breath
bones snap
waking in bed
racing heart
sheets soaked
steps on stairs
panting chuckle
door creaks open
pillow over head
go away go away
covers tossed
glowing eyes
clothes torn
silent scream.
rigid muscles
thrashing limbs
gentle nudge
shh it’s ok
sobbing tears
gasp nightmare
metalic taste
slick teeth
gnawed off
bloody fingers
only stumps
safe now.

“This is My Heart”

I feel safe in her embrace
as she strokes my face
she loves my smile
her soul has no guile

we are best friends
together til the end
our bodies fit tight
our closeness is right

I look in her eyes
always a surprise
to see the love
soft as a glove

I share my fears
she wipes my tears
strokes my back
through panic attack

good times and bad
fun we have had
the road ahead
makes us stay in bed

I love my wife
if not life
she keeps me sane
screaming in pain

without her touch
I’d lose much
she accepts me
that sets me free

free to create
to seek my fate
write what I feel
emotions that are real

in this safe place
my heart has space
she is not tame
Diane is her name
“Echoes of Me”

I sit on a bench
or maybe a stone
perhaps on the grass
at the side of a pond.

it’s spring or summer or fall
winter with iced over water
the seasons they blur
just me and my echoes.

the sky is clear blue
covered in clouds
the air warm and fresh
with smoke billowing out.

the green water I drink
fish swimming by
frogs are croaking
bugs swarming my hair.

it’s so peaceful here
no one around
lying there naked
freedom to be.

these are the echoes of me
not knowing one day to the next
which voice I will hear
there on the bank of the pond.
“Corridors of Glass”

crawling on a rough carpet
hands taste the fibers
of dark chocolate and nuts

the cool glass walls
smell the reflections
of crisp clean citrus

stale and musty air
breath and see
old stone crumbling

so many locked rooms
sound of door slamming
feels like black velvet

a bright light beckons
odor of salt marsh
hear sound of harp

“Body and Mind”

I stand before you naked
a body and a mind
what do you think of me
are you frightened yet
is it the color of my skin
or perhaps those male hands
that have hurt and abused
and torn at your flesh
now move beside me
and stare at the mirror
are you happy with what you see
too tall too short
too thin too fat
too light too dark
why do you think
your mind hates you so much
hold out your right hand
flex the fingers and thumb
now make a fist
feels good doesn’t it
your mind wants to hurt
your mind knows who it is
look in your eyes
can you hear
what do you feel
peering at your body
disgust and shame
loathing and despair
when was the last time
that you touched yourself
scratched your inner wrist
massaged your knee
rubbed your neck
soothed your feet
gave yourself an orgasm
I stand before you naked
a body and a mind
what do you think of me
are you awake yet.


They never told me not to go there
the stony path by the river wild
where the moss covered logs
lay heavy across the ground
slick with moisture rotted wood
an obstacle to be overcome
I clamber over to find a hole
deep into the earth it goes
no light will ever come back
for fallen in will last forever
An innocent victim
of a lie told in silence.



Go back, go back the voices call
remember the childhood that never was
spinning around looking for help
never forthcoming, never there
how did we all survive
this growing up and getting out
the world we found was hostile
evil lurked round every bend
victims again seemed our fate
nothing we tried ever worked
until one day a light shone bright
someone finally came to our rescue
reached out a hand
pulled us up
dusted the dirt off
washed the shame clean
they love us our partners
our friends our soul mates
but we still hide, hide in plain site
trust seems impossible
flight seems safer tonight
we flee stumbling in terror
the demons are real
they hunt in the dark
that dark that waits at the edge of the mind
waiting as patient as death
a flash of bright light
a beacon of hope
a sea of hands that touch and stroke
shivers cease and stretch out to hold
many friends no longer am dizzy.


“What does Great Jazz sound like”

The Snare is,

Notes like fragrant smoke, hewn stone fireplace pine snapping and popping hot tendrils of air rising into a night so cold and black that the stars hang just beyond your fingertips.

The Bass is,

Notes like thick cream, flowing over burnished formica dripping onto oak planks patina polished by ten thousand boots calico cat lapping up pooling liquid.

The Saxophone is,

Notes like a lovers spanking, over knee bare bottom arching high crisp smacks falling on smooth flesh growing warm and red ’til hot flames scorch the sky.

The Keyboard is,

Notes like thunder and lightning, smell of ozone when wind bends trees sideways and the rain comes down drumming on roof like marbles cascading out of a worn leather pouch.

The Horn is,

Notes like bright glass, shattered amber shards tinkling on mortared wall mirroring electric blue neon frenetic flickering reflection of dazzling jewels swinging fast tempo.

The Guitar is,

Notes like a torrent, raging eddys swirling slick foamed rocks rushing waves pounding spray casts rainbow of sound hurtling into the abyss.

Now that’s
What great jazz
sounds like

“Hanging by a Thread”
Lyrics by Brian aka hummingbunny

I wake every morn
to troubled times
there’s many a day
when I’ve lost my heart
when life beats me down
I’ve my feet on the ground
I turn to my faith
in God’s hands I’m loved.


hanging by a thread
a steel cable thread
a steel cable thread
that is my faith
my trust in God
my soul belongs
I am not lost
I have always been found.

tempted by those things
that do me harm
helpless I’ve become
for somebody’s charm
when cruelty and hate
stalk the land
when hopelessness
to stretch out it’s hand.


hanging by a thread
a steel cable thread
a steel cable thread
that is my faith
my trust in God
my soul belongs
I am not lost
I have always been found.

by God’s good grace
I light the path
many that I’ve helped
recover their laugh
beat back the darkness
I’ve always implored
hold tight to that thread
we all want more.


hanging by a thread
a steel cable thread
a steel cable thread
that is my faith
my trust in God
my soul belongs
I am not lost
I have always been found.
I am not lost
I have always been found
my steel
cable thread I am bound.


“Short Story, Part 1 and 2”

Part 1

a grin so wide it hurts

that floating feeling of bliss

vanilla and cinnamon lingers

stars whirling overhead

red light pulsing off/on

fading drone of insects

scuffing soles cracked pavement

key jangles fumble for lock

where have you been!

Part 2

stiff shoulders shaking

sharp bite of clear liquid

vibrating syllables slashing

hurled teary accusations

crashing echoes heavy door

profound silence rubbing ring

music chirps open phone

yes, see you again tomorrow

good night, mother


“A Tail of a Werebunny”

there once was an ordinary man
with an ordinary life
and an ordinary wife
he went walking one day
in a lane far away
in the hedges around
noise did abound
there in the sky
a full moon did lie
lumped into his path
a bunny with wrath
well the man
he laughed
the bunny
not amused
bit his ass
now every full moon
the ordinary man
turns into werebunny
but what’s funny
he still likes
to spank



Deep as raven, dark has fell,
Quiet night, creep from dell,
On hushed hoof, they overtake,
Wither you go, laughing hate.
To kiss the morn, embrace the light,
Nay, stay enjoy the night,
Dance and sing troubles behind,
Awhile with us, you’ll never mind.



What joy I find in ghastly shrieks
to see the horror rise in peaks
no escape in darkest night
all of you cower in fright
my bunny scut filled with power
pellets not leaves on you shower
clear the way let me pass
over your bodies a rotting mass
never again prince will reign
this requires a better brain
free rides for all is my cry
under hot sun all will fry
abandon all costumes at the gate
your fate is mine don’t be late
your chore will be a bitter task
The Gaunt Man In The Red Mask.

“My Life”

my life is a series
of moves
and upheavals
new address
new stuff
new life.

my life is a series
of boxes
and boundries
new lover
new name
new strife

my life is a series
of pains
and problems
new hopes
new job
new wife

you can laugh
if you’ld like
but I have
my reasons
I’m not
out of my box.


“Music for Two”

Dust plume rising into velvet sky,
miles from anywhere two lost souls.
The headlights look like diamonds,
the taillights burn like coals.
Silence ringing like an iron bell,
bodies joined ease heavy load.
Shimmering starlight falls like crystal,
riding roughly an infinite road.


“I like to Watch”

Watching my wife her eyes sparkle
Watching her think face is pensive
Watching her laugh my heart flutters
Watching her eat licking her fingers
Watching her walk her body flows
Watching her beneath me her smile enchants.



“The Beachcomber”

Gray, the colour of the morning,
White, the colour of the shells,
Black, the colour of the sands.
The sun, still low in the clouds.
The beach, streaked with shimmering foam.
She stalked this scene with a piercing gaze,
Proud bearing, strong posture,
Clear eye.
Seeing anew, the wonders that lay,
There on the beach,
in the early morning haze.
For hours(it seemed) she strolled quite alone,
‘Til there, up ahead, a man appeared.
No lover of stillness, of silence, of dawn.
The beachcomber, with an indignant squawk,
Turned, and flew into the sun.


“Self ______?”

Shadow boxing in a mirror
see my face grow so clearer
all the pain in my soul
shows for all the world to know
tried so hard to be strong
struggled years to belong
just illusions truth be told
feel compressed within a mold
friends are few and far between
state my mind feel so mean
desperate longing to begin
always later never win
hoped for better this time around
never learn I’m such a clown
try again I do believe
maybe this time I will succeed.


“Little Brian”

This painting in oils, strange.
It is neither large nor small,
But comfortably middle.
This painting hangs in museums,
Drawing people to comment:
Its style, its colour.
For its colour is new: whites, grays, blacks.
It is a young painting waiting to be tinted.

It is entitled “Young People With Ducks”.
Why Ducks? These ducks, cast in bright,bold
yellow strokes, move with vibrant motion.
Why Ducks? Chosen perhaps because they are
rooted to the earth, clipped. Strange.

Two groups of Young People, boys and girls.
Are they groups? They mingle, meld,swirl in
confusion: or is there a purpose to their dance?
They are one with each other, black, brooding,
blending with the background. Strange.

Background of buildings, thick, squat, lines
indistinct; large, long sweeps painted hurriedly.
Almost, as if, shimmering in the haze of summer,
but trees are bare brown with winter.
For winter it is, snow, low grey clouds, cold
blanketing the blurred house. Strange.

But no, there is a house that is clear.
It has crisp lines, windows with crosspieces.
Rectangular, that chimmey has individual bricks,
perched on a roof with shingles.
It is a special place: for whom? Strange.

Yet another figure, perhaps it is a boy,
physically young, in outline only.
Invisible, not seen by the Young People,
nor seen by the Ducks.
Only we viewers see this boy, lonely;
A gate is opened,
Memories flow out,
Remembrances of a past time.
For awhile, we are that boy. Strange



Steel town lay still
under skies swollen
gray blast furnace
cold and dark hills
white with snowed weeds
rattling in bitter wind
flapping red for sale sign
on ragged screen door
rhythmically thumping
lonesome whistle blows
refuse skittering down main street.

“Part 2”

Blue steel town
under low skies swirled
Gray blast furnace
cold dark hills streaked
White wash houses
old dirty refuse stacked
Black coal dust
high chimney whistle rusted
Brown river bank



slate colored waters ruffled waves
silent gliding boat of hunters
flashing light twisting scales
woven cordage flinging true.

fertile soil yields rows of maize
gather fallen bounty of oaks
harvest berries thickets full
tubers collected lifting loam.

quiet stalk in heavy woods
wary deer proud antlers tall
red life returns to earth
blessings and hope today.

starlight rings roaring fire
dancers in timeless motions
voices signing to the dark
drums echo souls delight.
“Fluidly yours”

Warm & tender,
soothing sounds.
Gentle and damp,
pure washing drops.
Down they fall,
up we writhe.
One with each other,
one with our lives.
“I wonder”

Pale light.
Oak boughs thrown.
Shadows against still waters.
Wisp cloud.
Driven on calm winds.
Moon silent.

Snow dusts, stones speak.
Wind caresses, flowers sing.
Love touches, humans mute.

The lush green jungle canopy,
patches of light,
warming the dark underbrush.
Lying by the trail,
gleaming eyes
stalking its prey,
like fine crystal,
Flowing jaguar,
killed without warning.
High in the growth,
multicolored macaw,
screeching in terror.
“Jaguar Returns”
Rugged green canopy
breaking light
Dappled brown leaves
dancing delight
Spotted yellow coat
slinking death
Mauled red animal
staining earth


When the paltry few
have hove to view
when jackals dance
and owls wear pants
then roses sighed
and wishes chide
stony roofs
and bust a move
to never fail
at sky do rail
walking roads
ill doth bodes
for there in truth
lies uncouth
most foul stench
thirst to quench
soon will come
a vast sum
numbers unreal
fervent appeal
the choice is clear
what a sneer.


rubbing my thumb
along the ridge
caressing the cover
fingers stroke
a quick breath
of anticipation
longing to sink
between the sheets
that special tingle
over and over again
as the words
create a picture
in the mind.

“Healing Breeze”

Stand in the air
and breath deep
feel the solid caress
of moving scents
a feeling of warmth
not heat that chills
not cold that burns
but warm like the sea
a sea foam that scrubs
and heals the pain
that comes when
eyes are opened
“Happiness is…”

Happiness is a warm smile
Happiness is helping a friend
Happiness is making love
Happiness is a cat’s purr
Happiness is a child’s praise
Happiness is a hot shower
Happiness is a prayer to God
Happiness is giggling
Happiness is that look
Happiness is feeling your soul
Happiness is a bedtime story
Happiness is hot chocolate
Happiness is rainbows
Happiness is a good book
Happiness is music
Happiness is stillness
Happiness is being
“The Way Back Machine”

Back in the olden days
it’s said that people
were friendly..er
then came progress
all that in the dust
oh sure, minor issues
like slavery
and women’s rights
short life spans
and cruelty
were there also
but people were friendly..er
electricity came
and then the telegraph
there were clubs
and societies
devoted to talk
people became friendly..er
the telephone was next
and quickly took over
why walk when you can phone
why meet face to face
when faceless is safer
but some people were still friendly..er
the wireless sent voices
through the ether
then television enthralled
the nations
that were rich
and powerful
the world looked inward
and saw people
different people that were friendly..er
technology raced on
to the computer screen
and then
the telegraph
the telephone
the wireless
the television
the computer
the BLOG
and it was good
for the BLOG
is wholesome and pure
for the BLOG
is a Way Back Machine
that shows some people are still friendly..er.


“The Virtual Date”

I picked myself up promptly at nine,
Dressed carefully to make a good impression.

I liked what I saw
Tall, slender, with a kind face.

I said hello, nice to meet you,
We shook hands to be polite.

I got the door for myself
and we drove downtown.

I asked, where are we going?
It’s a surprise was the reply.

I pulled up to the gate,
We’re here, do you like it.

I love it! I haven’t been here since I was a kid!
This is great!

I parked the car,
And we walked inside.

I said one adult please,
And checked the directory.

I was tugged towards the great hall,
That inner child pulling hard.

I stopped, my mouth agape,
Look! Look! Look! Did you see?

I could only marvel at the brilliant light flashing from precious gems,
The colors! Oh the colors! How can they be real?

I felt sadness next,
That all manners of creatures had breathed their last to be seen.

I found ourselves in another world,
Filled with strange humans dressed in paint.

I followed the story from start to finish,
And when we were done, he smiled.

I took his hand and together we went home,
Where he slept; Little Brian slept in my arms.



He threw his head back and laughed
The skies a halo above his hat
Denim and leather made me weak
His smile and I caught my breath.


“Ancient Bones”

We get cold you know
Just because we are stone
And covered with snow
Wind still makes us moan.

Vague memories of birth
Men with sharp knives
Ripped us from the earth
Craftsman as midwives.

We get hot you know
Baking in the summer heat
Relief in cloud shadow
Crumbling mortar we excrete.

Jumbled in stacks
Waited our turn
Shaved with an ax
Roaring fire did burn.

We get angry you know
Two legs carve symbols
They hack with gusto
If only we were nimble.

Hoisted high in the air
Spinning caused vertigo
Fitted with precise care
Bathed in sun’s glow.

We get lonely you know
After centuries have passed
When halls lie fallow
But our honor is steadfast.

View from the parapet
Stretches to the sea
Paints living portrait
Of knights riding briskly.

We get frightened you know
Loud thunder and smoke
Arrow flew from crossbow
Peaceful stone was broke.

Moss covers the wall
Voices echo once more
More years than can recall
We are steeped in lore.

We are friendly you know
Let us tell you a tale
No need to winnow
Our truths are for sale.

“The Littles”

Born in an imperfect time
They play now
For forever.

They never get old
And never fall ill
For forever.

They live inside
Where it is safe
For forever.

Born for a reason
Reveal in glimpses
For forever.

A new life is born
I’ll love him
For forever

I shall not waste my days
in trying to prolong them.

“Flames Flicker”

Another year has passed in disharmony and anger
This blue sphere has spun through virgin blackness
Cold vacuum deadly radiation safely pushed aside
Delicate ark sailing the bright turbulent cosmic seas
Turn away from the sky look down at our heritage
Verdant green slashes overrun by smoke and sand
Rich moist soil dries and withers to dust and bones
Toxic liquid seeps drop by drop into poisoned wells



The drops fall and freeze
The words, icing over my heart
Long nights alone, shivering
Layers drifting, more and more
Covers my head, cold seeps
Like a living thing, creeps
And fondles, seeking the cracks
In the walls
So cold
So cold
So cold
To let go, to sleep, so warm
It’s so warm here, so warm.

The drops fall and thaw
The words, melting my heart
Long nights together, sharing
Layers drifting, less and less
Reveals my flesh, heat burns
Like a living thing, strokes
And penetrates, seeking connection
In the souls
So hot
So hot
So hot
To let go, to thrust, so hot
It’s so hot here, so hot.

“Clack Clack”

Crushing snails against stone
Gray thrush pounded the shells
Sound reverberated in the trees
Steady clack, clack.

Pausing to see the damage
Cocking head to one side
Still intact smash some more
Crushing snails against stone.
“Bush Fire”

The angry sun, red harsh
glows with sharp purpose
brightly colored dark limbs
rising cadence of sharp steel.

Smoke moves in coils, viper
tongues licking at stalks cut down
and streaming into woven baskets
carried high on proud skulls.

Staccato syllables rapid flicker
of fingers, deals made timeless
echoes of past, and future
hungers that never cease.

Thick clouds billow, release life
on cracked skin, smiles, I stare
captured by rolling hips now
thoughts of you keep sleep away.

“Sense Of Peace”

Breaking out in hives, that itch must be
Scratched raw until blood flows, words
Of pain and suffering scream deep dreams.

Eyes follow wherever he goes, that toned
Rear twitching fibers of lust, hormones run
Sweating through dank streets unnamed.

Rich smells, breathe open mouthed awe of
Garden plot peas swollen with sweet, tart
Bursts on tongue long groans fists tight.

Lights dim with rustling silence holds note
That echoes, bouncing from gleaming wood
Polished gloss soars above red velvet smiles.


“There is a Land”

There is a land, remote and desolate
Many pass in distant caravans
But few ever enter, and of those
Most never return.

This land of dreams, daydreams and
Fantasies and fears
Fevered flesh, baking in desert sun.

Soft music, water lapping in pools
Gentle laughter, sweet fruit bursting with
Flavor so unreal
Shouts and screams.

