It’s never about birds in poetry;
it is about our inadequate,
marrow-filled bones that
weigh us down
reminding us of the immediacy
of the dust.

 It’s never about stars in poetry;
it is about our stars spouting
neon pulses and xenon gas,
LED, HID, blue light,
street light, security light flooding
our city coffin.

It’s never about trees in poetry…
It’s never about silences in poetry…

It’s never about… reality.


Okay, blame Nosaint Augustine!  After he wrote one of the many great completions of Jilly’s Challenge poem, he said he was waiting for me to do one.  Careful what you ask for, people!

Paean to My Love






“She walks in beauty like the night”
She’s won my heart not just by sight!
She’s won my heart it’s hers to keep.
She fills my heart awake, asleep!


Posted to dVerse Poets Pub for Meeting the Bar.  Frank Hubeny, our host has asked for “Odes, Poems of Praise.”  Technically this might not fill the bill as an ode, but it’s as close as I’m likely to get tonight (it’s a wonder I’m able to type coherently!).

I’m also posting this to Jilly’s November Casting Bricks Challenge as a half-poem challenge.  The meter, rhyme scheme, and syllable count are fairly straight-forward.  However, if you decide to take on the challenge — you are in the driver’s seat.  And this baby handles tight corners and twists, as well as off-road adventures.


Wit and Wing


A cage of ignorance
has built itself around
our children.

Too many live
in a warm comfort,
freely lounging
on sofas –
thoughtless sofas of respite.

Oh, but those who bend
bars by wit, who refuse
the lazing charms;
they are beating
past earth’s dull pull,
the thermals of knowledge!

These are the ones I watch
of a day,
feeling my soul rise
and course
with them.


The Egyptologists’ Rag


Discovered a lost chamber using cosmic rays
at the Great Pyramid of Giza!

The mummy they uncovered was out of breath
a bandage bound old wheeza!

Say, Hey nonny nonny!

Fiddle dee dah, fiddle dee dee!

Kick it!

Bandage bound old wheeza – in Giza!


Breaking news… 4000 years in the making!  This is actually true (click the photo caption for the story).

Posted at dVerse Poets Pub for Quadrille night.


A Wit’s Proper End

Writing out of the Hole

Artwork by Ralph Steadman, posted on Pinterest


Now I find myself
in a hole I am writing
myself out of.

A poet opened
a window where I eat breakfast
and let irony in.

It blew in gales
of obscure metaphors leaving me
gasping for verbs…
for heart connectors.

My wiring is frying —
I am trying to dig myself
out of this mess with a pen
…with a pen.

Aye, with my wits.

Whosoever Drinketh

Woman At the Well

various sources


[Here comes she, bearing her plight.]

(A man!  Will his words carry sugar
as does all the rest?)

[She suffers more than she needs.
Her exclusion from the throng
is her own guilt.]

(A Jew!  Why is he waiting here,
and at this hour?)

[Her heart remains open – Thank
you, Father!]

(I cannot face him.  He must know
that I am an outcast.  Perhaps
if I ignore him.)

[She cannot know that I am here
to bring her back into the world
of the living.]

(Maybe he will ignore me.)

“Will you give me some water?”


Posted on Poetic Asides in response to the prompt, “Whosoever __________.”

Also posted as a half-poem on Jilly’s November Casting Bricks Challenge.   Feel free to run… or walk with this however you see fit (I’m not easily offended; trust me!).



Static Mass Emporium


He doesn’t look directly at the sun just clearing
the tree line, gazing instead down at the lake –
directly into the apex of sunlight, blinded in waves.

After supper they hadn’t driven directly home.
The pool hall they went to required him to drive
perpendicular to the quickest route, turning right.

She watched him angle the cue ball off a bumper,
avoiding the eight-ball, and sinking the fifteen –
the three had been aligned perfectly; scratch-proof.

“Is that how I entered your heart, off the side?”

“No,” he smiled, bringing the fifteen back out,
realigning the balls.  Chalking the cue, he whispered,
“You always take the straight shot.”

The cue ball jumped the eight-ball perfectly.  “Crack!”
Again, the fifteen dove into the pocket.  His hand
came up to his chest, covered his heart.

“Let’s go home,” she whispered as she took the cue,
and carelessly sunk the eight in a far pocket; no angles.


Posted at Poetic Aside (even though I’m not doing the PAD… why not?).  The daily prompt was Triangles.

A Matter of Love


several sources on the internet


What is reach?

Is it overcome
or forget
or regret?

How does it smell?

When did he first notice
the far-off look in her gaze?
When and where the stutter
in his heartbeat at night?

Reach is arms
brought to you by love
in the starless morning
wrapped around you
a blanket against
cold unreality.

She pulls you in close
snuffles softly between
your shoulder blades
before you reach
the next state of unconsciousness.

This is reach.