GloPoWriMo 2018

T. S. Eliot famously wrote, “April is the cruelest month,” and people have been debating ever since. They debate which month is cruelest, what Eliot meant by cruel, and even whether he was the first who coined it. Having been raised in Minnesota, I can truthfully say that Eliot didn’t know jack about April’s cruelty at all.  April in the northern plains is a horrible tease that suffers from a raging hormone imbalance.  But I digress.

This year I’ve decided … after much soul-searching, wavering of thought, and quavering of heartbeat … to take on the marathon madness called GloPoWriMo.  This hardly can be considered a momentous announcement worthy of great notice, as literally (and, in some cases, illiterarlly) thousands of others are throwing care aside to join, Lemming-like, into the fun.

My concern in attempting this feat is that my creation of poetry – which I (in the throes of delusion, perhaps) equate with the workings of Michelangelo’s studio – will eventually more closely resemble that of Henry Ford’s assembly plant (you can have a poem in any color you like as long as it’s black).  Perhaps what will emerge will be a more disciplined artist – one who doesn’t lean on excuse, who doesn’t “wait for the muse to show herself.”

Whatever awaits in May, April, do your damnedest!

April Sucks



April’s Dance

She turns,
in steel-toed Redwings.
A bouquet of drill,
and saw,
she traverses
the stage, dismantling

winter’s set.

We watch in awe, feel
winter’s reluctance to exit,
take cover when seasons upstage
one another.

At the end of the dance, we applaud.

Mostly, we’re just glad it’s over.

Tanaga: Declaring


I have faced so many pyres,
burned upon my heart’s desires.
Open glances, thousand fires;
my love for you never tires.

* * *
When we met I called you friend.
Our hearts joined, began to blend.
“Mahal kita,” beating trend:
“Too much, too much, without end!”


Posted at dVerse Poets Pub, for Meeting the Bar.

Unequally Yolked


Huevo, my dear!
or pickled – with beer.

like my brain.
alleviates pain –
and anxiety?!?

Sparrow in Korea.
Chicken, Duck,
Goose and Quail.
Suck Balut
just for luck.

Oval ova
ovum?  No va!
(Don’t go there)

Omelette, Egg-drop …
Humptey’s kinda cracked.


Posted in dVerse Poets Pub for Quadrille night.  The prompt…?  Egg, of course!

Sacrificial Poets

I thought this might be worth a second look.

Life in Portofino

It’s Friday, August 11th.

Poetry fishing.

I’ve come up dry and wanting.

The desire to net an elusive sonnet
fails to compensate for the wrong lure.

Three of us on a tri-hull
trolling Lake Michigan.

The cooler is stocked
with angst, metaphor, and several cases
of Heileman’s Special Export.

If I have to tell you that it’s a beer,
you’ve never struggled for your art
as a poet.

Sunburnt and giddy,
posing on the pier with our catch —
Cooper, skunked the day long,
slinks to a surreptitious book store.

It’s a hell of a thing when a poet
pawns off store-bought filets
to his family.

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The Constant Stranger


Lost soul riding a lightning strike!
Damning thunder slips shudders
through a tormented, hammered
city.  God, you know the damage
such a one wreaks – the tears,
the torment that the so-called
innocent face.  But who?  Who
are innocent, truly?


Not me, for certain!


Damned for the truth, I know
my guilt, and I plead guilty
before the judge.  Long ago
the verdict was given, fairly.


That’s me, damn straight!


When did my own purity not
reek?  When did my righteous
strivings not offend the heavens?
I ride Satan’s lightning, laughing –
bitterly laughing.


I have been cast from hell – cast
away from the gates.  Not one
within will recognize the soul
that has been lost to them!


My sentence is wearying – bear
the burden of the freed.  Carry
the suffering of joy.  Learning
love’s demand; become strong
in my own weakness.


Take the ridicule of intelligent,
reasoning others, and proffer
kindness, mercy, and sympathy.


Captive me, a soul lost to self.



Posted at dVerse for Poetics.





You asked me last night how I deal
with the pressure, where I go to vent,
all the political baggage I take
in throughout the week.

My answer tonight was that if I stay
in poetry, imbibe
literature, all the diatribe just becomes
gas, a methane flame off the landfill
of my brain.

I’m reminded of the news — released
by the previous regime — that cow’s flatulence,
the methane emitted by incontinent bovines
is one of our greatest sources of greenhouse gasses.

A perfect metaphor, I think,
for all political rhetoric lately —
bovine gas on both sides of the aisle.


Something from my first day blogging.

Life in Portofino

Dallas-thunderhead-cloud_231234 from


When clouds roll in
and obscure our light
there is nothing I know to do
but bend backwards
as far as my backbone allows
and hold my breath.


Dissatisfaction and annoyance
has the ability to break bones
and leave a body dry,
bleached, brittle in the rain.


Smile on me, sunshine.
For I am weak without you.
Shine on me.
For I lose direction without
your light to give me guiding shadows.

— 4-27-2016

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