Flames now, licking at silk and rope
Struggle to free bondage, sharp
Knife stabs, red, vibrant red
Fists high in triumph.

Baby cooing, lace curtains cast
Shadows, patterns woven
Family gathers, games, joy, love
Reaching, they beckon and fade.

Thunder, waves cresting, tentacles crush
Men terror, cannon crash, wood splinters
Rapier no match
Terra Incognito remains.

There is a land, remote and desolate
Except when fever stalks the brain
Then dreams, sleep, wake and death become one
Which shall prevail this time.

Throw Away”

The body knows when it is time
Rusting, cracking, splintering
into atoms
Returning to the source.

The body knows when it hurts
Stiffness, sore pain
more pain, always more pain
It never ends, this pain,
reaching in and biting, gnawing,
devouring your spirit,
Hopeless, cannot fight,
Give up, go away
You’ve had your chance.

The body knows when there is a spark
Roiling, building, fighting
the decay
Infusing with energy from hope.

The body knows when illness fades
Eyes no longer glazed
appetite returns, hunger
For love, love of touch
flesh made hot, fevered, wet
groping for meaning, redemption
I am alive, I am still here
Spitting on death
Someday, not now.

The body knows the river flows
Always eroding, wearing out
the soul
Seeking the easy path.

The body knows when it’s fatigued
Sleep restless, unfulfilled
tired, exhausted, empty,
Always empty, nothing
left but a shell
that looks like a person
I once knew, knew well
But now only rough skin
Holds my blood together.

The body knows what is possible
Walking, eating, trying
the mind balks
Just throw away this life.
“Sacred Stones”

Damp blanket in white tendrils
Covers quiet meadow
Heather crumples underfoot
Bleat of wool unseen
Slope of land pitches sharp
Gurgling moss slick
Rutted path spirals higher
Light fades away
Gentle wind tearing holes
Blackness revealed
Crown of stars at summit
Clash of steel
Dreams gone now forever.


Deep in the forest
Of Greater Muldoon
Lived a mad florist
Bayed at the moon
He once had a shop
The King had adored
Called him a fop
Threatened a Lord
Soldiers arrived
Grabbed for arrest
Pleaded his bride
Good man I’ll attest
Judge had no humor
Sentence was swift
Called him a tumor
Demanded a shrift
None was forthcoming
So at the tenth bell
With much loud drumming
Met the Mangelwurzel
Eight legs and all teeth
Hard scales of black
Foul breath did reek
Nothing did it lack
The florist trembled
As the beast did roar
Townsfolk assembled
Were hoping for gore
He held up a bouquet
Grabbed it’s attention
Crowd hissed no buffet
That’s beyond comprehension
Rotten food in showers
Meat was not on the diet
The beast ate the flowers
Mob then started a riot
In all the confusion
The florist escaped
Was it just an illusion
Over the beast was draped
Long years have passed
Since that horrid day
No longer all aghast
Many now will pray
When lost in the trees
All carry pouch to repel
Hope flowers will appease
The sainted Mangelwurzel.


“An Ivory Clean”

I can see my face in the dish!
This fine piece of china squeaks
However did you get this so clean?

Why, with Ivory of course,
There is no other
For the family deserves my best.

Just wait until I tell Jane
She always uses the latest rage
Have you seen her husband?

Just a resplendent vision
His clean clothes dazzle
And their children, fresh.

All housewives that care
Must use Ivory for dishes
Now you can eat safely for dinner.


“Ode to Ye Old Muck”

O’ loath these endless days of mire
hear the strident clamour of yonder bell
urgent noise calls forth them pell-mell
O’ for in this human drama I never tire.

Horses backed to confining traces
coach ’tis boarded with frightful list
madam, pray be still, my hand will assist
round the fetid yard eyes in mocking faces.

By earnest fellows high hoisted on his throne
jeering crowds hurl from wooden palisades
all hail the golden baby’s election parades
open window set on high, one’s horn is blown.

Over there, a large bill with flourish presented
chambermaid’s services, that’s beyond the pale
preposterous, a moral outrage, a keg of ale?
I’d not drink your swill, twas not even fermented.

Hard by the sea, in Essex commerce is king
plying their trade, no qualms root in odure
sachet of spices mask the scent of the sewer
by George, the second I’m free, I’ll sing.

“I Lust For You”

My breath ragged; your exotic scent, mysterious, disturbing, arousing. My eyes dilated; your soft whispers, taunting, revealing, promising. My fingers stroke; your silken surface, tracing, delving, caressing. My skin trembles; your beautiful color, shimmering, sweating, anticipating. My mouth waters; pant, must, need, have, you, now. My willpower breaks; your sweet taste, licking, sucking, swallowing.

I can live without
many things
but not

“High Tide”

The first thing, when exiting
your vehicle
you notice, is the sound.
A roar, a murmur, a palpable
tension, excitement, that
throbs and pulses.
The full moon rising in
the blue sky, tugging at
your water, drawing pathways in the
synapses of your reptilian brain.
Your eyes, dart, flick, flick,
flick; there, over there! See that!
So you run, walk
quiver in ecstasy at the sight of
high tide.
Picking through the wrack of human debris,
junk, piles of junk, toys
sinks, boxes and boxes of
Only a dollar, only a dollar, the contrast between
new and old,
booths full of salvage, once shining
and full of promise
now just junk, buried
in the sands, a monument to
our follies.
Landfill after landfill, full to the brim,
our cultures greatest gift
to our grandchildren.
Our high tide
Our ephemera for
sale, one dollar at a time.


“Fear, Unknown”

Whorls on your palm
Swirling galaxies,
Lines of demarcation leading to

Can you see?

The faint blue highways;
commerce bustling, all with
An all-night dinner.

Each cell that was
Understands what to do.


They just know!

Look at your palm
See how it holds your fingers
from escaping into the

Of a time, they flee
Straining against unjust
Longing for a life.

A life far away from mortal cares.

Look at your thumb, proud
That word meaty.
What does it mean?

Should we care?

Jutting upright, arrogant
Over the offending digits
It’s territory, the expanse
of taut skin.
Taxing the traffic, on the
Blue Highways.

Look at your wrist
Forgotten, alone.
Merely a junction between
Form and

Whorls on your palm
Frozen for the eternity that is

Live it Well.

I used to call them suckers
Some people call them lollies
They can make you pucker
While you’re holding your dollies
I used to get them as a treat
When I was very, very good
All the colors were so neat
Really wish knew were we stood
Cause today they say it’s bad
And we should eat healthy food
That just makes me pretty sad
All that kinda stuff tastes like crap!

“Got dem Augusta Blues”

I rolled out of bed
Got me a drink
Pulled back da curtains
And what did I see
That mean ol course
was laughing at me.

Oh, I got da blues
Oh yes I do
I got da blues
Damn ol

I dressed in my clothes
Put on my spikes
Went to the range
And what did I see
Crying grown men
Was cursing at me.

Oh, I got da blues
I really do
I got da blues
Low down

I went to the tee
Swung at the ball
It went very far
And what did I see
A big ol splash
In the water it be.

Oh, I got da blues
I so really do
Those awful
bad blues

I made it on home
Last putt in the cup
The crowd was cheering
And what did I see
An ugly green jacket
Was waiting on me.

Oh, yea, I da got blues
Those winning time blues
Oh I got da blues
Dos hair raising
All the time
I’s a waiting, cause
I da champ
of dos



Y’all ain’t never seen dis here road afore,
Has ya?
It’s a red, dark red.
I’s a mean red, liken blood.
Been plenty spilt I’s a reckon,
Long dis here road.
Dusty in’a summer,
Right frozen in’a dem cold spells we get,
once in’a blue moon.
Blue liken ol man Walters, so black
his skin all shinin’ blue.
Dat red road now, well,
it’ll grind a body down, amen.
Seein’ how’s a my perch is’a
righten out front, I
sees everyting.
Everyting I tell ya’
Oh yah, I’d a sees everyting.
Oh yah, they done carve me up
set me in’a da ground, and
left me all alone.
Ceptin’ dat girl, comes by every weeken’
Gives me flowers, washes my stone, somebodies
done right by dat girl.
Oh yah, sombodies done right
Long dis here red road.


Thunder rattled the windows,
Rain slanted through the leaves,
Light swallowed up by angry clouds.

Emotions shook our souls,
Tears carved seams on faces
Bodies hugged in tight circle.

Comfort, that’s what I feel.
Safety, that’s what they offer.
Love, that comes natural.
Friends can be rare, for me
it’s a way of life that’s ending.
None too soon.


We are all of us,
nomads, wanderers.
Doomed to an
eternity of longing,
beneath the starfalls.
That cascade of
light that shines on
memories and ghostly
Emotions, rooted in the
very soil, sand or clay.
We stand on our past,
grinding into dust, always
reaching to the starfalls.

We fail, every time.
“Flash Flood”

Sweat soaked pillow wakes me

Hear thoughts of others flowing

Darkest night clock blinks 1am

Stumble through rooms sit at desk

Start the computer hurry up

Can’t this wait till morning light

I have an idea write it down

It seldom happened this way

We write during the day at work

Not as dramatic a process

But distractions rule at home

A word drops onto the page

Stain spreads turns to sentence

Phrases run faster gather speed

Paragraphs pouring in torrents

Fingers streaming river in flood.

Rarely becomes this easy either

Many times endless sea of sand

Painful crawling illusions chased

Frantic scrabbling unfertile soil

Broken letters dry as bones

Parched mind lays down to die

Shadows cross hopping nearer

Rumble of clouds falling drops

Cracked skin soaks in cold water

Blood circulates once more

Images return impatient muses

where have you been

I’ve been drowning in a flash flood.

“Keep The Windows Shut!”

Every night, I hear the sound, wafting on the pungent breeze. It’s tempting, seductive, alluring and deadly. You laugh at my tale? Then let me give fair warning, if you sense the dulcet tones of a harp, keep your windows shut!

It’s harsh and strident
Frightening and uncouth
Somewhere in the dark
A hungry monster lurks

Still you mock me with cruel jibes. Then let me tell of a lover lost. She was fair and slender, a winsome lass, until that fateful night. My arms held tight, ruby lips did taste, her ears were captured then my heart did uproot.

For long years past
Searched swampy tangle
No trace of my beloved
‘Cept faint crying on the wind.

So keep your windows shut!

muted light illuminates choices
plastic people’s ringtones
fashionable colors
season’s trendy hems
conversations clinking utensils
tile floor reflects uniforms
bustling notes float down
nibble bread sip drink
vocal grumbling matches innards
main course late
no matter
leave room for dessert
triple chocolate decadence
excessive calories
waddle to car

Beat Beat Beat Beat Beat Beat Beat Beat
Dum Dum Da Dum Dum Da
Beat Beat Beat Beat
Dum Dum Da Dum Dum Da
Beat Beat
Beat Beat Beat
Beat Beat Beat
Da Da Da Da
Beat Beat
Da Da Da Da
Beat Beat
Da Da Da Da
Da Da Da
Dum Dum Da
Da Dum
Dum Dum Da
Da Dum
Ta tatata Ta Ta Tatata
Ta tatata Ta Ta Tatata
Beat Beat
Ta Ta Ta
Beat Beat
Ta Ta Ta
Beat Beat
Ta Ta
Ta Ta
Ta Ta
Ba Ba Ba Ba Ba Ba WUH Ba Ba
WUH Wuh Ba Ba Ba Beat Beat Beat Beat
Buh Buh Buh Badada
Buh Buh Buh Badada
Buh Buh Buh Badada
Buh Buh Buh Badada dadadadadadadadadadadad
dadadadadadadadadadadadada Beat dadadada BEAT
Bum Bum Bum Bum Bum Beatbeatbeatbeatbeatbeat
DumDum DumDum DumDum
Ah Ta Ta
Ah Ta Ta
Ah Ta Ta
Ah Beat Ah Beat Ah Beat
tatatatatatatatatatatatatatatata TA TA
Bum da da da Ah
Bum da da da Ah
Oh ya Bumdidebumda
Oh ya Dumdidebumda
Oh ya Ohyaohyaohyaohya Beatbeat Beatbeat
Oh ya
Oh ya


Beat Beat Beat Beat Beat Beat Beat Beat

They say, you know, still waters run deep
What does that mean?
I see myself reflected and I
Reaching for peace not to be found on this plane and place
For we are merely in transit
Still, I
The quiet contemplation and serenity
Granted to few
We all
For love, and hope, and a sense that our lives do matter in the overall scheme of things, the universe that hangs above our heads that we ignore and stare instead at the solid ground as we…
See what I mean?
Even in a poem, the drops become a flood and the thoughts overwhelm the still waters waiting while we
The sound of jets and chainsaws and racing engines ruffle
the dappled surface, ripples race out, a shock wave that
Assaults our souls
For calm
For space
For life
“Bars On My Soul”

Stained am I
Forever tormented
by the view
I grip the bars,
cruel barbs rend
my flesh
Fresh blood drips,
covers rust laid down
years ago
Decades now, I pace my cell
Seasons changes, birds fly free
but I am trapped
by these walls.

Walls not of steel and concrete
Not man-made, but constructed
with fear and pain and passion
I retreat and huddle
The corner has seen my
tears flow, my fists pound, my
screams echo
and echo
There is no one to hear
There is no one to care.

So I return to the window
of my mind
The bars remain, solid as iron
yet tenuous as mist
I touch them, they are real
They keep me safe and
No one comes in and I never
go out
A prisoner of my own desires,
shackled by my willing hands
a life sentence.
“Top Hat”

Hello, how are you?
Wait! Come back!
What’s your hurry?
I’m here all day.
Rain or shine,
hot or cold,
I’m here.
Sit down, relax.
Let your mind go for awhile.

So, what do you do?
That’s interesting.
Do you enjoy your job?
No? Then why do you do it?
Ah! I see!
It’s the perks!
Really? None of those?
Long hours, meager pay,
lousy bosses.

It’s okay, I understand.
People like you come here to the Gardens
to unwind.
To get away from life.
You walk around
and fantasize.
If I had the money, the time,
the space,
oh, what I could create!

Sorry, is my chatter bothering you?
I get carried away at times.
A fine fellow like you,
beautiful wife,
lots of friends.
I must admit to some jealousy.
Made of stone
Weathering slowly,
I tip my top hat to you.
“Break Out”

A universal dream I believe
Shared by many tormented souls
What is art… but thoughts… expressed
Refined culture
Demands, forces art into prescribed channels
Schools it is called
Styles that are tolerated

Post your words rebels!
Post your photographs radicals!
Post your art revolutionaries!
It is time, past time, to take back our
Our world!
Our thoughts
Our talent, that has lain fallow
For too long
Create what calls within
The page is blank
The canvas is bare
The lens is closed
Now is the time
Now is the place

Stone gives way to buds
Roots probe deeply
Hot light
Fuels growth
Blushing blooms unfurl
Teasing with petals
Tempting with scent
Earth yields to passion
“My Imaginary Life”

“Satisfied Dreamer”

would it be real, these dreams?
had I not!
done that
that thing which I did and later regretted but taught me how not to care.

if then, I, as in the I that lives within and not without showing his face.
that I
is content
satisfied and sluggish, no dreams.

being one expanded to six
dreams are
more and
less real than imaginary and haunt me day and night with pleas and ideas.

they, not I, dance and sing and cavort on beaches and mountaintops.
plans made
not shared
our dreams merge until one.

a singular multiple dreaming
of days
when I
become more like them and they transpose to exist as me, in front, seen.

in sight of dreams made real by collective work, shouts, tears, drama.
imaginary? no
real? maybe
hope has replaced fear.

“Why Now?”

Never thought
it’d come to this
New life
Old flame
emotions collide
his arms so tight
his words so right
My life, my love
why now?

“Where you’ve been”

Sweet sounds harmonious twitters
Distant rumble man-made thunder
Tapping slowly shuffling paces
Misty morn turning bloody red
Forged steel rails blinding light
From afar ragged pennants snap
Haunted ghosts on right-of-way
Lonesome whistle history fades
“Shades and Fabrics”

I drape thee
Or is drape too strong?
No… I feel… good about
Look at friends
Look at friends
how the folds, creases, lines
the shades of flesh
the fabrics of clothes
What makes a friend?
Do you know?
Can you say?
Love of friends, bearer of bolts to
to… cover?
Cover love
Hold back
Walk, don’t run… into…
into faith
Our faith in others
Strength in others
Passion and heat
Is that not friendship?
Why not?
Why not drape?
Shades drawn, closed
come back… or not
no one cares
no one cares
fabric drape, black
or white
light blocked
love blocked
return again to friendship and
Hands hold
Hands heal
Hands hug
Friendship is real
and needed
and desired
so, I ask you
Is drape too strong?
No, say I, I of friends, of many friends
I need
I desire
I drape
“Present under the tree”

Scent of fir, can one who is blind still smell? What then of my

heart… as it beats, slowly in time to the Word scattered.

Scattered on backdrop of jet, pure white letters, they

are writ in the night sky. By day hidden, hidden from

us and withheld in a fringed purse of softest blue.

How then can I see? When resplendent beams dazzle my

eyes and confuse me?

So much commerce, such a din. How

can you taste God when the feast is so wretched?

You… you there… you have touched me. You have, you cannot deny. Cannot

turn your face from I… I have seen your glory and hope.

I have seen.


of late, I am weary…

am weary of the present… it seems interminable.

What am I to do?

Tell me!

This soul is part of you, but if I could not see, or hear, or taste, or touch

or smell you,

would then my soul, our souls still be? Illiterate… and unknowing, do

words, our words capture? Or are we


Shadows in the Universe we are, boastful and cruel. How can this be?

What made us this way? Can I not touch? How so, if I cannot touch self?

To be present… at my birth… what a wonderful moment that will be!

No more words, but sweet life, gulping breaths of the headiest draught

when I am free of cares and desires, when I… no longer am I…

but returned

to you.

You, who wait for all.

“Searching for Meaning”

Dear Editor,

It pains me so to see such sloth, the breathless charges,
the reckless nature of our culture.
Tide waits for no one and change will come, wither we will or will
not reflect.
Not for us in this time, can leisure be all there is, for we have much
that is elusive and faint.
Pensive moments have led down haunted paths, no longer
vibrant, but weak and stumbling.
It is now, now that all concerned citizens
should surge and
demand, demand that
the bread remain
free and
the Circus remain

“The Grey Warrior”

when she brought you home, I asked
where is he?
she opened her palm, and
there you were.
even as you fought for life,
you stared death in the face
and wrestled it away
you thrived and grew.
not afraid to speak your mind,
or supervise visitors
top cat you were
and remained til the end.
smart and playful, wise and
unique, you were a blessing
to us
and always will be.
old age was upon you, but
still romped like a kitten
you beat up the others
and ruled the roost.
your long life is over, and
as you passed, we hope
you heard our love
as our tears fell at last.

“The Day Before Forever”

Nine days beyond any expectations, a timeless journey, was
now only,
a day away

A day away from ending, from leaving, from
climbing the walls and parting from

No, not friends, but lovers, not lovers, but
soul mates, cats and rats

Eating together and shopping together, yielded benefits
not seen before, touch
touching, touched

Touching scenes of parting,
stroking, not wanting to go on metal
wings over sea

The sea, behind left our hearts, not by choice did we
surrender our ticket, a scrap giving passage home
from the home we left.


