Down the Rabbit Hole — a poem


Imagine a rabbit nibbling grass
out by the portable classrooms
of a city high school —
the students, raised on technology,
immersed in STEM curriculum,
staring blankly at what clearly isn’t
AI and what doesn’t fit into the laws
of probability, unless you account
for an infinite number of variables;
perhaps chaos theory enters into it.

Many of the students will glance
but not perceive. It requires too great
a paradigm shift to observe and recognize.

But then there is that one student
who sees, smiles up at me as I hold
my classroom door open, and says,

“A bunny.”

That child will suffer greatly in this
world and conceivably become a poet.





My Response to Will Shakespeare’s 18th Sonnet for Mrs. Johnson’s English 4 class — a poem


My girlfriend is not all of that.
I mean, she holds her own against the weather in June.
The heat and storms ramp up in May big time,
And they just go on forever.
Sometimes you step outside and the sun will knock you over —
                for real!
Other times you go weeks under clouds and rain;
And they call it The Sunshine State!
But yeah, my girlfriend’s better than the weather here,
And she’s always fresh, you know?
So, I’m writing this so others will know,
And maybe spray it on the wall that surrounds her neighborhood —
Make her immortal like.
Maybe I’ll get an “A” for this, you think?




A Natural Source of Nitrogen for Plants — a poem

A Photoshop/AI truth,
whether city or flower
or humanity’s wisdom.

A sad reality we see
and believe no matter
the lack of honesty.

Crack in the façade
overlooked, jumped
over, for the agenda.

Should a flower bloom
in city center, a sprout
unwanted, then blame

the fertilizing BS spreaders.


* * *

Another quick response — unexpected and unintended — to an image on The Sunday Muse. I never know where these things are going to take me.



Process of Elimination — a poem

photo by Charley

tell the truth
but tell it by saying what it is not
rather than what it is.

from “EGGS” by Matthew Sherling


It isn’t that I started out by being a hermit;
or that I discovered a deep-seated distrust
for my fellow human beings — really.

It wasn’t that I felt the need to escape life
as I had lived it, casting off technology,
time, and ever-pressing deadlines.

It won’t be that you’ll come upon me smiling,
looking like years have been peeled away,
in better emotional and physical shape.

It all turned out to be necessary, though.



Ode to the Cha-Cha Salt Life — a poem

“Dance with yourself with all your heart and soul, and occasionally others….”
                                                                                                                                                                     — Homily, by Jim Harrison

“…if I in my north room
dance naked, grotesquely
before my mirror….”

                                                                                                                         — Danse Russe, by William Carlos Williams


I tripped

along the razored

stone, high above pounding

waves, baptized

in sea spray.


by ecstatic solitude

I performed

charismatic obliques.


by the Spirit of the deep,

I sprang

into an arabesque joy.

When you entered

the sacred dance

floor, we wedding-marched

down onto the soft-shoe

sand and began

to jitterbug

our love, acknowledging

the applause of our adoring

crowd of breakers.

* * *

I owe everything I know about writing from Jim Harrison prompts to my favorite poet, Jilly.

How We Ended Here — a poem

Kristof Ven

Yes, my child!
O, yes, we once
were civilized.

In my lifetime — sadly
not yours — we were held
together by a glue
of, if not love,
at least feigned concern
for one another.

Truly, though, little one,
it was a veneer — a fake

What happened, you ask?

My child, my child!
We allowed our true,
instincts to escape —

Pandora’s chest

or Pandarus’ ploy? 


Here’s a fact, little one:
We weren’t engineered
to get along — we strive,
we grasp, we hate. Trust
no one, little beast —


especially not me.

* * *

Another image was dropped into The Sunday Muse that would not let me be. 



“Pay No Attention….” — a poem

I have moved
on from this cascade
and feel no need,
no desire for reflection.

Horrid events
captured in a pool
at the base of a wall,
only memory’s projection

I am forward looking
to my own, my own

* * *

So, Chrissa at The Sunday Muse brought a prompt: “This is the curtain [see image above] behind which I feel last year was lived (and this year, with exceptions, is as well) and I’m very interested to see what might lie on the other side. Or what lurks on this side. :)”

Why is it I can never do these the easy way?

Mother Losing Her Children — a poem

“Natural Woman” Digital Collage Art “Covid Creations” by Susie Clevenger

Unphased by the moon, she trods
her garden of diminished returns.

Out on a limb, fowl she gathers, cages;
for idiots defoliate helter-skelter erecting
green-friendly blocks of luxury cells….

As she gazes out, derision plainly displayed
upon her face. She wonders aloud, asks,

“Wasn’t anyone listening to Joni Mitchell?”

* * *

Faced with this image posted on The Sunday Muse, and the decimation of what was once habitat and oxygen source around our area, I just had to. Really.

Côtes du Muse* — a poem

image: Charley

“Language is wine upon the lips.” — Virginia Woolf

a small pour, please, in a crystal stem
pull a fresh cork and decant – breathe
it’s not about new but vintage unique
not the bouquet only but the palate
words sucked through the back teeth
the challenge of tastes the first sip
then clink clink clink togetherness

* * *

Another response written as I was falling asleep. Seriously. When I awoke this piece ended with two and a half pages of “ddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd”!


* — Yeah, I know the title is probably nonsense in French. I’ve never learned French. If you call me bad names in French, I won’t be offended.

Spirits Adrift — a poem

A spray of ghosts, mists
of creatures unfortunate;
who met their fortunes
at the bottom — at the bottom.

Winds carry no grief
save the Northerlies.
They howl, they moan
through the riggings
and the sheets, crying.

For you on the land,
you are granted grounding
markers that tell location;
you can come back…
and tears as flowers.

But for us, we fly,
flung up on a crest.

* * *

So, a good friend and I have been tossing poetry prompts back and forth. This image drew me and, as I was slowly ebbing towards sleep — hands on the keys — this is what came out.

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