Nightmare Times

Shadow Creation,
misting down
attic stairs.
Cold “haint” fills my nightmare times,
takes leave with my soul.

Be gone, you!
“Undigested beef!
More of gravy than the grave…!”
I refuse your haunt!

Late night sweats.
Down dark alleyways
being chased.
“Have mercy
upon my tortured spirit!”
I cry in the night.


Posted to dVerse Poets Pub for Meeting the Bar.






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.


Limerick: Hot-Crossed

Let me tell you about a woman named Belinda
Who sat herself down on a fiery cinda
The neighbor’s dogs heard her howl
And they set up a raucous yowl
Poor Belinda’s rump roast was baked but quite tinda

Thus poor Belinda’s tail ends


Posted at dVerse Poets Pub for Quadrille night.



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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Cut and Clarity


Fifty pulses per minute, at rest.

Burning sapphire, my heartbeats
trace a syncopated arrhythmia
on the chart.

Lively, my love keeps it molten.

Hot, flowing gemstone that singes
all but the girl who’s my setting.

Light flares within.

How did I live before this?


Posted to dVerse Poets Pub, Quadrille night.  The magic word is “burn.”


Silent Sunday



Starred Man


Life on Mars.  I found
this cut on a long-ago
album.  The innocent
idea of leave your troubles
and woes, light the fuse
and away it goes.

Red roadster, red roadster,
let Starman take over.

Off of cruise control –

ground control –

cruising the Solar.

What a system!


An oddity.  An odyssey.



Wordless Wednesday


Silent Sunday


“Sitting Things Out,” by Charley