“Packing and Unpacking”

A lovely day it was, as I recall, late
when dust was being shaken
and winter’s melancholy
receded, leaving
detritus, emotions they were
frayed and deposited,
out! my mother screamed, enough
of your bickering, father
hid behind the newspaper, full
of adverts for rentals,
Honey? A trip is what we need, a family
bonding vacation to the beach!
deathly silence, a
sickly grin, we
scatter to the stoop,
streets lined with brownstones, sun
slants low when we return


Later that week, loaded wagon
fight for the rear-facing seats
warm air and conflict,
parental glares,
ring-floats, baskets, suits and
food, lots of food,
chicken, fried, soda pop, chips,
blankets, are we
there yet? smack,
be quiet, giggles, told ya so,
somnolence, swaying shocks, head
out window, sniff,
breathe in salty tang, cries of
hot asphalt
hotter sand
sunglasses, wear your hat!
an idyllic pose for posterity,
can you see your family? at
the beach?


our youth! flower of the nation, champions of
Heed now the words of Hercules and
triumph against all odds, for
you all know
the pain of
and adulation of
maidens in
behold the future of
The Games!

two thousand five hundred years have passed, more
or less and
still we cling
to illusions and
ideals lost in
ancient baths celebrating
human form and
function oiled
to perfection
sculpted in
heroes of
an age
in reason.

when stakes are high, ethics
fall, as
then, as
now, to triumph and
endure, an
athlete, the prize,
shorn of
all but hope and
agonizing years,
training, sweating,
bleeding all
for brief chance
of glory


before, my heart ran away,

I took all the songs

that you, wrote for me.

before, my soul fell apart,

I took all the clothes

that you, wore for me.

time, has frozen, in place

I still see your face.

Sara, I miss you so much

can I return.

before, your heart turned away,

you gave all the love,

that you, had inside.

before, your soul lost the path,

you gave all your laughs

that you, brought to life.

time, has frozen, in place

do you still see, my face.

Sara, I miss you so much

can I return.

before, the pictures remained,

we had such hope,

that we, would succeed.

before, the passion had died,

we gave gifts in hope

that trust, could survive.

time, has frozen, in place

our albums, a record,

of all that we shared.

Sara, I miss you so much,

can I return.

Please go here to leave comments————

Blogger Family Poetry


All Content Is Protected
Copyright Protected

This is the direct link to my webpage at Outskirts.com with the ordering information for my first novel, ‘Real Magic’.

New poems are added weekly to this folder. There are 49 poems in this folder; newest are at the bottom.

“Blogger Family Poetry”

“Dey Call her Cowgirl”

wearing black
fragile red
tumbling thoughts
through her head
canter hard
against the tide
can she ever
be a bride.
warrior lass
so she sings
many choices
for a ring
friend and foe
cannot see
her soul branches
like a tree.
seize the moment
when you know
all that fate
will bestow
love is kind
it stays true
there is someone
just for you.

Thanks cowgirl

“A Pair of Beautiful Eyes”

she’s seen the world
in all its colors
she has the bruises
like so many others

her heart is broken
will it ever heal
her friends are many
most have horse appeal

some of us
are so blessed
to know this girl
who shares her distress

our love for her
grows every day
in my thoughts
I often pray

give her hope
in something new
show her that others
share her view

it’s so very hard
living a lonely mode
no one to trust
to help share the load

the girl we all know
with the beautiful eyes
is someone with heart
that we have all surmised

Thanks Cowgirl
“Just A Horse”

Four hooves that prance,
beautiful eyes that dance,
soft nicker in greeting,
anticipation in meeting,
skin warm to the touch,
my friends I love much,
to saddle up and ride,
sheer joy I can’t hide,
warm wind blows my hair,
creates feeling so rare,
strong bond between two,
something I always knew,
you may say but of course,
he’s more than just a horse.

For Cowgirl
“Three Women”

What is the bond,
between mother and daughters?
Where comes the strength,
between despair and hope.
When others twist and poison,
between walls of silence.
How deep is the love,
between pain and faith.
To talk and share,
between the lines.
What is the bond,
between mother and daughters,
to carry on unbowed,
to share the burden,

For Amy aka fridaysweb and her wonderful girls, Big A and Little A
“Lonesome Rider”

alone she rides with her thoughts
the horizon always beyond her reach
a future there that cannot be caught
all around her bright colors leach
change of seasons blowing through
soon to come from northern skies
life a struggle must try to renew
alone she rides with heavy sighs.

For Barngoddess

She burns with righteous flame,
passion for her cause,
riding free across the range,
seizing truth in her jaws.
bites down hard on bitter bit,
cares so much it hurts to cry,
screaming loud gives her grit,
feels compelled to help to try.
so glad that mothers like her exist,
praising barngoddess is not remiss.

For Barngoddess


“Blue Horizons”

high above this orb of blue
the curve of colors many hues
dark and light all are one
our fond dreams follow the sun

a gentle smile a tender wave
letting go has been so brave
life relived in words so sweet
still red heart thumps it’s beat

paths diverged now conspire
can cold embers burn in fire
unknown future there beyond
love testing this tight bond

the ocean sings in its glory
blue notes write this story
moving on or moving towards
emotions gather in their hoards

cannot see this true path
sometimes ocean is in wrath
then again is sometime calm
a lovers touch can be a balm

this dance we see one must lead
in this time they must succeed
chances many in life lived full
love like this has strong pull

take a chance when all was lost
can anything be worth the cost
blue horizons are all you see
choose your way you’ll be free.

For GG

“Mermaid Love”

There once was mermaid out there
Her tail
had scales
you see
she had breasts out to here
and a very nice rear
but none of the sailors got close.

She swam through the ocean of tears
her voice
of choice
she sang
of a life crystal clear
and of a love so dear
she misses her father so much.

She thinks where will she turn
she writes
words so bright
she knows
there is so much to learn
her emotions do churn
clean waters are murky again.

For Jenna

“Graceful Rider”

It’s come to pass
in this her life
that’s she discovered
she’s more than a wife.
Pride in plain
became a chore
lost her way
became mother of four.
The joy she feels
when she’s in her songs
her shining soul
to God belongs.
With His compassion
she cares so much
to those in need
offers a loving touch.

For Trailady


not the person you were,
nor the town where raised,
never the pain suffered,
will make you grow aware.
It is only love,
that makes you so alive,
some one dear to hold at night,
to share all that is to life.

For Tori

As your Royal Highness requests, so shall you receive.

riding astride a rugged pony,
children adored she’s never lonely.
steady wind blows flaxen tresses,
in lover’s arms she offers caresses.
bubbling sulpher springs beneath,
it has been decided and bequeathed.
in snowy climate and harsh terrain,
that overall an Ice Queen reigns.


An original poem at Shayna’s.

Lying in bed getting stuck in the arm,
Glaring at the nurse I turned on the charm,
Is it just me or is it getting warm in here,
perhaps you’d do better if you drank a beer.
Or two!
For a way to lose weight being sick is the thing,
why it’s even better than having a fling,
you eat what you want that is nothing at all,
you’d rather be drinking out at the mall.
Or local pub, club, dive, bar.
Now Shayna’s in bed per doctor’s orders,
if she misses more work there will be boarders,
her husband does cleaning and does best to cope,
while all of the blogworld holds breath and we hope.
Or pray.

“What’s fuzzy and warm and lives up North?”

in the wilderness that is Alberta
a Mother Hen and her chicks reside
don’t like dogs she’s gonna hurt ya
give good belly rubs come on inside.

she lives where the wind always blows
and good service is so hard to find
long summer days when the wheat grows
and her children pay her no mind.

spent many dark days under duress
wondering just who she had become
no one told her the brain was a mess
that her chemistry made her feel numb.

today she is better and living strong
enjoying her life out of the blues
her blogger family romping along
Let’s all give Kyahgirl her dues.

looking forward to many fun times
with a good book or two by her side
I hope that these words of rhymes
made you laugh inside till you cried.

for Kyahgirl

Happy Anniversary.

Eight years ago captured a dream,
all is possible in love so it seems,
our future before us shone so bright,
lost in our eyes soul’s kind light.
dancing as one feet off the floor,
let’s never stop we’ll always have more,
growing in love through all of our tears,
today we are stronger after eight years.

Kyahgirl and husband

I paint and I scrape,
the wind blows my hair,
my options they fly,
like chaff in the fields,
I find myself looking,
at all I can see,
but what looks back,
is nothing I need,
searching for freedom,
should not be this hard,
maybe my karma,
is hungry no more.

for Karma


she dances with flair
dusts her pixie lair
laughs while singing
swooping and darting
wingbeats shimmer
iradescent glimmer
finished, a sigh
my pretty dragonfly
our guests are here
friends we hold dear.

For Pixie


converting a heart
this man of faith
a vision of hope
changing dark to light.

a lifetime of loss
a moment so clear
converting to joy
when two became one.

an ancient rhythm
converting to life
a family multiplies
and more candles shine.

friends we have found
growing up fast
a higher power
converting my soul.

For QG
sun slants through the clouds

lift face healing warmth cheeks blush

already grey gone

For Stephanie

The moon is full
on a summer night
spectral beams
reflected bright
deep in shadows
whispered delight
dancing shapes
celebration so right

For Pia

“My Broken Heart”

If it wasn’t me
then why do I hurt
I tried so hard
to be what
he wanted
failed myself
or so it seems now
to be what
I want
is now my goal.

Love is over
was it ever real
love is over
so how do I heal
love is over
what happens now
love is over
tears on my brow

A broken heart
must be mended
no more drink
to blur
my senses
I’ve come to the point
of not
looking back
I will be strong
myself I do love.

Love is over
was it ever real
love is over
so how do I heal
love is over
what happens now
love is over
tears on my brow

A song for Redneck Girl.

A random date
between two souls
struck by fate
years they roll
more in love
in every way
to rise above
this blessed day.

Congrats to Joel and Neva.


I need to rest my friend.
it’s only a little further.
but it’s over that hill!
the grade is not steep.
it’s too much this time.
you have the strength.
why do I bother fighting?
because you are a Warrior.
I am frightened all the time.
I know.
then why do stand beside me?
I am your Companion.
you should save yourself.
and throw away love?
you love me?
it’s not only I that loves you.
where are they?
we are all here, your friends.
by the blue light of the screen.

Love you Pinky. I have shoulders broad enough for you.

I saw white light and peace from her words
her soul called to me and mine answered
who’s there?
I gave a piece of my soul to her
to heal to keep her safe
I did not expect what happened next
a bond was formed when I opened up
she already knew what gift I had
but when connection was forged
it burned red hot
she felt my hands across the miles
cradling and stroking her soul
I heard the tears fall
the awe in her mind
how is this possible
this cannot be
but it happened one night
when two souls met
white and bright
they pierced the dark
holding each other
healing each other
loving each other
this miracle is true
as real as life
two people in love
a bond formed with God.

I love you (((T)))
“Shadow Streak”

straight out to infinity
dappled splashes of light
the innocence of racing feet
each sharp line another year
flowers grow in wild abandon
eyes fixed on that thought
freedom calls in naked hunger
floating forever in time.


they stretch from side to side
a perfect arc of color
all shades are there
where ever you turn
young and old of all races
men and women dressed in pink
a rainbow of compassion
united in a common cause


shaved skull mark of pride
fractured prism streaming waves
defiant pink stands.

For Swampwitch
” Alone”

she’d gone away from me one day
that sense of friendship vanished
I wasn’t worried at first
life happens to us all

she didn’t return as I waited
looking around found nothing there
a black void where once was love
my soul grew troubled each passing day

she came back and told me why
shamed and lonely was she now
thought that I could never see
all the pain that was inside

trusting in me she talked
we shared laughs and tears
she opened a channel to me
sent all my love and warmth

you are never alone
we walk by your side
with love and caring
our gifts are yours

I love you ((((C)))


There once was a Lady from London
her confessions made us stunned
for she liked to be naughty
pretended to be haughty
deep inside didn’t give a fig.

For Ann

This is Ann’s reply.😛

There was an old bird from London
who got her knickers in a twist
she tried to be good
as hard as she could
because she did give a fig


“Fence Sitters”

You see them everywhere
Percariously perched
Forever caught
Looking around.

You think to yourself
That looks cool
Never choosing
What a life.

You have no concept
Of how it happened
Growing old
Sitting on a fence.

You can see for miles
It changes quick
Inviting and warm
Then terror filled.

You want to get down
Move on someday
Trust in the ground
Walk with purpose.

You hear their words
Sense the concern
But still you stay
Never can choose.

For Lynn.



Gallops forever
in their hearts
to the cruel world
was just a number
to little girls
was a friend
he lives beyond
the spoken call
grief for those
who loved him.



“Colors of Darlene”

Look deep into the colors
Mark, a baby, a boy, a man
Who are we, that come here
Day after day
Offering prayers
And hope to a mother
Look deep into the colors
The world is there
The world is here
We are the yarn
We are the patterns
Look deep into the colors
You will see yourself
Staring into the mirror
Trying to stay warm
It is easy to lose faith
Times of sorrow and pain
Look deep into the colors
All your questions
Will be answered
All your doubts
Will be eased
All your love
Will be returned
Look deep into the colors.


Did you know
that souls touch?
Did you know
that souls walk?
Did you know
that souls care?
Did you know
I know that you do.
What is a circle
but a straight line
What is a straight line
but a path
What is a path
but a journey
What is a journey
but a circle.
Did you know
that people care?
Did you know
that people pray?
Did you know
that people heal?
Did you know this?
I know that we do.

All my love and strength to you Darlene and Mark; and all the members of your family.

And all my love and compassion for all the family of strangers, now friends who come here to lend a hand each and every day.

Peace and faith.


Voiceless prayers ascend to heaven
One, then ten, then ten thousand
Thoughts of healing
Thoughts of despair
Thoughts of vengeance
A sound, a gentle beating
The mother’s heart
The Father’s love
For we are fragile in our souls
Needing more than hope
Forgiveness comes from deep within
The heartsong fills the skies

What do you see
this woman
careful hair
her hands red
the ring
of a wife
her lips
drawn with tension
I see her eyes
green or hazel
they look
far away
into the past
and towards
an uncertain future
I want to reach out
and cup her face
and whisper
that I am here
that I love her
I want to stroke
her taut brow
and whisper
that many are here
that we love her
I want to grasp her
steepled hands
to bring her
lost eyes
back home.


A rose is still a rose,
The sweet smell in the dark,
Feel his love somewhere,
out there.
Trust in faith that come
the dawn
The rose blooms still
in our hearts.
A rose is still a rose,
when in a vase
or pressed between pages
memories we have.
To care, to heal takes
all your strength.
When evening falls, breath
deep the air, he is there
with you, always.
Walk the path together again,
Hold hands across the thorns
and will find
that you are one in purpose.


For you my friend and your wonderful husband J.


Eyes gaze other side

Brown and white loyal friendship

Shadowed memories

Pointy ears muzzle blackened

Time to go our hearts breaking

For Junior and SW



My love for you
shines more
than all
the diamonds
in the world.

I love
your smile
I love
your heart
I love
your soul
I love
Only you.


For my wife Diane.

“Eternal Love”

They said we’d never make it,
I was too strange,
You were too sick.

They said we’d find out,
That love wasn’t real,
Lust wouldn’t last.

They said we’d grow apart,
When real life intruded,
Long hours alone.

They were all wrong,
We found our way,
Through the tears.

They never did understand,
We are one soul,
Overflowing with love.

They never took that chance,
To look in your eyes,
And say, I do.

For Diane on her birthday

“The Lady In Red”

It was a rainy night, the pavement shone with fierce intensity, illuminating her visage. A face smiled at me in anticipation and desire; it was as intoxicating as moonshine. I could smell her fragrant perfume wafting on the stiff breeze, it clung to my nose like dryer lint. A Gucci bag dangled from her manicured fingers, her diamonds cast rainbows in the moonlight.

I was early as a dog to a hydrant; she was ecstatic to see me for the first time. Her arms were wide open in friendly greeting; she called out, her melodic voice a balm to my troubled soul. Kissing my smooth shaven cheeks in joyous excitement, I felt like a young boy let loose in a chocolate shop, my mind already savoring the sight of her generous form.

We walked to the La Femme Fatale, only three miles away; she was riveted to my every word like a velvet Elvis hanging in a smoky pool hall. I impressed her with my command of the language that I had learned in my stint in the Foreign Legion. I promptly ordered for us both; she daintily consumed her repast and after long hours of conversation, we left, “do you want fries with that”, still ringing in our ears.

Soon returning to the area whence we had met; decided this wonderful date must be repeated. With light heart, she agreed, only to discover, alas, the very next day she was due to report for a six months tour of duty in the Gobi Desert. We clung in desperation to each other, frantically making out with no time to lose. But only too soon, I had to return to prison on my pass, and we parted, never to see each other again.

For Diane


“She Cares”

It’s what I admire the most
about Rose.
Her caring
and desire
to be heard.
But on her terms.
She doesn’t always comment.
She’s not around all the time.
But she’s a force of nature,
when she is.

For Rose

Eyes can’t smile!
Absolutely not!
No way.
They’re just an iris;
a pupil.
No emotions, just
flat cameras
constantly recording.
They can’t smile!
Nor twinkle.
Clouded by cataracts.
Glazed by glaucoma.
Eyes are just orbs
of gelatinous goo,
between temples.

But hers do!
I swear it!
Hers do.
like a granite monument.
like glass.
Her eyes gleam with love.
Shine bright with hope.
Sparkle with laughter.
Dance with joy.
Shimmer with sadness.
My love’s eyes,
suck me in,
and feast on my soul.
all the while.

For my wife Diane
Gossamer spotlight
Haunting notes, float
on rippled waves

For O.C. and Quill
Love sounds,
The beat of a child’s heart,
A meow, a woof,
The tight squeeze,
Sounds of love,
missed, needed, wanted
Crack, cracked, cracks
in my heart
Love sounds,
The giggle of a child’s soul,
A call, a note
a letter home,
Meals, food cooked with love
Out there, true love,
many, many, many sounds
Sounds of love,
for you
Love sounds
of friends and pals,
more than pals,
lovers of your soul
tender hearts
ache for you
gentle voices in the night,
sounds of love.

For Pixie

Sunrise on the bluff,
makes a man pause
it’s said.
A cowgirl too,
come to think
of it.
Trust in friends,
bonds of blood and
Years swing by,
morning after
Soon, too soon,
grown up and
Advice and looks,
respect earned
in dust.
Safety in numbers,
sometimes two
is enough.

For Josh and The Cowgirl

“Hiney Tingles” (Lots of twangy guitars)

Eleven years ago
I meet my match
He’s got hands
of steel
that stole my heart
I saw him there
he was unique
A city girl
my soul did weep

My life had changed
didn’t know how
looking back
seems so unreal
To me my punks
are all I need
‘cept those toes
in the night

Eleven years have
passed us by
wouldn’t trade
for anything
Makes me smile
His love is true
worth more than hay
But a latte
would be nice

He’s my man
supports my dreams
can’t imagine
my life
without his eyes
gentle but firm
he knows me well
one glance from him
my hiney tingles.

