Another Case of the Whoopsies

Splash!  It tipped over, out of my grip,
Pouring its contents across the table.
I never handle these things well.  I
Learned long ago that I get fumble fingers
Late in the evening.  Well, no use crying over
Spilled… well, you know the rest.

dVerse – Poets Pub: Quadrille 11
Tonight’s challenge includes using a form of the word “spill.”
I used it more than once in mine.  Join us.
A quadrille is a poem of 44 words
(not counting the title).

Wishful Thinking

Lonely Bird

Photo by: Chase Henderson (Charleston, West Virginia), from


Coexist can’t be
for some will choose killing ways
bird songs are silenced

Last night a terrorist entered a place where coexistence is valued.  That to which he pledged allegiance denies coexistence, and many voices were silenced; brutally.  We won’t gain peace by refusing to call evil by its name, and we certainly won’t gain peace by appeasing those who are all about violence.

Sole Man

I’m a sole man, fishin’ from the pier.
I’m a sole man, brother can you hear
the sound of flounder croonin’ tunes
under the boardwalk
or the dock of the bay?

I don’t mean to carp,
but solo’s no way to go;
I’m a natural born grouper.

I’m a sole man, fishin’s in my blood.
I’m a sole man, salt water or in mud.
It’s a family affair… fishin’!
We are family… gone fishin’!
Wishin’ and hopin’ and fishin’!

Great cod almighty, I’m a sole man!

Smooth As Silk

Dark Alley


Silk.  He mulled over the possibilities, and smiled.  Hiding in a darkened doorway off the crooked, crippled alley, no one stood as witness to the tortured, tormented workings of John’s mind.  Alley creatures kept their distance from his malevolent being as a matter of course.

For throttling he had never considered the devilish irony of silk – so smooth to the touch – as a garrote.  He held the remnant of the outer garment captured from his latest victim, still warm no doubt, although well away near a mile through the tangled twisting byways he knew as the hairs on his forearm.  The soft smoothness of the swatch and the deceptive strength of it, so well made; possibly high-end.  For a moment he regretted not lifting her purse.

“Not for mammon,” he muttered.

“No, by God!” cried he, glancing skyward as though he feared retribution at the mention of that name.

“Not for bleeding, damned mammon!”

He wrapped the strip of black silk about his left hand, threading it between thumb and forefinger.  Again he wrapped it around his left.  He repeated the process with his right.  Pleased with the feel he snapped it tight, loosed it, and snapped it again.  To try it!  The thought filled him, revived him as liquor.

A sound.  A scuff.  A step.

Poised, he stood waiting.

A sigh.

A woman’s sigh – perfection!

Stepping out to meet her in the dark, silk at the ready.  He was met with a plaited cord cast like lighting about his neck.  A knot that met his Adam’s apple.  Deviously marvelous innovation that!  As she jerked the cord tight he looked into her eyes.  Familiar.  Red mark about her lovely neck.  Her black frock missing an expanse about the hem.

He began to descend into darkness.  How devilishly smooth it was about his neck.


(304 words – not counting the title.)

I Guess It’s My Head

Looking beyond the embers of bridges glowing behind us
To a glimpse of how green it was on the other side
Steps taken forwards but sleepwalking back again
Dragged by the force of some inner tide

– David Gilmour and Polly Samson, High Hopes

Yesterday I strove
with the lust of bygone
days lust to relive
turns dusty dry
in my throat

Wins and losses
as summer reruns play
bear no surprise ending
do not bear repeating

My eyes face forward
the eyes in my face
so why glance askance
why digress as I progress

It’s not for those I’ve lost
whose paths I’ve crossed
it’s about the change
the only constant
in my constantly
transforming life

I guess it’s my heart



Flight of Fancy


Jimmy got his pick
1/48th scale B 17 model
hot nose art decal
redhead in a negligee
reclining with arm beneath her head
cryptic legend,
“Shoo Shoo Baby”

Jimmy is seven
his mother is unhappy
but Bill was his favorite uncle
Jimmy loves airplanes

Jimmy knows
Bill sent away
paid for a image
guy who recreates artwork from WWII
Betty Grable’s “Sentimental Journey” and “Memphis Belle”