For Ree and eleven years.

“Half-way There”

Caught on the cusp
of not looking back
I was starting
my life
on my terms at last
Love wasn’t wanted
but suddenly
I found
that all
my plans
on the ground.

That’s not
what I’m

That’s not
what I’m
right now.

My new love spoke
those words to me
An obvious choice
in front
of my life
All clear reason
slowly faded away
I found
that one

That’s not
what I’m

That’s not
what I’m
right now.

Another song for Ree and MM.

“Heart of Gold”

I fell in love with her that night
Shivering in the cold moonlight
Her golden curves drew my gaze
Caressed softly in the waning phase

A tree obscured my lover’s heart
Above a gargoyle gave a start
Reached out a hand gentle touch
Empty air my flesh did clutch

Instead I raised her eager lips
All talk for now was eclipsed
The golden lady cast her spell
Romance we now both knew well

This quiet street beneath her glow
Our bond together ceased its woe
Troubled souls kissed once more
Inside our urgent passion did soar

Bright healing beam casting wide
Melts the pain of stubborn pride
Inert steel though she may be
For us our love is always free

For my wife Diane

Blessings upon you stranger from afar, I wish you well and healing from your ills. The journey of our lives may cross in this manner and both may benefit. Remember to keep love in your heart and be free with your soul, for we are but echoes in the mind of God. Peace be with you and all of yours.
For Baraka

“What am I?”

the moon is low in the west
jupiter chases her reflection
venus has gone to bed
all alone with my thoughts
the fear i feel
lost in a universe
without him
my star
my hope
what am i
why can’t i love
why must i constantly
hate who i am
the moon is low in the west
it needs some color
should i wake him
maybe he’ll be hard
maybe i’ll cry this time

for KayLynn
Please go here to leave comments

Activist Poetry


All Content Is Protected
Copyright Protected

New poems are added periodically to this folder. There are 18 poems in this folder.

This is the direct link to my webpage at Outskirts.com with the ordering information for my first novel, ‘Real Magic’.

“Activist Poetry”

“The Middle Passage remains a stain upon the waters”

to see, to touch the past, is, unfortunately
even a headstone
a shackle, a slave cabin upon the fertile soil of the Delta does
does not reach out and throttle the now
a picture, of an ancestor, a stern slave holder
who raped your great-great-great grandmother
that, that creates a churning acid reaction, all the
more potent
for being two centuries later
in the abstract, chickens and cows and Negroes
as property, tabulated
economics fueling westward expansion
labor needed here
laborers, in abundance here
being Africa, there
being the Americas, both north and south
and not all at that, poor white indentured
slaves as well
demand -ie white planters and the Five Civilized Tribes in the South,
White merchants and whalers in the North
met supply in the
Black rulers of Africa
the Arab traders shifting from dhows to cargo
more profitable than rum and molasses
ivory and gems
Dutch and English, American and Portuguese,
a trail of blood chumming the Triangular Trade,
French wine and death
wool and Spanish steel
all profited, all suffered
the records of Lloyd’s, deeds of transfers
scoured, seeking names not recorded,
births not celebrated
marriages not sanctified
cultures destroyed and yet,
out of the perished millions there arose
a pride in being black
being a victim, no longer enough
yes, this marks the resting place of a slave and
this is my ancestor, my family, my tragedy, my heritage
my land
my history
my right to look at the past and say that the
Middle Passage
never ended
never began
that slavery remains an ever present evil under heaven


“The Flowing Blindfold”

fear – it oozes-

puddles at my dirty feet, calloused,

bleeding – quivering lower lip – fear

it slides, harsh words, hard men, harder use

fear – it melts – forty flavors

and none,

for me: only fear – fear only… everything,

everyone hurts

lack sight, knowledge, to fear normal

to become someone else, different, better?

Please? – no, no… please…

to swallow anything but that! Not again!

unmoved by tears


unable – years of thought

finally understood

mother was afraid too



Should I be concerned
about the urge to self-mutilate?
I pull my flesh
it’s doughy
and thick
that malleability
no matter how far stretched
torn away from the body
tacky gobs
flung to the floor
and clinging
shivering on the furniture
the room coated

the scars remain
some are…
accidents of fate
some are…
caused by others with malice and intent
some are…
by my own hand
wielding a broad variety of
drugs and alcohol sharper
than any blade
dripping with beaded blood
rapturous pain
jubilant with possibilities

Is there such a thing
as pristine human?
never wounded
clawing at lines
plunging calloused fist
deep into chest
squeezing pumping muscle
until screams
echo to heaven


a spark
who will be the first
to drink?
viscous and hot
such a tantalizing prospect
beyond masturbation and
the briny taste of the helix
swirls madness
acute connections
slender threads
snap with weight of knowledge
and sin

where is the honor
in murder?

“Friend of Cowgirl”

I hate rape,
I really, really do.
I hate it in the a.m.,
I hate it from the blue.
a moment with a girl,
that should be pure and true,
in a flash turns ugly,
and instead is very crude.
A joining that is sacred,
has now become so rude,
as the girl,
now women,
finds all she had to lose.
No means no,
or so was always told,
but today’s men take,
have always been so bold?
A girl is only meat,
or so to me it seems,
and nothing they can do,
will muffle all their screams.

So what happens now,
to this girl who we abused.
should she be now cast out,
and given to be used?
I say.
Stand beside her in her need,
you out there can never know,
when it’s your turn to bleed.
For I hate rape,
I always, always will,
it is a crime,
that makes my heart be still.


“Because I have a vagina…”

… I am often molested when I’m only a little girl

… I am often kept uneducated and at home

… I am often killed because baby boys are preferred

… I am often sold to brothels to pay family bills

… I am often raped by someone I trusted

… I am often scorned for being so emotional

… I am often murdered by a jealous ex-lover

… I am often ignored when seeking medical advice

… I am often mutilated by cutting off my clitoris and labia

… I am often called a filthy whore for enjoying sex

… I am often forced to trade my body for food

… I am often dismissed by my professors

… I am often paid much less than males

… I am often expected to be only a breeder

… I am often viewed as unclean when I bleed

… I am often filled with shame and fear and remorse

… I am often wondering why God hates me so much

“The 21st Century”

In the 21st Century.
People can no longer hear,
because they have surrendered
their ears.
And instead they survive
every second by shooting
a drug called apathy
directly into their veins.

In the 21st Century.
People can no longer see,
because they have gouged
their eyes.
And instead they cope
wormlike by following
the noise of culture
blaring from every corner.

In the 21st Century.
People can no longer taste,
because they have severed
their tongues.
And instead they seek
sensations by observing
the suffering and
disasters of others.

In the 21st Century.
People can no longer feel,
because they have flayed
their skin.
And instead they crave
nourishment by rooting
in putrid refuse
heaped in the gutter.

In the 21st Century.
people can no longer care,
because they have siphoned
their brains.
And instead they grope
hopelessly for understanding
by desperate fondling
of the drug called apathy.


“Wrong Turn Taken”

Two lives collided in the bloody hood
The sorrow I feel will never be gone
That single perp was up to no good
Slinking around where she never should
Her friends all said he done you wrong.

You go girl and give him a scare
Can’t walk away when he’s to blame
Tired of flaunting heself everywhere
Ragging his posse how he don’t care
It’s his child too dis ain’t no game.

That awful morning she made him pay
Don’t remember bout talking no smack
But got him good is what dey all say
Now sit alone behind bars and pray
Media howls they don’t know jack.

She was abused is lawyer’s cry
Headlines sneer likely defense
Wealth and privilege gone awry
black man dead white girl to fry
A wrong turn taken makes no sense.



It hurts
I don’t understand.
I know why
I hurt myself
I cut myself
I want to die
too many
too many
we share a bond
of survival
of change
of longing to be normal
what is normal?
do we hurt ourselves.
just stop
please just stop
wait a minute
it is possible
to heal
to look in the mirror
and see
really see that person
who is I
who is me
who is you
why not?
why not heal?
why not heal pain?
why not heal abuse and betrayal?
it wasn’t your fault.

“Our Children”

What is a child?
A string of DNA,
genes structured in our own images.
Sometimes abused, sometimes adored.
Sometimes scorned, sometimes loved.
Sometimes abandoned, sometimes cherished.
Sometimes ignored, sometimes respected.

Our children are very fortunate,
for they are adored,

What is a child?
a laugh, a giggle,
a heartstopping smile.
We see the future,
and we tremble.
We see our children,
and we rejoice.
Yes, rejoice!
Rejoice in anticipation
of our joys to come.

Death comes to a child,
and we scream!


Oh God… Why?

Across the ages,
it has been screamed many times
in many tongues
in many ways…why?

For that,
there is no answer,
but this.
Never to feel grief?
then never love.
Never to feel pain?
then never care.
Never to feel despair?
then never hope.
Never to feel death?
then never live.

I ask you yet again,
what is a child.
A child,
our children,
are this communities heartbeat.



look at the shiny things
they are floating in the air
what keeps them up?
what are they called?
can we taste them?

envision them running
without a care in the world
giggling, you know the sound
rainbows everywhere
melting on lashes

far above their heads
grown ups work
we children just laugh
hey up there
have a snowcone.


What is black,
What is white,
What is wrong,
What is right.
What is yellow,
What is brown,
all our colors,
gathered round.

The bonds of time that unite us,
the links of place that divide us,
internal thoughts that betray us,
best intentions that corrupt us.

Together we are one,
yet as one apart.
Diverse in outlook,
heart and mind,
Our souls belong to all.


they stretch from side to side
a perfect arc of color
all shades are there
where ever you turn

young and old of all races
men and women dressed in pink
a rainbow of compassion
united in a common cause

“That hateful family bond that masquerades as love.”

This was a line that I wrote recently and I thought what a great title for a song.

The masks that they wear
crack in time
when lies aren’t enough
to hold back the change
with sudden sight
they become real
true twisted features.

holding their hands
up to sky
seeking to blame
but themselves.

They said they loved me
as they held me
and wiped off the blood
and dried up the tears
They said they loved me
as they hurt me
and cursed at my name
and broke all my bones
They said they loved me.

Well I’m still here
haunting your dreams
I’ll never leave you
until you all go to hell!!!

They said they loved me
as they scolded me
and used what was handy
and pretended to care
They said they loved me
as they buried me
and mouthed platitudes
and threw flowers
They said they loved me.

Well I’m still here
haunting your life
I’ve decided to move on
heaven is my new home.


“Pissing Genders”

Well you had to do it
bring up the gender
After they’ve been
buried, under an
of politics.

Multi-culture-ism, so many
isms, all perfect
Perfect homes, perfect
Identical in every way,
send in the clones.

I’m a mesosexual, I love
poetry and flowers
Woman and dancing,
rituals in the deep
Forest, turkey calling
and pissing.

Me, a man, who writes naked
open soul and heart and mind
Striving to reach for that
Hanging out of reach in
the Garden.


“Trapped in the frame of an old photograph” (Sara)

“suddenly vivid in a world of lucid dreams” (Moonmaid)

“a faceless fear crept around our circle” (Rethabile)

“Trapped in shadowed box of iniquity” (Beaman)

“Screaming; they cannot hear”

The land cried out; danger comes
We, the tribes out of time,
waited; while there, a mist,
a faceless fear crept
around our circle.

It had no color, just rage
and form that showed no mercy.
Suddenly vivid
in a world of lucid dreams
, our
limbs, truncated and
seeped into the fertile soil.
Pushed, herded, prodded, we
Oh how we ran. To no
avail; trapped in a shadowed box
of iniquity
, we faded.
Our history had ended.
Our lives were forfeit.
Our children sold.
I wake screaming, they can’t
hear me, but I can hear
Reclaiming my breath, I shake
with emotion,
tears, stain the drawing of my
in the frame of an old photograph.

Although it would be tempting to draw conclusions from this poem, it is not written with a color in mind; nor even a date. It is all of us, and none of us. It is now, and thousands of years past. It is simply a poem, a collection of words gathered just so. But it is also words seared into our collective consciousness by millennia of suffering. Slavery, is one of the most heinous of human endeavors, but sadly, one of the most common, even at this very moment.

Most estimates for modern day slaves range from 20 to 30 million, today, around the world, as you read this poem.



Human beings are monsters, we devour ourselves, gnawing and chewing our sinews that bind us to God, burning and burning and burning we fall, lamenting at what we’ve become, sightless and helpless, overwrought with cares and desires, they ride us with spurs, the blood flowing from a million deaths a year, a month, a week, an hour, a minute, a second we fall, falling we die but not before life lived with hope and peace and justice, is there no justice for me, for us, for her, for him, for we stand together and fight for our beliefs, a sense of harmony and love and trust and peace, peace of the grave for many today, some pass, some killed, all the same, cold and gone, the ones left to ponder is this Hell, Hell of our making or His/Hers/Ours, where does it end, does it ever end, close my eyes, my mouth, my ears, my heart, my heart closed to the suffering and cruelty of Human Beings are Monsters.

Are You?


“Distant Memories”

respectability… polite… yearn
yearnings… froth
that’s it!
froth… yes, froth.

I wanted, you see
doesn’t matter who really… not really
not at all… distant… wavering now
I don’t even remember, what she/he/they looked like.

unattainable… unavoidable… unrequited
buds to be plucked… no that’s not it,
blushing blooms to be sniffed… no! NO!
it wasn’t like that!

let me begin again.

differences… skin… class… style
it never was… never would be…still
still, I wonder… if the chains that bound her/him/them
if the chains were not there… broken… freedom

would I have learned love then?

“Living Wage; A Satire of History Repeating”

of overseers whip, multi-thronged
bloody slaves
spoils of conquest, sold
to state

by chariot
by elephant
by longboat
by horse

deception and lies, have monuments been raised on
skeletons of ancestors
rotting flesh, multi-hued, murdered for wealth
cached in tombs, plundered from temples, torn
from mines and smelted in

shackles of losing sides, bitter harvest of cellular treasure
mixed blood flows
tribal councils, locked behind gates of thorns, don wealth
of bangles and beads, met with gunpowder and cannon
forcible redistribution of

dreams consuming mercy none found, harsh addiction of
trade imbalance wars
palaces in marbled splendor rise anew, class blurs with
possibilities of mass commerce and production lines
cause hope for many in

injection molding, heaped piles of toys, profits greater
than gold ingots melted
standard, paper future mortgaged with frenzied purchase
inflating costs, bloated companies replacing kings, palaces
of consumption

of managerial tongue, sarcastic and cruel
worker drones
few benefits, dismissed
to starve.


Please go here to leave comments

Project A to Z and Alphabet Soup


All Content Is Protected
Copyright Protected

This is the direct link to my webpage at Outskirts.com with the ordering information for my first novel, ‘Real Magic’.

“Project A to Z”

“A is for Annoying”

the toilet seat
toothpaste squeezing
dishes piled up
oh yes snoring
remote surfing
chore slacking
nose picking
no good
couch potato

“B is for Bad”

bad seed
bad day
bad boys
bad times
bad ass
bad hair

“C is for Cute”

I hate being cute
cute is for puppy dogs
and flowers
cute is for hearts
for kindergarten teachers
I want to be called
being cute sucks

“D is for Depression”

it’s called the blues
not the music
but the soul
crushing despair
despair that grabs hold
and lingers
like a fungus
that grows on the tiles
in the bathroom of hell
you try bleach
you try scrubbing
til your fingers bleed
but it keeps
over and over again
it’s called the blues

“E is for Erotic”

a look
a look of promise
lick of the lips
finger beckons
move your hips
scent of arousal
soft skin
rasping tongue
clenching sheets
panting breath
yes, yes

“F is for Friends”

we meet for coffee once a week
she and I go back a ways
talk of children and husbands
laugh which one’s worse
advice we share
hopes and dreams
where they went
do you remember so and so
wonder what happened
they seemed so happy
I guess you never know
about friends

“G is for Guilt”

I told you
should’ve listened to your mother
but did you
no, suddenly I’m no good
I know nothing
after all I’ve done for you
the pain of birth
the sacrifices
what thanks do I get
you go out and buy
name brand
peanut butter

“H is for Hope”

holding hands we wait
nervous smiles
sweaty palms
well doctor
it’s a boy

“I is for Indulgence”

such an indolent word
represents sloth
and gluttony
and greed
oh well
pass the ice cream
and hot fudge
will you

“J is for Joy”

children laughing
a choir singing
lovers holding hands

“K is for Kiss”

chocolate kiss
kissing cousins
kiss my ass
kiss off
a kiss to build a dream on
soft lips
taste of mint
of passion

“L is for Love”

who hasn’t written of love
the perils and dangers
of falling in love
it’s just a chemical
attraction that is
the urge to mate
is strictly biological
an impulse that overrides
that blurs common sense
but he/she’s the one
the only
until the end of time
or at least
until the sun comes up

“M is for Money”

how many times have I told you
I’m not made of credit cards
checks don’t grow on trees
I work hard for this mutual fund
bonds can’t buy happiness
online banking isn’t everything
a fool and his 401K are soon parted

“N is for Nice”

did you see the police
they were over here digging
tearing down walls
ripping up the floor
I guess they found her
what a shame
he was such
a nice boy

“O is for Over”

gleaming scissors
careful pruning
judicious snipping
album after album
cutting out of my life
low down dirty skunk
you are so over

“P is for Prejudice”

you want to judge me
my skin makes you nervous
what about my clothes
yes I have piercings
so I don’t look sick
what’s it to you
how I pray
the car I drive
the food I eat
where I shop
look in the mirror first

“Q is for Quiet”

nursing a child
the sunrise
smiling we touch

“R is for Rage”

you’re late
I told you what would happen
get over here
you stupid brat

“S if for Secret”

I have a secret
he told me not to tell

“T is for Truth”

the truth is
that I like to eat
food is good
late at night
and chocolate
I’m eating for two

“U is for Us”

the word us
is tribal
us versus them
them that are dangerous
us that are good
us that are righteous

“V is for Virile”

the hopes of a nation
the dreams of our culture
the very future
of our society
rests in the little pills

“W is for Winning”

there is only one winner after all
the rest of you are losers
runners up
second best
always the bridesmaid
so get over it
you’ll never win

“X is for Xenophobia”

not that this word
means anything in today’s world
a world of hope
and peace
and love
compassion for others
a helping hand
I’m so sorry
you’re not like me
after all
are you

“Y is for Youth”

news flash
the fountain of youth
has been discovered
three easy payments
of $19.95
shipping and handling
call now
we’ll double your order

“Z is for Zany”

if you have read this far
you qualify!

silly me I never thought
what this word would have wrought
to see such bloggers in dire straights
makes a bunny paws and heasitate
but never mind I’ll hop along
for poetry is like a song
some are ballads sound so sweet
others thump in metal beat
brings to mind hard rock n’ roll
while winking lines are so droll
althought I may seem so organized
a guest of Dawg’s is so prized
my gift may seem heaven sent
I completely forgot to leave a comment.

at Waking Ambrose guest post
“G is for Guest”

at this lovely lodge
has been many a guest
quite the hodge-podge
but that’s for the best

rocking on the porch
defining the word
dazzling wit does scorch
theater of the absurd

refreshments over there
music blares on stage
sigh a loving pair
wisdom from the sage

perhaps in all our glory
we’ve become complacent
wishing to tell our story
forgot to pay the rent.

Waking Ambrose
Poet N: A shill, a barker of the digital airwaves, offering an empty promise while begging for your votes and money.

Poetry N: A cynical script of the dream, two words offering a paradise that resonates in our souls. If only….

“If Only…”

click, click, the images pass by
earnest voices selling perfection
glittering jewels fantastic colors
rippled muscles gyrating dancers
newest carnage solemn visage
past wars only memories
raining somewhere storms swirl
impossible contests fading glory
flashing lights crashing cars
trauma and blood offering grief
this machine will keep the weight off
black and white anonymous faces
the latest bed swapping affairs
local firehouse pancake breakfast
has anyone seen this child
mansion of stone within reach
sell and buy you need this book
drugs an outrage arrest them all
cheering crowds uniformed heroes
pass, shoot, score life is grand
without leather seats no point
insert card cash dispensed
look this way pout for the lens
another scandal missing funds
how late is drive through open
there is a pill for whatever ails you
wave the flag don’t ask questions

“Wave the Flag”

in times of trouble
wave the flag
when interest wanes
wave the flag
when prices rise
wave the flag
when cracks appear
wave the flag
when fights break out
wave the flag
when business fails
wave the flag
when hunger strikes
wave the flag
when help arrives
wave the flag
can’t make decisions
then wave the flag

This post was inspired by my guest showing on Waking Ambrose. I had figured he would give me a word that revolved around poetry, so these were my first two tries.


These are the daily word prompts provided by the fine poets at Poetry Thursday for Poetry Month, April 2007.

absolve, spiral, perennial, yield, broken thread, unspoken, kneel, leather, at first blush, hollow, breathless, celluloid, bluff, plunge, pearl, hunger, glass, tick tock, root, fishing hole, ten items or less, misplaced, pluck, sheen, blaze, glimpse

“A is for Absolve”

Guilt is a wonderful thing
Causes babies to have homes
And wars to start
Flowers in bunches
And shiny new toys
Guilt is a wonderful thing
But I absolve you of your words
It’s time to move on.

“S is for Spiral”

Over here Stelios!
What is it Alexia?
Look at this pretty shell.
It’s not straight, is it?
No, it’s sort of curved.
What’s it called I wonder?
I don’t know; listen!
This is really special,
It’s got the sea trapped inside.
I know, I wonder if
Poseidon lives here?
That must very neat.
What is?
To live in a Spiral Palace.

“P is for Perennial”

Neat rows of stone
Linger under the
Golden trees
Fading green grass
Littered with umber
Neat rows of black
Gather under the
Canvas tent
Drying somber faces
Reaching with strong
That’s right, she did.
She loved lilies cause
they was perennials.

“Y is for Yield”

Soft candlelight flickers, romantic music swelling in the background that mimics the throbbing surf. Eyes pulled inward, dancing a minuet of seduction. Slow movements, anticipating frantic joy soon to be consummated. Peeling off the layers, revealing soft yielding flesh. “Don’t you just love bananas?”

“B is for Broken Thread”

They called him crazy,
as in crazy old man.
He slept nights in the park,
covered with yesterday’s news.
His tattered coat had brass buttons,
held on by dingy broken thread…

“U is for Unspoken”

A smile for a lover
A nipple for a baby
A tear for a death
A laugh for a friend
A hug for a child
These are a few things best unspoken.

“K is for Kneel”

Such a loaded word
So many meanings
Before you
with joy
I kneel.

“L is for Leather”

It pinches our feet
It binds our wrists
It drapes our shoulders
It covers our eyes
It wraps our legs
It reddens our cheeks
It is soft,

“A is for At First Blush”

At first blush,
The birds hold their beaks shut.
Cooled air pauses in thought.
Pale light chases the
rods and cones.
Clouds of vapor coalesce,
puzzled; who are you?
I am a mirror;
that reflects your hopes,
and all the dark wrinkles
in the fabric that is your loom.
At first blush then,
Your impressions are all wrong.
Will you ever
Get a second chance?

“H is for Hollow”

What is an echo called? The kind
you hear when the soul cries out.
A cry that bounces and rattles off the
walls; walls built and maintained at all
A cry that gathers strength and power, smashing
through windows, crushing the innocent,
trampling the garden, sowing the salt.
What is an echo called when it reverberates
in the dead zone inside, the
place where dreams fade, the
place where hope is lost, the
place where fear wraps it’s talons
and dispassionately squeezes your
humanity through the tube of indifference.The
place where survival of self
to being
that hollow tube.

“B is for Breathless”

her soul shines out loud
tactile touch wraps my body
pant I am breathless

“C is for Celluloid”

The dance of the elephants
in the parking lot
Revving engines
slamming doors
laughing school children
So many, so huge
roam the suburban
what was once
only a safari vehicle
on celluloid.

“B is for Bluff”

Chicken, chicken!
Come on baby, ya
scared. My little sister
could do this. Chicken!
Anthony Martin was put to rest today. Criminal
charges may be filed against three juveniles, ages,
nine, 10 and 12 in the shooting death of Anthony.
Witnesses state that his last words were,
“Don’t call my bluff.”

“P is for Plunge”

Foot tapping, snappy beat
Hands wrapped, frothy mug
Silky voice, ancient notes
Eyes slide, telling smile
Thoughts form, deep gasp
Ask her out, take the plunge.

“P is for Pearl”

Raised voices, walls
muffle thuds
Plaster drifts in
lazy spirals
Worried frowns, shrug
and turn the music up
Next day, we meet out
Wry smile, she didn’t
like the string of pearls.

“H is for Hunger”

I burn
I yearn
The more I learn
Must be stern
Turn… away
This need
to feed
to seed
to proceed
The more I concede
Must misleed
I hunger to breed.

“G is for Glass”

Turmoil and destruction
Violent eruption
Black glass.

“T is for Tick Tock”

Jump the sock
And throw the flock
Swim the rock
And hop the frock
Skip the block
And pass the knock
Fall the crock
And go

“R is for Root”

Hard work it is
Constant digging
and pulling
Finish one patch
Over there
Start another
Sometimes easy
Mostly hard
Deeper and deeper
No matter how
Often you clean
The stain is still there
Why am I like this
It keeps sliding away
The root of my fears.

“F is for Fishing Hole”

There’s a rock, a
slab really, placed there
by hands of ice
eons ago.
It’s worn, rough
and smooth, warm
and chilled, glints
of mica.
Reeds sway, protecting
melodic chirps in
simple refrain, both
Vapor waves in still
dawning air, soft
plops of fins
and wings.
Through eyes of youth, I
gaze, my hands, now
gnarled and pained, grasp
bamboo and pail.
I whisper softly, I’m
home my friends; did you miss
me here? At the ol
fishing hole?

“T is for Ten Items of Less”

I don’t believe this! How
many times
Why can’t you
You agreed to
ten items or
at the
divorce hearing!

“M is for Misplaced”

fumbling-in the room
made bright-neon
warmth-covers me
I wake-her
seem-to have
misplaced-my life.

“P is for Pluck”

Light-fingered Bugwit
that was his name, or
at least for
an orphan
a ticket to the game.
Life on the streets
can really suck, or
if you’re
fairly nimble
plump purses to pluck.

“S is for Sheen”

she’d adored
from afar
secret longings
unclothed and rippled
today, she
by his golden hair
immoral, impure
papa would give me
such a whipping
you’re a wicked girl
his sculpted arms with
sheen of sweat
musk filled her
innocent lips
I wonder what he tastes like
as her body
told her mind
to go

“B is for Blaze”

No sound
muffled weapons
the warriors
along the trail
grim smile
on the oak tree
was the
clan’s blaze.

“G is for Glimpse”

You’re driving
or flying
moving somehow
pictures flash by
all blurry
for now
But the scene’s
moving too
so what does it see
a face, of
merely a glimpse.


Please go here to leave comments

Sestina Style Poems


All Content Is Protected
Copyright Protected

This is the direct link to my webpage at Outskirts.com with the ordering information for my first novel, ‘Real Magic’.

“Sestina Style Poems”

Sestina poetry rules. 1-2-3-4-5-6. The lines of the next stanza must then proceed to be 6-1-5-2-4-3. 3rd: 3-6-4-1-2-5. 4th: 5-3-2-6-1-4. 5th: 4-5-1-3-6-2. 6th: 2-4-6-5-3-1. Now, the final stanza, the envoy, is three lines long and each line will end with 5-3-1, with 2, 4 and 6 being buried in the lines.

The first poem “Our Seasons” is followed by an exploded version of 36 poems, and then 12 more sestina poems follow.

“Our Seasons”

my heart has shattered like a stone
the snowy clouds swell low and dark
the embers die from lack of wood
sat at table held face in hands
listen for laugh is this a dream
think of garden filled with roses.

every spring we pruned the roses
beyond the tumbled wall of stone
winds they whispered of a dream
when night has fallen land is dark
caressed her body with calloused hands
as we walked home through the wood.

summer flees so we chopped wood
my lover beside me flushed like roses
pulled out thorn deep in her hands
laid kindling on our hearth of stone
a swift sickening has brought the dark
she croons to me in fevered dream

we talked of things of hopes to dream
fall we planned in our home of wood
with lights aglow room not so dark
through open window scent of roses
cooked our dinner on counter of stone
heads bowed in prayer we clasped hands.

planted bulbs washed dirt from hands
loved our world in a simple dream
on shore of pond skipped a stone
laughed did carve initials in wood
her bower sprinkled petals of roses
contrasts of red her hair is dark.

winter when long shadows get dark
held on tight with clenched hands
in the garden we cut back the roses
has this year been naught but a dream
bed with four posts of polished wood
her picture rests on mantle of stone.

in the dark I woke from a dream
with my hands built coffin of wood
wreath of roses in her vault of stone

The first stanza is about Grief.

“My heart has shattered like a stone”

shards of granite lay at my feet
red pools of blood flowing out
blurring eyes with salty tang
can’t breathe can’t speak
smooth the dirt beneath my palms
trembling limbs betray me now
a shooting pain to my knees
shining light draws ever near.

“The snowy clouds swell low and dark”

unique tears fall from sky
cover form with white shroud
mounded high has hushed voice
quiet stones guard the peace
stretch as far as sight allows
never ceasing march of souls
til shambling gait has broken down
melting crystals on upturned face.

“The embers die from lack of wood”

poke the ashes a gritty taste
vacant stare no longer feel
so cold in vastness of night
sluggish thoughts slowly freeze
draw the covers up to chin
watch as pitted ceiling recedes
walls loom constricting embrace
floating disconnect I sleep.

“Sat at table held face in hands”

brackish water washes stain
shoulders hunched withdrawn within
echoing sobs fade away
a thousand thoughts flashing by
a chair that cushion will never know
what life has faded before it’s time
now a home empty of passion
without a love to share.

“Listen for laugh is this a dream”

upon waking can never hear
far above the stars they twirl
like a dancer in mirrored hall
all bright reflections
that answer back
feel the cosmic music
ringing in my soul
for her song search the heavens.

“Think of garden filled with roses”

perfume wafting on gentle breeze
rainbow shimmers of flexing petals
swaying canes whisper love
tempt us closer hidden thorns
walked together in place of peace
memories of seasons past
trellis now covered in blooms
once all around had been bare.


The second stanza is about Passion.

“Every spring we pruned the roses”

flush of green across the land
sweet scent of life renewed
knelt before me offered trust
grasped with leathered palms
metal glinting in warming light
whistling birdsong floating by
as we hear our hearts touch
bright eyes smiling lips open

“Beyond the tumbled wall of stone”

wild growth in exuberant splendor
vibrant colors fluttering wings
clear a path through tangled vines
lay plaid cloth upon the ground
wicker treasure reveals her love
glossy fruit and crafted loaves
sparkling liquid fizzing bubbles
feast my eyes upon such beauty.

“Winds they whispered of a dream”

sink into soil watch changing sky
blue and white are her colors
buttons popped release her curves
lingering gaze as fingers trace
warm lips explore the textured skin
contrast of sun and wind shivers
urgent movements shadows dance
as one reach beyond this world.

“When night has fallen land is dark”

blue has gone now so has red
black blurred shapes all around
fierce light pours from above
shadow moon sailing free
green rhythmic wings pulse
distant yellow glow of home
breathe deep earthy perfume
cup her cheeks devour soul.

“Caressed her body with calloused hands”

deep sigh soft fabric twitches
rough skin abrades gently
circling heavy mounds that peak
sway with each step tighter
up and down nails scratch
tugging hem over flared hips
cracks echo darkening flesh
slick bud writhes panting cry.

“As we walked home through the wood”

an owl hunts in silent flight
nightjar call eclipses stars
insects hum in droning chorus
leaves on trunks rustle overhead
impaled deep carry her home
sheathed tight in liquid heat
long strides bouncing hard
world quiets as she explodes.

The third stanza is about Healing.

“Summer flees so we chopped wood”

groaning bounty weighs heavy on vines
golden kernels waving sea of malt
dark earth bright shapes eased out
harvest of hope days grow short
sweet smell of cooling berries
gentle breeze blows taste of ice
dark blue is the northern sky
cordage heaped sticky resin.

“My lover beside me flushed like roses”

tremulous smile creases visage
gulping water brushes brow
sheen of sweat covers skin
rest my love pace yourself
sit down in shade of lush oak tree
gentle memories streaming by
faraway sound panicked tone
fading pink turns stark white

“Pulled out thorn deep in her hands”

bind her wounds and kiss it better
tend to scrapes and bruises
feed her broth when feeling ill
sit beside the hospital bed
in sickness and in health
care for her when needed
done with love and hope
not a burden never that.

“Laid kindling on our hearth of stone”

deep in thought spark the flame
bright colors shadows flicker
spreading warmth adjust chair
whispered thanks clasp of hands
busy work clear the table
wash the dishes stare out window
she calls out to me I’m sorry
carry her to bed to sleep now.

“A swift sickening has brought the dark”

propped on feathers hair spread out
eyes closed tight shallow breaths
billowing fabric blots the sun
dim shadows creeping over face
cool clothes soothes burned flesh
gentle touch massage the pain
restless movements whimpering cries
lonely night turns to days.

“She croons to me in fevered dream”

a song of love timeless notes
all the things left unsaid
too late the past has swung open
voiceless pleas ragged sobs
haunted eyes search for soul
nonsense words babble on
of new beginnings in our life
hi she says how are you.


The fourth stanza is about Hope

“We talked of things of hopes to dream”

porch at twilight gently swing
promotion soon with bigger pay
perhaps more garden or a pond
a real kitchen hanging pans
yes a workshop with many tools
eyes shimmering…a nursery
she places my hand on her belly
soon you’ll feel the life within.

“Fall we planned in our home of wood”

extra room we packed in boxes
fresh paint and clouds of white
soft fibers to muffle feet
sanding rungs to form a crib
little clothes fill the drawers
many gifts from friends dear
head on shoulder wistful smile
quiet peace envision future.

“With lights aglow room not so dark”

happy home pattering feet
shrieks of laughter down the hall
homework done restful time
look around at all we’ve built
kiss her head on my chest
fingers trace slid under buttons
coy look through thick lashes
invitation accepted.

“Through open window scent of roses”

rain washed air cool and fresh
clearing sky crystal light
glittering beads rainbow hues
flagstone path glistening
moss sprigs soft underfoot
quiet snip cutting stems
linen cloth china plates
with vase full flowers bright.

“Cooked our dinner on counter of stone”

bubbling water scent of herbs
chopping harvest of greens
bustling cooks little hands
sneaking samples watchful gaze
secret smile playful pinch
exasperation waving spoon
are we done yet
everyone grab a dish.

“Heads bowed in prayer we clasped hands”

thank you God for this meal
for providing us with courage
and the strength to love
thank you for our health
and the means to flourish
thank you for guiding us
to those less fortunate
The fifth stanza is about Love

“Planted bulbs washed dirt from hands”

partners in life visions of spring
worked the earth in hope
clear liquid soaking soil
breath deep scents of life
splashing clean twinkle eyes
don’t even think of it
doused with water blast
chased her round the garden

“Loved our world in a simple dream”

wake to sounds of pattering feet
happy shrieks buried in children
make breakfast and walk the dog
bathroom shared hurry up
days to weeks to months
many growth marks on doors
equal ever expanding hearts
our family home a safe place

“On shore of pond skipped a stone”

plonk plonk plonk splash
we threw until arms sore
then threw some more
until no stones were left
heat shimmers in woodland
cool waters entice
clothes shed in haste
she emerges fairy creature

“Laughed did carve initials in wood”

haloed iridescence dripping
sweet kisses on her lips
heat dries fans flames
she rides to fulfillment
rough bark chipped
lines and symbols
permanence created
steel and stone

“Her bower sprinkled petals of roses”

soft curves dancing in light
joyous giggles hide and seek
who is the hunter now
she comes to me sparkling
reclines on natural carpet
beckons with firm caresses
reach in pockets release rain
blessings from our garden

“Contrasts of red her hair is dark”

caught my interest long ago
that sable pelt shimmered
physical attraction at first
but saucy wit captured
what causes two to be one
connected souls in love
we belong to each other
willingly ensnared

The sixth stanza is about Lonely

“Winter when long shadows get dark”

twisted branches stab like knives
brittle stars washed clean
silent petals falling wind
heavy weight subdues soul
icy vapor melted on glass
stillness of chilled air drifting
pale light shimmers of dawn
reveals a patchwork coverlet

“Held on tight with clenched hands”

careful not to stumble
precious burden carried
eyes bleary with pain
grope for balance
table rocks uneven legs
steam winds in tight coils
gulp bitter black liquid
toss grounds for compost

“In the garden we cut back the roses”

every step repeats again
faded blooms turned to seed
caught out by future thorns
sharp thoughts dulled by cold
slick flagstones worn edges
each stark bush named
withered canes laid in heaps
every color an anchor in time

“Has this year been naught but a dream”

twilight now world goes to sleep
brilliant hues melt like chalk
reach out can almost touch
understanding within grasp
endless cycle polished bright
rock to sleep peaceful arms
always wake to sore stiffness
cannot return to emptiness

“Bed with four posts of polished wood”

eyelet ruffles yellowed now
squares of down still await
run fingers over soft cotton
stroke the curving headboard
gentle smile of remembrance
dust swirls curtains drawn
goodnight sweetheart
turn off the light close the door

“Her picture rests on mantle of stone”

forever caught in repose
that relaxed contentment
what thoughts caused her
to accept my offer
ghostly hand rests on shoulder
what do you see in that face
turn to embrace her tight
our future dreams of love


in the pond that is out back
in the water there lives a frog
in the oak tree on the bank
in a branch is a nest of birds
in a room of the house
in a basket sits a cat.

he is quite large for a cat
his favorite room is in the back
he likes to wander in the house
when outside he chases the frog
up a tree in search of birds
with bellyfull sleeps on bank.

hopping along the grassy bank
keeps wary eye out for the cat
provides tasty meal for the birds
to the pond he hurries back
life is simple being a frog
dinner of legs at the house.

flying round and round the house
setting down on overgrown bank
wades in pond searching for frog
not around today is the cat
returns to mate holding back
feeds next generation of birds.

in every tree there are many birds
in the garden surrounding the house
the sides are formal but not the back
mow the turf that forms the bank
noisy clatter chases the cat
all day long croaks the frog.

in my throat I clear a frog
so much work is for the birds
curiosity killed the cat
feels like living in a divided house
work never ends on that you can bank
satisfaction brought the cat back.

the frog waits for the princess while drinks are on the house
people have birds for brains you can take that to the bank
a cat has got your tongue but I’ve got your back.