Bill called “Shoo Shoo Baby”
his flight of fancy
said she looked like Cindy
the night of the prom
Jimmy heard Bill
say this to Uncle Jack

Jimmy likes war planes
he flies it over the Nazis
alert on the woven
rag throw rug in his bedroom

“Shoo Shoo Baby”
he whispers as the bombs drop

dVerse: Poet’s Pub
OpenLinkNight #174

Between the Silences


The Starbucks buzz and yammer crashes over thought
business and busyness is the trade of the marketplace
you and I work perhaps perpendicular, perhaps more
parallel, somewhat askew because we wash along in
the waves – sound waves, laughter, persuasion, cajole
– light waves, door opens, closes, colors entering –
thought is muffled and the child within me gets to work.

For an hour I seem to be deep in my book, which I am.
But also for an hour I scurry through the dark tunnels
as I catch and capture conversation that eddies, roils,
not comprehending, but actively inhaling what is not air.

The dangers I face, daredevil I, by refusing to muffle
with earbuds the steady roaring swells and breakers
of inanity, profundity, incredulity, and raw insanity
are made tame when weighed against the pure gold
of dialogue’s fodder – my next characters auditioning
for the big role yet to be imagined, to be written

This is when the creative process shows itself alive
baring teeth and rearing up in defiance on hind feet…
between the sterile silences.

dVerse: Poet’s Pub
OpenLinkNight #174

Unearthing Love

“She’s unearthed words buried deep inside me where I kept them hidden with my hope” ― Kirk Diedrich, Junk Shop Heart

I never dreamed that I could converse
with flowers and stars and birds!
She came and changed my universe;
we communicate with unearthed words.

(Verse 1)
I went under when a personal Vesuvius blew.
Buried in the ash heap of a bad love gone bad.
That I existed under the fallout nobody knew.
I stayed buried; my misery was all that I had.

Arrrcheology of the heart, that’s what she was about.
Digging the dirt that had covered me over.
Arrrcheology of the heart, she came and shoveled me out.
She was digging me; made me into a lover.

(Verse 2)
She’s a woman who majors in undervalued commodities.
She looks for value where others’ve seen none.
A woman who enjoys specializing in vintage oddities
and I thank God she’s discovered I’m one!

Arrrcheology of the heart, that’s what she was about.
Digging the dirt that had covered me over.
Arrrcheology of the heart, she came and shoveled me out.
She was digging me; made me into a lover.

Are you digging?
Are you digging what I’m saying?
She’s been digging.
And it’s with me she’ll be staying!

Arrrcheology of the heart, that’s what she was about.
Digging the dirt that had covered me over.
Arrrcheology of the heart, she came and shoveled me out.
She was digging me; made me into a lover.

Sheeee was diiiigging… and sheeee duuug up meeee!


dVerse: Poet’s Pub
Poetics – The Music in You
Tonight’s prompt is to write a song poem.
So blame them; not me!


Daily I am reminded what a wonderful life I have lived since that fateful date.

The drive to the place where we agreed to meet was nerve wracking.  It was not anything to do with the drive itself; I don’t even remember if there was any other traffic on the road.  I was driving to meet the woman I was certain would become my wife, my best friend, my partner, my soul mate.  So I sweated mercilessly.  I chewed Altoids – one after another.

Six months, twenty-eight days later we shared self-written promises as we married.  Non-traditional, but exactly words that matched our personalities; we in essence said “I do.”

And every day since – whether verbally or not – we have re-spoken “I do.”


A plant needs rich soil

love grows from richness unseen

our roots intertwine


 dVerse: Poet’s Pub

Haibun Monday #15 All Things Quotidian

Haibun Monday #15 All Things Quotidian

The Daily Show

Butterfly wings lightly flutter across my lashes.  Furtively peeking around our bedroom curtains.  Whispering me awake and then blushing the sky over her brazenness.  Lightening the mood as she lifts me out of my gilded slumbers.


Some mornings she arrives fully robed, shades drawn.  No show to speak of; total washout.  Other mornings she comes naked as a newborn.  All flash and there you have it!  But when she dances with many veils, wow, what a show!


Here comes the sun

mockingbird’s, not beetle’s song

burlesque dancer, dawn.


dVerse: Poet’s Pub

Haibun Monday #15 All Things Quotidian

Haibun Monday #15 All Things Quotidian