“Remembrances of a Life”

dresses herself in uniform of blue
nervously drumming spoon of silver
just yesterday wore diapers white
waves from bus black on gold
mother stands eyes rimmed in red
thinks of child so young and green.

drives to work through tunnel of green
moods fluctuate today she is blue
waves of traffic every light is red
towers of commerce flashing silver
lobby of marble veined in gold
cubicles of infinity walls sterile white.

under endless skies she wore white
entwined in waves leaves of green
digit trembles encircled in gold
wisp of remembrance borrowed blue
tapered candles melt rivulets of silver
porcession glides softly carpet is red.

storm roiled clouds rays rising red
wind waves lines of linens white
her tin covered roof gleaming silver
fields of rye sweeping sea green
clearing skies light pouring blue
orb plunges into oblivion molten gold.

crowd roars guzzling brewed gold
hurled sphere stitches rotating red
pennants snap background of blue
runner slides safe home plate white
she smiles at checker patterned green
vendor waves dogs in foiled silver.

rocking chair head glints of silver
memories more precious than gold
ascends the steps in skirt of green
gently tease cheeks blushing red
holding her baby swaddled white
waves of neighbors out of the blue.

stones weathered silver stand guard while
while flag waves stripes of red
spotlight shines gold always protects
while flag waves stars of white
wreathes of green woven blankets
while flag waves field of blue.

Sestina Carnival Edition #1 was held on June 23rd, 2006

“Sovereign Nation”

After the women cooked the bakwezhigan
the children gather round the chiahyaog
tell us tales before the ishkonigan
when our ancestors walked with the geebawug
we will tell you only in Anishinaabemowin
it is necessary as anishinaabe nanaawdchigewin.

before the people had anishinaabe nanaawdchigewin
they ate grains but not bakwezhign
then they were given speech in Anishinaabemowin
and stories were told to the first chiahyaog
one by one revealed the geebawug
this was long before the ishkonigan.

although today we live on the ishkonigan
we still heal with anishinaabe nanaawdchigewin
our shaman are guided by the geebawug
similar to the wafting smell of bakwezhign
we tell you this as your chiahyaog
be proud to speak in Anishinaabemowin.

when you speak and sing in Anishinaabemowin
it lifts you beyond the ishkonigan
someday when you become the chiahyaog
and you teach the ways of anishinaabe nanaawdchigewin
as a lesson when cooking bakwezhign
then you can commune with the geebawug.

behind the veil is the world of geebawug
they speak to our souls in Anishinaabemowin
feeding a hunger unlike bakwezhign
in a vision of hope for the ishkonigan
show the way to anishinaabe nanaawdchigewin
they give prestige to the chiahyaog.

listen well children to us chiahyaog
for our heritage is from the geebawug
they gave a gift of anishinaabe nanaawdchigewin
to preserve our life as Anishinaabemowin
if we keep our faith on the ishkonigan
we will be comforted like bakwezhign.

a group of chiahyaog speaking in Anishinaabemowin
discuss the geebawug on the ishkonigan
as a tonic of anishinaabe nanaawdchigewin they consume bakwezhigan

Anishinaabemowin (Ojibwe Language )
Anishinaabe Nanaawdchigewin (traditional medicine)
Chiahyaog ( elders )
bakwezhigan ( fry bread )
Ishkonigan (reservation )
Geebawug ( spirits )


“Saga:Finding Love”

riding my pony I saw a butterfly
touching its wings oh so gentle
being outside one with nature
the harness is inlaid with silver
in my life I’ve had some love
took some time to find a family.

lived alone without a family
felt cocooned like a butterfly
spent many years denying love
nothing about life could be gentle
fog covered me in a haze of silver
thought that was just my nature.

bruised battered by human nature
finally left my hurtful family
took a job for some silver
flew to land of ice like a butterfly
found people there were so gentle
gave to me unconditional love.

was so hard to trust that love
that kindness was somone’s nature
treated with respect hugs were gentle
took me in offered me a family
I fluttered for awhile poor butterfly
my mind still balked in mirrored silver.

everyday collected more silver
but had found a land to love
so freeing to stay garden butterfly
delighted in discovery of all the nature
when realized they were my family
shed tears of joy held in hands gentle.

found my home settled in so gentle
the rocks and snow painted silver
new parents and brother in my family
opened my heart to their love
trusting in soul is now my nature
I am free to soar a new butterfly.

I’ve found a gentle soul and him have grown to love.

gaze in silver glass looking back is not my nature.

chose my family reborn like a beautiful butterfly.

Monika The Ice Queen

“Hear My Voice”

growing up family
parents are surreal
controlling my freedom
no true happiness
not autonomous
creative so pleasurable.

mind’s eye is pleasurable
say yes to family
will I be autonomous
some days are surreal
finding happiness
outside there is freedom.

tear down walls to freedom
crumbled bricks touch is pleasurable
stomping dust brings happiness
packing and leaving my family
my life ahead looks surreal
learning how to be autonomous.

to speak my mind is to be autonomous
that is the path to true freedom
on my own feels great but surreal
yet oh so wanton and pleasurable
finding new friends to replace family
sing dance perform joy is happiness.

birthing the process creates happiness
inner voice scolds must be autonomous
choose members to bring into family
many paths to tread openly to freedom
an entire body of work so pleasurable
floating never knew could be so surreal.

love rushes strobe waves flash surreal
caresses touch skin brings happiness
cresting flying sweating so pleasurable
to be me myself I am autonomous
open doors walk through to freedom
finally understand my role in family.

life is so surreal being autonomous
I find happiness in searching for freedom
it is pleasurable now thinking of family.

For Stephanie

“Mango Madness”

a wondrous sight for my hungry eyes
a heaping mound of tender mango
thinking of taste makes my mouth water
place my choice in bag colored blue
pay with crisp bills heads of green
walking home under the blazing sun.

harsh light reflecting rays of sun
put on cool shades protect my eyes
the rims are bright very green
bruising my legs bag with mango
past the lake surface is blue
stop to dangle feet in cool water.

relaxing drink from bottle of water
face basks in warmth of sun
helps my balance when feeling blue
leaning back head drooping eyes
wonder what to do with my mango
perhaps some nectar is that green.

nectar is sweet but skin is green
should be mixed with some water
after blending the ripe mango
open the blinds let in the sun
stretching arms I rub my eyes
fill my cup glass tinted blue.

gazing out window sky deep blue
all the trees shadows of green
such a treat for my puffy eyes
all that wonder makes tears water
what a gift is the light of the sun
that grows the tree of the mango.

my favorite fruit is the mango
in my kitchen walls are blue
fading light of the setting sun
shines on window fabric so green
walk to sink listen to water
long day ends splash my eyes.

sipping fresh mango nectar put feet up on couch looks green.
fluff the blue pillow did I turn off the water.
the sun is gone now too tired to care shut my eyes.

For Surbhi


Ann from London and I collaborated on a sestina poem recently. She also has a poetry blog here that has some great poems.:)

What we did with this poem, was that each of us picked six words that meant something to us, then we picked three of the other persons words and proceeded to alternate writing each line. She wrote half, and I wrote half.


You can smell long before sighting the ocean
Anticipate the sand beneath your feet so hot
All through the workday the hunger will grow
For only you know, your lips, your eyes conceal a smile
A look that says much more than the word, love
A look that belies the singing in your heart

There was a time, long ago, when I took heart
Memories of our passion alike the swell of the ocean
Started with tender caresses that lead to love
One gentle touch, my skin on fire, glowing, hot
Breath coming short, panting, open mouth smile
Oh blissful joy, sweet music plays as our desires grow

So what happened in the fields, crops did not grow
Nor the sun shine its face as rain filled my heart
Bereft was my soul till fortune gave me your smile
Bright eyes sparkling as rays of light skim the ocean
The fertile soil we tilled as the blue sky shone hot
Together as one creating a labour of love

Cycle of hope, eternal vigilance worn, faded love
Through blood, sweat and tears, witnessing our struggles grow
Over the horizon came smoke and flames seared hot
Invincible, indestructible our spirit, our dreams, our heart
We held hands and soared like gulls towards the distant ocean
Flying with faith, a bright fresh future beckoned with a smile

The sounds of life filled the room with a newborn smile
As fresh as the morning dew nourishing our nascent love
The joy streaming on our faces, salty tang of the ocean
Washing away the past for new beginnings to grow
With tender hands we held our child close to heart
Gazed into each other’s eyes, overcome, overwhelmed, tears hot

Many cycles have passed, children grown, passion still hot
Kismet, destiny, fate, good fortune has blessed us with her smile
Across the miles between us echoes a strong beating heart
Deep and rich, resonant it sings refrains of love
A simple touch to spark, in truth it will always grow
As high as the mountain, as wide as the river, as deep as the ocean

Embers glowing hot, flickering light reflects shining love
In their sparks reminiscences kindle a smile and inspired we grow
With fullness of heart, passion crests like blue waves in the ocean

“Come Closer”

For many the words are hard to say, get caught
in the throat. Choking and gasping feel the panic
set in. Eyes wander in desperation, sweat flows
soaking clothing. Arms folded, fingers tapping
impatiently. I do, you know, like you and want you,
but; it’s a big step. When you decide, let me know.

So many blogs to read, millions actually. I know
that comments are desired, but sometimes get caught
up in other things. Real life takes over; although you
write such beautiful posts, it’s the feeling of panic
that prevails. Sit at the desk, ponder the screen, tapping
the keys. Agony follows, for today, nothing flows.

I understand the emotions you have, the ebbs and flows
of a relationship. Through a blog, how well can you know
someone after all. We connect, but are we really tapping
all that is there? Or are we simply floundering, caught
up in the excitement of new growth. Is this where the panic
sets in? When I realize, that deep down, I can’t see you.

There are many things I wish to say, but thank you
for now. Too few truly care, most go with the flows
of life, just floating in the river. Over the falls, panic
and fear, the boat capsizes and they nod. We know
how you feel, been there, done that. Haven’t caught
on yet? That noise in the dark, it’s death tapping.

Death? That’s terrible! Is that what you see tapping
on the window? Long white fingers beckoning you
onward? Crossing over to another existence, caught
by happenstance and time. I don’t see somber flows
of mourners into the graveyard. We all of us know
that death will come someday, but no need to panic.

I was merely pointing out that very thing. No panic
here from me. At least not yet. I find myself idly tapping
a pencil on my blotter. So much to discover, to know
as the computer screen flickers in my tired eyes. You
would think that I could stop; but still the data flows.
Endless streams as someone else’s thoughts are caught.

I am very pleased you have seen me and helped calm my panic.
Together flows our tears as we hug, hands on shoulders tapping.
The sun caught in your eyes, somehow you always know.

“Scottish Spring”

To be in the Highlands so very green
Above on thermal soars beautiful bird
Fresh scents of heather on cool breeze
On bright days like this time is endless
As the sun continues her stately dance
Take ease of your cares sit and be present.

The land sings of the past and the present
Hillsides steep with rocks and lichens of green
White flashes as woolly sheep run and dance
In the hollows come songs of nesting bird
Steep trails cut centuries ago were endless
Climb to the top breathe deep of salty breeze.

Taste the distant sea with freshening breeze
Clouds build and swirl as storm nearly present
Dark pillows release torrents that seem endless
Raging foam leaps from heights washed green
Waiting huddled in shelter of tree is the bird
Flapping its wings sprays droplets that dance.

Flowers bloom in profusion bee’s excited dance
Dazzling colors swaying in the still breeze
Leaping from branch to feed hops black bird
His wings flutter and grabs twig to present
Chosen mate thinks then flashes wing in green
Burgeoning growth in meadows that were endless.

Teeming with life cycles of spring are endless
Vibrant energy in creation an ancient dance
Pollen coats everything in blankets of green
Constant twittering floats in the warm breeze
The deadly struggle for survival ever present
From night’s embrace swoops a hunting bird.

Faint golden dawn greeted by a singing bird
Brilliant stars fade in the black that’s endless
Slowly unwrapped like a cherished present
Day blushes revealed in a lover’s dance
Colored skirts lifted by the teasing breeze
The rainbow palette paints the forests green.

Soft chirping bird leads feet to the dance
Partners are endless just shooting the breeze
This poem is a present for a poet who’s green

For Crafty Green Poet

“Tis The Season”

The voice of a thousand bells rang out with hope
that winter’s day. Bright colors warmed the snow
and the pallid sun strove to melt hearts. Peace
be upon you and all of yours in this time of strife.
For it is said that one shall come to share our ritual.
Glad tidings for some, but others remained cold.

Speech would not fill empty bellies, nor heat cold
rooms. For the poor and desperate, little hope
in empty promises. Had many a century of ritual
and still the land groaned under tyranny. Snow
drifted high and blame placed on the rich. Strife
was now the norm, black looks instead of peace.

Soldiers marched, steel swords kept fragile peace.
Riven with dissension, leaders thoughts grew cold
and harsh. Crushed beneath edicts, grim strife
erupted. All through the night flares alight, hope
blazed and consumed. Come daybreak, the snow
stained red. Too many were given last rites ritual.

Hollow eyes and paupers graves, the empty ritual
of death. The silence felt in town after town, peace
at last, for no one left. The earth, covered in snow
lay dormant. Spring, far way on this biting cold
day, would return once more. The sense of hope
had been crushed, but still cause for more strife.

Change would come, forced from below. Strife
channeled into words and deeds. Codified ritual
replaced heredity, slowly the actions gave hope.
A concept not readily grasped, perceived peace
to be weak. Throughout the long, dark night, cold
plots designed. Strike they would, in melted snow.

At last the heated rays revealed fresh green. Snow
had gone and with the warming earth, false strife
commenced. Old ways and new corruption. Cold
calculations yielded poor harvests for the ritual
of change had sprouted deep roots. At last peace
and prosperity had replaced the longing of hope.

No longer a burden was snow, but a blessed ritual.
No more harsh strife, but harmony and peace.
No longer starved and cold, but a future of hope.

“The Land Of Sorrows”

distant white capped peaks
pilgrims assent sandals worn
sun releases songs
floating beneath clouds
bright colored ancestors shrine
incense curls to sky

trees bend angry sky
waves frothing to deadly peaks
Kompira-san shrine
long stairway steps worn
camphor and elm among clouds
sea deity songs

drums pound ancient songs
thunder lifts to sullen sky
drowned from swirling clouds
ragged lightning peaks
poor rice farmer spirits worn
downstream floating shrine

sacred temple shrine
petitioners chanted songs
polished wood planks worn
shrieking birds fill sky
Nainokami shakes peaks
landslides choking clouds

flames feed oily clouds
bronze bells tolling mournful shrine
Shinto black hat peaks
white costumed death songs
purification clears sky
new amulets worn

old trembling hands worn
brown eyes contain milky clouds
memory of sky
last journey to shrine
lifetime spent prayerful songs
Amida call peaks

pale clothes worn to shrine
parting clouds hear somber songs
blessed sky sun warm peaks


“Without padding on the sole the hobnail will pierce the cross”

in the grand pantheon of the spiritual
it is not a singular territory
that causes the suspension
and at times deep baffled
confusion passing for daylight
at the shop of Farzin the Cobbler

not for he the village cobbler
worrying about the spiritual
aspects of prayer during daylight
that is the territory
of the imam baffled
by morality’s suspension

without the fervent suspension
of disbelief the busy cobbler
will always remain baffled
by the mysteries of the spiritual
ways inexorably opening territory
best examined under daylight

through the mosque pours daylight
glittering motes in suspension
vast sacred territory
not ignored by illiterate cobbler
who does seek spiritual
life although still baffled

yet to be baffled
to stagger in dark not daylight
facing a spiritual
crisis and suspension
of faith is not unique to a cobbler
but is every human’s territory

a vast and wild territory
filled with baffled
masons, soldiers and a cobbler
creating my sandals by daylight
nail by nail the suspension
grows until all that is left is the spiritual

without this territory being exposed to harsh daylight
the many baffled souls that confront faith’s suspension
along with Farzin the cobbler could never be spiritual


Please go here to leave comments

Military Poems with Titles


All Content Is Protected
Copyright Protected

This is the direct link to my webpage at Outskirts.com with the ordering information for my first novel, ‘Real Magic’.

“Military Poems with Titles” There are a total of six poems in this folder.

“Blinded by Tears”

whoosh of tires softly moving over cracked asphalt,
gentle murmur of friendly voices,
fresh mowed grass smells of summer,
warm breeze flags rustling softly,
droning insects in woods nearby,
words of comfort of heaven bound,
smooth dirt thudding on wooden lid,
blurred vision of blue uniform,
pressing folded fabric,
white stars gleaming,
thunder cracks of rifle reports,
whirring wings startled birds take flight,
mournful notes drifting into cloudless sky,
can our unborn child,
hear her father’s voice,
I would have liked,
to been able to tell her someday,
but I am blinded by tears.


“Mothers at War”

She serves her country in harms way
works so hard to ease the strain
she misses family every day
hiding all those thoughts of pain.

Desert, jungle, air or sea
no matter where she fights
she follows a most solemn decree
that what she does is right.

Ones that have been left behind
a daily struggle to get by
the love they feel is in a bind
cannot show will make her cry.

Prayers always on bended knee
please keep her safe is all we ask
bring their mother home to me
let her finish her appointed task.


“Our Guard”

men and women young and old
whose principles cannot be sold
rally round and heed the call
answer proudly when disasters fall.

offering trained medical care
to those in tents with vacant stares
the town they find is filled with rubble
patrolling groups stem any trouble.

bury the dead and feed the living
filled with hope and a spirit of giving
in regular training learn skills to hone
many are shipped to combat zone.

weekend warriors was a derisive cry
that is until the shrapnel would fly
convoys attacked and lives are lost
swift reactions lesson the cost.

rebuilding schools and winning hearts
protecting our honor is just the start
around the world our troops reflect
that the Guard has finally earned their respect.

our neighbors and friends give their all
so the rest of us can all stand tall
all the blood and the tears have come to fruition
our country is proud of our well-regulated militia.

this poem is inspired by a brave warrior lass, and a friend that I have grown to love. Thank you Cowgirl


“______________” (fill in the blank, hero of your choice)

Dusty box in closet spare
tired eyes in thinning hair
memories of friendships past
calm the nightmares that will last
dress in uniform fit is tight
comrades in arms to spend the night
hoist a glass of spirits now
as the years fall from brow
was this the youth I used to be
when called for country overseas
left home and family far behind
band of brothers ease the mind
stride for stride we march along
for each other remain strong
battle won can mourn our loss
tally up the terrible cost
thoughts and dreams as they roam
learning now will be going home
others too under locks
winging home in wooden box
touching down on native soil
see crowds of family start to boil
emotions begin to overflow
lovers face in halo’s glow
eyes that see only one
all the medals that were won
little child peeps around
to see the parent that has come down
holding tight to fragile frame
this is worth more than fame
returning to civilian life
many pleasures ease the strife
strangers offer thanks to me
helped keep children’s country free
watching own family grow
not immune to all the woe
when time has come for eternal rest
twas in fact for the best
drifting now back through time
interrupted by doorbell’s chime
my old friends here at last
come on in let’s have a blast

“Dust to Dust”

Yellow Sun
Green Grass
Brown Earth
Grey Smoke
Blue Steel
Red Blood
White Bone
Brown Earth
Green Grass
Yellow Sun


raging waves pound the shore
the storm outside promises more
react to call without thinking
somewhere out there a boat is sinking
no matter the weather will always try
but sometimes too late people will die
service to country in many waters
signed up they are our sons and daughters
often overlooked though job is hard
patrol our shores they are the Coast Guard

Please go here to leave comments

Silly Stuff and Comments


All Content Is Protected
Copyright Protected

This is the direct link to my webpage at Outskirts.com with the ordering information for my first novel, ‘Real Magic’.

“Silly Stuff and Comments”

Comments added on a weekly basis. There are a total of 73 items in this folder; newest at the bottom.

Comment at patriotic cowgirl.

Holy Crackers!! Batman!!
Is this what I think it is?
What’s that, Robin?
A Bat signal!
No, it is a Horse signal.
A Horse signal Batman? Holy latex tights! Is it a new dastardly henchman of the Joker? POW!!, THUD!! Or maybe the Penguin, ZAP!! CRUNCH!! Should I fire up the Batmobile(4×4 Biodiesel of course).
No Robin, this a signal from a deep-under-the-covers secret agent.
Hey, cool, what’s his name.
HER, codename is C.C., Robin.
Oh, well then what is she doing singing in church?
I don’t know Robin. It could be she has been brainwashed, or…..
Yes Batman!
Or she could be being recruited by the forces of good.
So, she is on the our side.
Oh yes Robin, C.C. is most definitely on the side of good clean fun.
So Batman, she sends up a distress call because she is being recruited but she hasn’t decided yet?
That’s correct Robin.
I’m confused.
That’s why Robin, you will always be a sidekick.

Blog nexus:
From: hummingbunny astroid
To:planet cowgirl

Happy Birthday!

Congratulations on your victory,
orbit has decayed more quickly,
before completely out of range,
have found your blog passing strange,
figured out what horses for,
though Saturday’s post made us…curiousor?
still confused about the shots,
are they used to get in…

message ends in static.
I tried hugs,
offered drugs,
cut a rug?
coffee mug!
ya’ big lug,
more bugs!
get a pug,
holes are dug.


poemed at pixie lair.

love is crazy
love is bold
love is hazy
love never grows old
love is right
love is fragile
love is light
love takes awhile.

I lift my eyes beyond the stars,
another soul returning home,
he leaves behind loving ones,
who shed their tears in grief,
a life well lived but too short,
time is fleeting for those who care.

Pixie Lair

poemed at waking ambrose

When I’m poor
I want more.
When I’m rich
I have a twitch.
I buy a drink
time to think.
All the honey’s
want my money.

Poor and drunk
or rich in a funk.
Money is good
to have in the hood.
Being poor
is such a bore.
My posse is bold
dey all want gold.

Yo, Yo.
Dis is da poet
and I’ve got da mic
I hope ya like
cause we gots all night.
tired of crap
floating round
so many peeps
are dragin me down
don’t cramp my style
I am da bomb
hold on tight
might take awhile
so clap your hands
and close your eyes
this here’s
my big surprise
not my thing
dis rapping gig
makes me look
like an IDIOT!

*disclaimer, the poet memtioned in the above rant, does not resemble, relate, nor in any way represent the idiot know as hummingbunny*

Some comments at Doug’s place aka Waking Ambrose.

I was going to write a saga,
that would make you all go gaga,
I thought as I wrote,
with my heart in my throat,
that you all could use some drama.
It does seems to be my chore,
that poetry be no longer a bore,
for the longer I write,
though it seems only a fortnight,
that a poet is now my karma.
All my blogger friends will tell you,
that my work may make you blue,
but I write what I feel,
though sometimes you squeal,
just be thankful that I’m not Osama.
I trust in my muse,
but she is confused,
talking of bumps,
or was it the humps,
it seems Gnat’s Trumpet,
has brought out the strumpets,
or were we conversing about fans?
For Minka,

The Nordic hero sailed the sea,
in Greenland was settled to be free,
built houses of stone,
their cattle did roam,
until the ice returned,
grass could not burn,
so they all got up and moved to New Jersey.

“Harriet Harry stumbles home drunk from the bar where he drowned all his cares.
Can’t find the lock.
Falls to the ground,wondering how he will sleep on the pavement outside.
Why is she mad.”

“All the harried people
How do they get things done
All the married people
Can she forgive this time.”

Waking Ambrose
eyes like water
pond scum covered
deep in depths
where monsters dwell


So much work
so little time
to fit it in
I’ve lost my mind!
Fame is fleeting
so is told
can’t stop blogging
I must go!


I am inclined to let you repost posted poems that have been prior posts posted on my posts. If however, new is good, and old is bad, then I am inclined to write more new than old. Stop in to view the merchandise, you just may be surprised, as nearly every post has a poem or two, it will not help to avoid the view.

Alison Poets

I fume, a slow boil,over smoldering embers, a righteous blaze that flares into an inferno. I fume, a heated gaze, a glare, a stare that is rude yet oh so necessary.
I fume, gagging and choking on the stench of corruption most vile.
I fume, reading of abuses, of hurts, of pain.

Sar Brawls

Hello my name is Dwayne,
I have a clot in my brain,
I imitate Elvis,
by swinging my pelvis,
but somehow I am always thirsty.

The reason does show,
for I have a camel toe,
it gives the girls chills,
I admit to a thrill,
but I always go home by myself.
Baby, I cry
when I see those thighs,
that flesh,
when it ripples,
will make me tipple

This was a winner.
Both above caption contest at Shayna’s

I racked my brains all weekend,
My Muse didn’t want to play,
She caused my hair to rend,
so here’s an effort anyway.

A cross over my heart,
I hope you don’t die,
my speedo is tight,
that’s not a lie,
I’m a man’s man you see,
hairy chest and all,
the chicks dig me,
since I’m so tall.


At least the her shirt matches the color of the car. Very trendy.

There once was a girl called Marge,
whose cleavage was so very large,
she drove in her car,
but didn’t get very far,
cause she couldn’t see over the wheel.

Now her breasts they were real,
and had a certain appeal,
but they got in the way,
you know what they say,
bet she’s a pretty good lay.

The blonde hair was a sign,
that when she stood in a line,
a crowd would then gather,
though the wives would rather,
chip in for some surgery.

another caption contest at Shayna’s
To GQ in honor of Minka’s
has hijacked….
I mean moderated so
a limerick.

there once was a girl,
called GQ,
from Pia and Doug,
took her cue,
she started a blog,
her issues did flog,
now all of us,
are in her purview.

Waking Ambrose
Just for you Sgt Lori, cause it sounds like you need a pick me up.

No habla?
I do you know
Ya I’m a women
doesn’t me
I’m not smart
One of these days
when least expected
I’ll tell you why
maybe during

Keep up the work, you are doing great.

Twice I have asked for inspiration,
Twice I have come up dry,
Twice I have posted in exasperation,
Twice blogger has made me cry,
Twice I have wondered why I am here,
Twice I have written this over again,
Twice I have seen that the reasons are clear,
Twice more have posted to my chagrin.

Waking Ambrose comments

Rock-a-bye baby,
in the lazy-boy,
if you watch,
too much tv,
a boulder will fall,
so share that remote,
or your wife,
will be cross,
and down on your head,
a rock,
will be tossed.

Sar Brawls!

Bill Gates,
am I late,
always prate,
in a crate,
arrow straight,
bald pate,
kiss me Kate,
never hate,
heavy weight,
such a fate.

Waking Ambrose

Well Karma, since you talk so refined and asked so nicely,

There once was a girl from Mumbai,
who talked but never lied,
was soon going to Bangkok,
so was shopping for a new frock,
a beautiful sight for sore eyes.

Waking Ambrose


on the phone
in monochrome
in the zone
a shark’s loan
is that a moan?

Sar Brawls

A hermit by any other name,
called a dawg still the same,
trolling the entire page,
looking for the furry sage,
his advice has been shuffled,
and the fur has been ruffled,
seeking truth and lofty advice,
can sometimes pay a heavy price,
so henceforth stay on topic,
or results will be catastrophic.

Waking Ambrose

catnip oh how I love thee
you make me feel so so nice
I roll around so delightfully
so much better than mice.
when I spy that ball
and smell that wonderous drug
my legs collapse down I fall
a quivering mess upon the rug.
I writhe I purr
my eyes are crossed
this affliction has no cure
for without my nip I’m lost!


Hairy Larry and merry Mary,
met while picking berries,
Hairy Larry went to carry,
but merry Mary was wary,
I can carry my berry to the ferry,
with you along will want to tarry,
and I must return to the dairy.
Bad verse,
would be worse,
if Larry,
and Mary,
were to marry!
Larry and Mary Fairy.

“Degrees of Separation”

hermit crab
crab cake
cake soap
soap bubble
bubble gum
gum shoe
shoe leather
leather sole
sole fish
fish fry
fry pan
pan down
down under
under water
water main
main street
street wise
wise sage
sage brush
brush dog
dog bone
bone break
break fast
fast food The last four lines courtesy of Puppytoes.
food fight
fight night
night y’all!

Waking Ambrose
Some disenchanted evening,
when blind date goes bad.
Too many drinks consumed,
wake to find not alone.
burning smell of toast,
staying for breakfast?


amoebame amoebayou,
da’ penguin and a dawg or two,
a rhyming bunny,
a trollopy hunny,
a central snark,
your inner bark!

a rout in the park,
sounds like a lark,
look a hermit crab!

the soft green grass,
a sexy lass,
oops did I blab,

woof, woof she speaks,
shyly I peak,
soft fur to grab.

can I buy you a drink,
no pockets I think,
don’t worry I have a tab.

my bunny is gone,
shadows grow long,
soon home to my wife.

drink will have to wait,
but tomorrow a date,
ah romping is the life.

hopping is fun,
dogs make me run,
this park has no strife.

Central Snark

Slipped under the door,
if you want I have more,
gifts cards I’ve brought,
from a fence I bought,
found in snark park,
called Bunny the shark.

QG and snark park

who’s there?

the Universe

the Universe who?

the uni-verse “I’m happy” sung over and over again.

At Pixie’s Lair

There once was a fine looking lass,
who had a very round ass,
she bent over one day,
hairy crack on display,
turns out her name,
was Larry.

Long legs up to here
high kicking made clear
that equipment down below
blushing cheeks did glow
Now about that wand, being a card carrying member of the *magic* wand brigade, I have a few suggestions.
“Never bend the wand” if works best if kept oiled in a clean dark place.
“Wands are unidirectional” they only point one way.
“Wands have dowsing abilities” invariably sniffing out the closest moisture.
“The best wands can remain firm yet supple” at least an hour to provide the maximum sparkage
“Exploding wands are desirable” just make sure that the open end is pointed correctly.

*Rattles* Hmn, I must confess my wand has never rattled. I am thinking a few extra accessories have been added to the *wand*. You know, bells and whistles. Some wands need extra flash in order to work. *shakes head* poor wands. I would suggest then stripping…and polishing said wand. If that doesn’t work, then a new wand must be purchased. You can find quality wands at the beach, the rodeo, perhaps even a local hardware store.

Speaking of borders. My dear girl, why are you still up? Do you ever sleep?

Would you like a lullaby?

Rock aby GG

In her bed

dreams of oceans

in her head

soon she will sleep

and dream of umbrellas

perhaps she’ll wake

to find a good fella.

For GG

Pieces of a dream
fluttering like
random swirl
shower of wishes
falling, falling
that never ripened

For GG
*taps baton*

“A Sycophant in C Major”

is it bigger than a house
does it squeak like a mouse
conflagrations to douse
perhaps a political louse
commentators do grouse
beware of the spouse
though better than a souse
it’s still a sycophant
that causes the rant
with a partisan slant
and a hysterical cant
Republicans rule
Democrats drool
Nah nah

Waking Ambrose
Heigh ho, heigh ho
in Columbia does coffee grow
they ship it here
and grind it up
then sell it
at prices dear
Heigh ho, heigh ho
at least it’s not snow
for if it was
a bigger buzz
my blogger friends
would have.

Waking Ambrose
one if by land
two more if by sea
three by the hand
four more for thee
weekend post to create
our viewing pleasure
do not procrastinate
or a spanking to treasure.

I done brought it baby. :p

The Freshman 15. Although a recent article pointed out it is actually 5-10 pounds gained. But since Benjamin now means $100 rather than the 5 and Dime stores, we will stick with 15.

Packing on the pounds
your freshman year
when walking the grounds
one tends to veer
that siren sound
brings you to tears
cafeteria food abounds
eating is a fine career.

WA again!
Morning Pixie,

As usual you hit one out of the park.

Pixie settles in at the plate. This is an important at bat for her, she’s been in a bit of a slump lately.
The pitcher gets the sign, Universe rears back, here’s the pitch.
STRIKE!!! My what a fastball! Pixie never caught up to that one. She looks a little shaken out there. Calls time.
Universe back on the rubber, looks in for the sign. Sets, delivers again.

Pixie swings hard, CRACK!!! Oh my!! Universe looks up, that ball is very high and deep!!! It could be, YES!! It’s out of here!!! Home Run for Pixie!! She rounds the bases, grinning ear to ear, what a relief this must be. She rounds third base *wink* headed for home, she’s getting close….WHAT!! She just looked at Universe and gave it the finger!!!

Both benches are clearing!! Oh what a rumble we have tonight at the ole ballpark.

Love, love ,love.

The references to past personages in relation to pre-computer generations has a direct corelation to the total number of said personages recognized by persons of a certain age without prompting to search for references. Thus, the conclusion can be drawn that the per-computer gernerations, were in fact mesmerized by television, and chose lifestyle choices based on personages who became famous through exploits on the television. Advertising bought into this lifestyle by portraying an alternative to the darb and dreary life lead by the average viewer if said viewers would only purchase the latest and greatest life changing doohicky, endorsed by the latest and greatest hero/heroine of the moment.

Today’s generation of course has been ruined anew by advertising portraying that the past generations were slackers and ruined the world due to excessive consumption, thus the urgent need to consume what’s left before it is too late.

Oh, and look pretty while doing said consumption.

Perhaps OC, the real world, Exhibit A, has in fact been subhumed under the avalance of primary colors, Exhibit B. When entire societies have changed the behavioral patterns of countless generations based solely on the prevalence of media saturation, Exhibit C, the colors available to those in less technological areas are reduced to washed out grays.

Thus advertising, Exhibit D, brings those colors back to life, replacing the real world in favor of a world that is livable.

Sar Brawls

Twitching nose vacant stare
pulsing light computer glare
try to think will they care
no new posts pull my hair
perhaps go hopping bare
that’s a believable dare
after all it’s only fair
Feline and Bunny are a pair.

Muffins are fine
they taste devine
toasted with butter
makes me mutter
more muffins please
perhaps with cheese
no must have berries
but nuts are scary
muffins are fine
good thing this ryhmes



mysterious creatures
these freckles I see
spotted and dotted
they live on my face
pack up and move in
make themselves at home
I wonder how long
they’ll be here this time.


the other beside me
doesn’t see
the me inside
that has my pride

Solace Cai
The saying bout the akurn means that even Billy Bob and Jamie Sue can get lucky sumptimes. Da only thang is, thems havin’ youngins is a mite like a coon dawg wit fleas.

Dat itch is mighty fine to scratch, but dem critters be sucking ya dry
I gambol therefore I walk
a ramble in the park
is a preamble to a talk
a gamble hear penguin bark.


1. My fingers walk from blog to blog as I sightsee.
2. Thus a walk in the park compared to real work.
3. Reading before commenting is always wise.
4. Otherwise the flipper shall beat you down.

Ripples in a pond
stories shared
hope is given
love is gained.


The old man walked every day past the bridge.
An earthquake in 1741.
Crazy old man!
Contractor fraud in the concrete.
You belong in a nursing home!
Trucks are overweight.
Get off the streets!
The steel beams are rotten.
Turner overpass collapses killing four!
shoddy materials suspected!
The old man smiled,
I know my trivia.

Story at WA

Oh how thine eyes
look deep into the sea
my love of thee
has no end in sight
for thou I do my all
I will catch fish
for my lovely penguin
and feed her with care.

He stood high above the madding crowds, waving genialy. All the backbiting of the campaign was at last over. The advertising, the bribes all had come to this pass. He was now the supreme ruler, thanks the ballot stuffing and intimidation. Today, at this moment, he could afford the benevolence; afterall, was not the Logo of his party, the outstretched hands? Life was good.


The moral of this story is to never let a good time get in the way of progress.

There once was this meadow you see, where all sorts of genteel critters hung out. They had, quite frankly, nothing better to do than to bug and pester the guardian of said meadow. He was a fearsome beast, with glowing eyes and a short temper. His caustic wit scorched many a genius who had the audacity to romp in his territory. He was quick as a grasshopper , although some would say locust, but never in his hearing. All was well in this meadow, until one day, a dreaded blight appeared and ravaged this peaceful land. The name of this blight you ask? The beta blog…soon to progress to your neighborhood. It is foretold.


This poem is sung to the tune of,
“Whe Johnny came marching home”

When Ambrose went off to vote today,
When Ambrose went off to vote today,
In the winter of two thousand and six,
We went to the polls to vote today,
And we all,
Checked the ballot,
And closed our eyes.

When Ambrose gave his victory speech,
harangue, harangue,
When Ambrose gave his victory speech,
harangue, harangue,
He promised us much,
And thanked us for,
Returning to office,
For many years more,
And we all cheered hard,
When Ambrose went back to work.

When Ambrose was caught breaking the law,
harangue, harangue,
When Ambrose was caught breaking the law,
harangue, harangue,
He told us he’s sorry,
Won’t happen again,
The money was there,
That’s hardly a sin,
So we all forgave and voted him back in.


“The Moon”

Watching, unblinking eye that closes and opens in an endless cycle.

Watching, shines light into dark corners where things live.
Watching, little ones tucked in their beds safe for now.
Watching, emotions that spill free in the night, truths buried.


There is but one answer.
To this age old question.
A man must ponder deeply.
Before uttering these fateful words.

My darling you look smashing.
In pearls and nothing else.



“The Rookie”

What is up with this guy called Al?
He shows up one day and takes over!
I suppose that’s ok, new blood and all.
But really, respect the elders that wander here.
Walkers and canes, and bed pans galore.
These new fangled ideas are not for us.
So take your fancy schmancy avatar back to the shop.
When a rookie shows us all up that’s just too much.

Welcome Al, I hope your stay in the majors is a long and fruitful one.

Waking Ambrose


The frothing surf hissed against the rocky shoreline. The white foam glimmered faintly as the new moon slipped in and out from hiding amongst the torn clouds. On the surface of the choppy water there could be heard the grunting and straining of beasts. Shall we join our heros?

“Who’s stupid idea was this”,grunted the bunny pulling a muffled oar.
“Shut up and row, you mangy cottontail” retorted the Boss.
“Fine! But I still say that it’s not worth it.”
“Do you have any idea how much a troglodyte sells for on E-bay?” explained the Boss.
“Look. You just want to avoid paying the tariff .” said the Bunny. “I heard that customs has a new team patrolling the shoreline here.”
“Who cares! Now put us ashore.”

The boat tossed and heaved over the shorebreak and was flung onto the beach. The Boss and the Bunny hopped out and headed inland leaving a trail of wet footprints behind. Their inattention to detail would prove costly, as the rookie and his partner the Dawg would take advantage of their forgetfulness to collar our heros.

So today’s word is Stubborn : When sneaking out for the latest bauble, remember where you left the rowboat.


Cue the soundtrack.

Lots of violins in background.

GG: It’s not fair.

Giovanni: what’s not fair darling.

GG: you have brought me such pleasure.

Giovanni: I know, that is my role in life.

GG: but that’s my point, you can never be more for me.

Giovanni: oh GG, don’t you know that it is what is meant to be?

GG: what do you mean?

Giovanni: I am the best part of a man without all the drama.

GG: oh Giovanni, you are so right, I will never let you go.

Music builds and reaches a crescendo as the curtain is drawn on our heros.


How about a rap song this morning?

Very cool Ree
Nice to meet
the family.
back in
a man came here
for something more.
He found a home
and space to roam
a friend to all
they had a ball.
met a girl
with a lovely curl
married soon
shot for the moon.
to be
a pioneer
it’s perfectly clear
that Ree’s the man
err..the wo-man.


I have over 25 years in retail/sales and I still believe!!
Let me hear you brothers and sisters!!!
Open your wallets and your heart will follow!!!
Pay no attention to that star in the heavens!!!
This is the truth!!!
You shall be saved!!!
Only 10 easy payments of $99.99!!!
All credit cards accepted!!
Call now!!!

Have a Merry Christmas funny man. Bice


Gather round children and hear this story of woe and me.

Once upon a time there was a nation of elves. They were very happy in their caves and spent many hours happily insulting one another by drawing on the walls. Then it happened one day that the head elf, Insanity Clause, announced to everyone’s great distress , that the workshop, at which the entire nation was employed ; was being outsourced.

Insanity Clause read the proclamation which stated that due to rising labor costs, henceforth all toys would be made by trained seals in Arctic sweat lodges.
“He’s demented !!” shouted many shrill voices.
“We are not puppets ” said the leader of the union, Mo’a Troll. “We refuse to let our domestic production be taken away from us.”

But alas children, despite all their protests, the workshop was razed and turned into vacation condos for the trained seals. For the seals had discovered, that if they in turn moved production elsewhere, their status as debtors would change to filthy rich.

The moral of this story is, prosperity is an illusion caused by the flickering firelight on the cave walls of our ancestors.

Merry Christmas and Happy Chanukah everyone. (((hugs)))


Good evening to all of you out there in television land and welcome to the exciting bowl game tonight. It should a game where at least one of the teams gives 110%, isn’t that right Dewy?
That is correct Brian, this is the first ever bowl game, and due to declining enrollment, this may very well be the last such game for Malthusian University.
So what should we all expect from this epic clash tonight Dewy? Certainly the players should not be suffering from any meekness?
I should say not Brian. In fact, the combatants that I have been allowed to ogle, I mean interview, all seem to be OCD-ish, chomping at the bit over and over again; so to speak.
Thank you Dewy. So this rumble tonight is in fact, a monument to perseverance and the American way of life! Of course, gobs of cash always helps. But who cares! This is about good, clean family fun. Speaking of families, how is the opposition doing tonight?
Well Brian, I have to say that despite still being in diapers, the athletic prodigies at Minor College are doing quite well and can’t wait to get the game over with so they can all sign their bootie contracts and turn pro.

Have a great New Year’s weekend and be safe.

Brian and Sassy Dewy

On the high plains,
of Oklahoma,
stood a giant.
No, no, she was a
a shining beacon
to all the
huddles masses.
Pictures she took,
of a life both
broad and fraught
with perils.
Of nuts and colts
Of belches and tingles
Her words
so fragrant and sweet
bring comfort
to many
and laughs to a few.
Alas, we cry,
we have seen the best
what now?
Shall we make haste?
A pilgrimage, a trek
worthy of her
noble ancestors.
All shall flock
to her side,
to rope, to brand
to learn at her feet
teach us, oh great one,
how to survive,
in these
times of peril.
Let us all vote now
for Ree,
The Pioneer Woman
and damn proud.


They say though that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I behold, from this poem, that if, if you did indeed stride forth from the shower, covered in bubbles, suds that cover yet reveal; then perhaps those that see what is displayed would indeed understand, in a flash of brilliant thought, that here, here in the street, glistening in the sun, here at last is what all seek, and seldom find: here is beauty.


Ree’s life home schooling
has all the mommy’s drooling
with her girls out driving
and her little punks conniving
it seems too good to be true.

But always home schooling
who does she think she’s fooling
a couple of years in this grater
there’s the bus see y’all later
MM likes me in only ultraseude blue.


There once was a rock named Stan
When he saw bunnies, he ran
One day he was cold
A knitter so bold
He’s warm now thanks to Jan.

Chocolate and Raspberries.:)


Deep in the swamps of Swampyland, where men are very, very handy, and the women are bewitching.

Our scene opens when a large round donut looking thing lands with a large splash in the fetid and oozing swamp. Come with us now to see what happens next.

“Take me to your leader.”
“Excuse me?
“Take me to your leader. We have a message to sing.”
“Leigh Ann? These three orange/white/gray space looking alien beings want to sing to you.”
“Can I help you?
“Are you the leader?”
“Yes, I do wear the pants around here.”
“Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to…..”
“Hold up, hold up. It’s not my birthday.”
“It is not your birthday?”
“But you are the leader?”
“Yes, but it’s David’s birthday, not mine.”
“Who is David?”
“He’s my soon to be husband; that is, if he stops drinking so much sake.”
“Sake? What is sake?”
“A Japanese rice wine. In a box.”
“Take us to David.”
“Honey bear? These three friendly orange things are going to sing to you. Do you think your poor achy waky head will be all right?”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“Happy birthday to you… happy birthday, dear David… happy birthday to you.”

Thus concludes the riveting tale of David’s harrowing trial by fire. Love is a beautiful thing.:)

Winning entry at Swampwitch

She is everyone,
In the streets
In the sky
She is no one,
In my heart
In my blood.

At Paisley’s
“High Prairie Passion”

Distant storm clouds unleashed rumbles of thunder that swayed the long prairie grasses in rolling burnt waves. Reminders of a life left far behind; green fairways and tanned flesh. Instead, at her dainty feet the last of the fall wildflowers stubbornly caressed her slender ankles. Her senses tingled. Her breath now rapid, her pulse now fevered. Ree’s trim and tight figure trembled as the rumble drew slowly nearer.

Piercing the gray sky, a mote shone brightly. Highlighting, marking, claiming her soul. A dust trail. A lone rider. He had returned to take what was his. She was ready.


cold mist flared over bare shoulder
her soft bottom felt his rigid intent
silky pelt enveloped with musky heat
snowflakes still fell indifferent



there is no ‘Y’ in faith
no you and I
only love and
as much as you
love life
I love
you more
the ‘Y’ of
The Beloved
returned again
to the womb
of souls

For Kinzi

so why keep going?

to rid of hate
oh that which binds
teases with languid lips made red
and swollen with anger
hate of you
of love
of thought
how dare you open my heart and then…

… then
leave me
leave us
the us of bright mornings
and frantic
pulsing nights
wrapped in limbs
and sweat
and hormones
you have broken me

so why keep going?

because I
I am stronger than us
stronger than lust
than love
than hate
I am stronger than I ever believed

so there!

for sheluvlee


Please go here to leave comments

Tanka Style Poems and Others


All Content Is Protected
Copyright Protected

This is the direct link to my webpage at Outskirts.com with the ordering information for my first novel, ‘Real Magic’.

“Triolet Poems” There are 2 poems in this folder.

By Fall will be much treasure
With Winter’s wrath hopes are dashed
If Spring’s promise yields pleasure
By Fall will be much treasure
In Summer’s growing measure
After sullen workers thrashed
By Fall will be much treasure
With Winter’s wrath hopes are dashed

Running through the quiet race
My thoughts fly out on their own
Must always keep steady pace
Running through the quiet race
Casting for trout by the brace
Astride flowing water’s stone
Running through the quiet race
My thoughts fly out on their own

“Tanka Poems” There are 21 poems in this folder.

there’s nothing to eat
plenty of cheese in the drawer
it’s all green and blue
that’s normal for a french cheese
they can keep it I want orange

focus blurred red eyes
mais le soleil est brillant
third floor balcony
le vent c’est très froid
haughty stare distant windows

Truth from tyranny
Freedom from fear and loathing
Hopeful of future
Writer of poems and stories
Lover of woman my wife

Born of earth and corn
now third decade of her life
unfurls freedom flag
singing parties she attends
celebrating birth today

crush freedom today
power greed will have their way
gnaw bones of the dead
raining death from sky above
twas yesterday were beloved

White marbled headstones
rows gleaming sentinel trees
green blades turf of tears
snapping flags of colors bright
flowers draped o’er hero’s graves

long hours on the road
visit parents in the home
recruiters answer questions
serving country with passion

leaving gravity
soaring high in azure skies
celestial dome
pressing home squadron’s attack
see destruction far below

blue waves spray white spume
gray vessel greets harbor tug
sailors eye the port
liberty beckons forward
do not mingle with women

Private Smith yes sir
you feeling lucky today
no sir feeling poor
not good no sir strong yes sir
how about ten push ups then

mix loam with moisture
green racing to greet the sun
plant versus insect
chemical warfare begins
compete and cooperate

ringing in the ears
chatter of eager voices
grubby hands reaching
flowers blooming soon to die
long days at garden center

my pretty head filled
oh the stories are so real
romance and true love
if only he would come soon
before my youthful face cracks

ribs spiral to spine

form cage to protect my heart

red veins carry life

love and longing pulses hard

it beats in time to your breath


Fib poems

Crowd roars
Rotted flesh
Hung on hooks flies buzz
Best spices in town boasts vendor.

Beautiful flowers
Hides death in convoluted folds.

in spring
smell rich brown
chop and toss freshness
renewable harvest blossoms

On my head
With wild profusion
Where I’m not going quickly bald

in comfort
chrysanthemums weep
vibrant memories of love gone


Splatters puckered the placid river surface near the weeping willow.

Sluggish currents whirled over deep murky hollow where sleek otters slid.

Silent tread faded into cool woods leaving capsized canoe behind.

I’ve come to realize, I don’t look good in a tiny thong bikini.

Travel posters seduce us, believing tropical bliss looks white.

Furled buds greet the dawn while blushing sisters sing hallelujah

confused cries
imploring confused cries
fascinated imploring confused cries
reverberating fascinated imploring confused cries

invigorating disconcerted believing muffled moans
disconcerted believing muffled moans
believing muffled moans
muffled moans

Please go here to leave comments

Haiku Style Poems


All Content Is Protected
Copyright Protected

This is the direct link to my webpage at Outskirts.com with the ordering information for my first novel, ‘Real Magic’.

“Haiku Poems”

New Haiku added weekly to this folder. There are 111 poems in this folder; newest are now at the top.

fish long to fly free
many birds swim to survive
humans envy both

capturing spirit
rite older than memory
chip replaces brush

slap tails freezing pond
quaking aspens yellow leaves
full moon beavers dance

ate my pride
truth is

tremor wakes swiftly
rampant cascade tumbles mind
*fragile Will meets Faith

*fragile will meets faith
*fragile faith meets will
*fragile Faith meets Will

painted face eager
discordant wailing spirits
whetted blade thirsty

distant glow marks grave
feathered wisps drift high above
immortal in death
world replete with death
headlines scream latest carnage
the Minotaur lurks

wake refreshed, I stand
body leaps from mind, I float
senses lie, I fall

clashing opinions
fissures force stern rebuttals
willing submission

obeys gravity
pebble follows ballistics
heart in love does not

a leaf drifts to rest
stars fall from orange horizon
your breath tickles me

if colors were notes
and fish wrote trashy novels
we’d have stayed longer

cats crossing racetrack
monkeys run for the finish
try again repeats

after breathless high
sperm and egg create zygote
four days single cell

rounded globes waggle
enticing with her moist heat
indurated shaft

safe haven is near
drawn close by desperate hope
warm invite declined

rising seas flood rich
fiery droughts plague refugees
we just build higher

why are you smiling
relieved to lay down burdens
any more questions

after a month passed
bleak life was listless before
now glad pouring sand

cold tendrils swirl thick
stumble blind seeking my soul
starving for spanking

too ordinary
flowers water sky leaves grass
exotic hues named

cold water washing
smooth sand ground from ancient rocks
tide takes away sin

hissing leaves
fluttering wings
hissing wings
fluttering leaves

inhale fresh snowfall
rasp of flint sparks contentment
exhale nicotine

event horizon
moist eyes remember the third
still tasting your lips

cool mist beyond door
gravity tugs painted leaves
sun melts nightly dew

chirping chorus bursts
retrieve paper in driveway
fill soul with fresh air

broken waves lap shells
orange clouds gossamer twilight
sun drags thoughts away

dusk creeps on sandaled feet vespers calls cowls home shy glance shocking pink

poised on sharp canvas
scritch of steel slicing ash wood
graphite flakes tumbling

beams agitating
light slanting soft and brilliant
dull knife slaps palette

vibrant tangy oils
smush and blend holding to sun
swirls creating new

deft strokes mar surface
suggested lines create space
dab color with brush

mind’s eye holds vision
front porch with rockers and quilts
tart lemons turned sweet

fresh grass of deep green
picket fence thonk of child’s stick
dog barks in welcome

blank expanse defined
mortgage and bills forgotten
life rolls ever on

fresh green buds on twigs
chestnut hair curled round blossom
playful smile turns coy

Broken down transport
wet roads coming home found dog
chewing leather shoe

Just catching up now
after hiatus is past
love your words divine

visit every day
get my fix of poetry
fellow addicts here

Clouds swirl up above
people cower down below
no lights in home

Three girls loving barns
all have birthdays coming up
hay, hay sounds like fun

Pan plays notes of love
golden locks swirling in air
dancing in meadows

organ music plays
lion bobs girl squealing for joy
fireflies blink in dark

women throughout time
having fought our countries wars
deserve our respect

laughing child fills room
wistful smile do not grow up
hold in arms lover

bugle calls order
sergeant yells get out of bed
sun is up let’s run

clopping hooves echo
boots polished shining in sun
caisson follows horse

flag of cotton flies
colors of freedom and blood
tears of joy are shed

discipline honor
teamwork building loyalty
respect for buddies

poverty despair
a military career
for some offers hope

it’s hard to explain
racking up ill gotten gains
reporters a pain.

fractal flowing on
hydrogen two oxygen
clean water is life

echoes rattle loud
reflecting light flashing harsh
shows infinite space

Ya’know I may have
mentioned your turns of phrasing
pathways of the mind

a genius grumbles
the world stands still in horror
please say it ain’t so

broken heart crying
round body yearns for his touch
walk away in pain

Day woke slumbering
each color unique and fresh
drink deep of passion

sharp notes slice the air
hot cold bodies move and flow

empty soul lost hope
days pass in endless longing
poor is not a crime

dreams chase bitter streets
once was loved in measure full
drained out long ago

pair of sisters eat
black and white on black and white
no gray soul allowed

red and tart hanging
quilt of downy white crystals
scent of spring lingers

moan of contentment
stuffed mouth licking and sucking
save room for dessert

roots seek nirvana
eating stone filling belly
eons later burp

Blossoms fade as dreams
Each spray a new beginning
Warmth of friendship blooms

Water corrodes stone
walls constructed with labor
washed away in tears

On black feathered wings
hopped from each pillar to post
croaked off with their heads

white linen pressed flat
raised voice spills heart on table
date ends in discord

Olive pressed for oil
Lamps light kindled faith of hope
Share our daily bread

light moves north daily
strident call flashy plumage
hooked beak rending flesh

Eternal white bones

heaped high in random patterns
melting in summer

friend’s grief cuts sharply
each sunrise on life’s journey
darkness covers soul

three windows white squares
two cats intent orange hunters
one moment downstream

round orb stone not cheese
flask of libations clear stream
howl trapped under glass

fluffed indignation
raspy voice calls incessant
millet overflows

Shades of dun and brown
Rippled withers soft to touch
Ears hear her soul smile

Soft petals falling
wind whips in dancing circles
pink turns red slowly

Cerulean blue
Ground ward plummets burnt orange wisps
Trails chariot’s wake

Day flees nights clutches
Frothing horses urged in chase
Golden gown too far

gentle tone above
fresh linen pressed and folded
thank you for dining

Love across the miles
tired wings soar ever closer
warm embrace strong arms

desire flows in circuits
clashing climaxes

White crowns on green fir
Air whispers of secrets kept
Soon rainbow will bloom

Purple faces bask
Legs spindly from winters rest
Warm waters tempting

Green explosion soars
Reaches outward in splendor
Dappled light shimmers

each night the dark comes
visions of you in my mind
love swooping in dreams

delicate frosting
cakes hang on gracious green stems
trumpets herald spring

water corrodes stone
worms till segmented farmers
pierced on metal hooks

rest elusive night
ever chasing cotton tails
smell of lanolin

shards cut bloody stripes
learn painful lessons in life
self inflicts worst wounds

shrill ringing of phone
angry voices fade open
black words on white page

patterns beyond sight
carbon trade for oxygen
color smiles intrigue

Notes fall from budded branches as pale orb shrouded by mists rises

the way of yoga
difficulty arises
passes through food court

a steady droning
swirling blades of grass on green
golfers shrieking FORE

cracking of thunder
air vibrates with singing pipes
Harley rumbles by

waves cascading down
molecules dance in droplets
dark pines touch heaven

scents of solar winds
washed hues of primary tints
friendship black or white

needles make me faint
blood is drawn and I turn pale
not a good vampire

wake tired and sore
restless dreams burn precious fuel
I need a tune-up

one body wraps all
when six souls live within you
energy flows strong

breathe photons of light
consuming stored calories
beep of microwave

antiques show treasure
in glossed patina catch glimpse
pale dress floats in wood

the color yellow
an optical illusion
black is the true sun

my world keeps shrinking
outside the trees are blooming
inside my heart mourns

Thirteen moons have passed
Flowers wake feeling the warmth
Do they hear the clock

eroding sand falls
winter rain stirs fertile soil
stone gives way to buds

static ripples touch
reflections on skin drawn tight
boundary between

jellyfish migrate
warm currents stranded in death
translucent stingers

pale dusting of frost
eroding storm curling froth
bright shells dredged from deeps

a violin plays
she weeps for innocence lost
leaves turning umber

Please go here to leave comments


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.