Howling Madness

The wind, like a rabid dog,
mauled the tender skin of my face tearing
succulent warmth with carnivorous icy teeth.

Trembling trees with cowardice,
bare to the curves and fractures of their spines,
moaned with sympathy, but, dared not
pull the beast from the feast of my suffering.

I endured the ferocity, the viciousness
of its demented assault; gathered
an arm full of fat lighter and dry logs
to soothe the stinging in my wounded cheeks.


Thank you all for your kind offerings, and continued support with my long absences. Hopefully this will change soon and I can get back to doing what I love best, well, second best anyway.

A Little Rain Must Fall

Where will the dancers be
when rain ceases to fall?
poets when thirst ridicules words?
They will be clanking chimes of bones
performing in a wind that has no soul.

Forests won’t remember carpenters,
clouds won’t darken with the smoke of war;
sunsets will set fires in the sky, and nights
will sleep soundly without voices wet to mourn.

Fixing Flats

A leak sprung in my mind:
a screwy thought, maybe, but
more probably my worn out way of thinking.

I should take it somewhere,
get it patched, plugged or replaced.
Think of it, a new mind with zigzag treads
that’d wouldn’t hydroplane on stormy days.

Out of my budget, so I’ll pop another patch;
skid around on bald resolve, fixing flats.

A Green Recipe

It may be time for oil barons to be boiled.
Add vegetable politicians, julienne or chopped,
dice up a few judges, add garlic and salt.
Simmer and spice with cloves of lawyer tongues,
stir in all-media seasoning till it tastes dollar free.
Obviously, can’t do this, but it’s appetite for thought.

She Is What She Is

Her sleek outline curves from stern to bow
like a smile, friendly, with a red gunwale gloss,
wet and glistening, inviting sunrise to a kiss.
She isn’t a faithful lover: the sea slips
its smooth hand down the belly of her keel;
the breath of a passionate night to come
whispers in the taut cables of her mast.

Religion

Religion, as a word in Scrabble,
has very little value at all.
In the overall schemes of two-legged beasts,
its worth is incalculable in dollars and cents.
In the bony shadows of widows, and protruding
bellies of orphans stuffed from breasts of air,
its purity is proven when the lest of these are fed.

Waltzing With A Dream

I plan someday to stop working,
not today, but, hopefully not too far off.
Sit on my porch, and watch the sun, clouds,
wind and rain paint miracles across the sky.
Of course it’s part of our culture to retire,
go fishing, play golf and eat peanut butter
and banana sandwiches whenever we like
(take a handful of pills for eating whatever/
whenever we like, too). I, also, want to write;
write words that have the flavor of a juicy apple,
where the dripping sweetness to the last bite
leaves you with the seeds of more to come.
It’s a dream, a hologram of thoughts that spin
like animated dancers in a waltz that may never be.

Miss October

The temps here have started
taking off their steamy attire for Fall.
It’s been a long Summer tease, but
we’re getting ready to crawl under the covers,
and snuggle-up through the night
with a calendar babe of color.

Zorro

What do you do
when you’re created without a tail?
Obviously, you become a cat;
a cat named Zorro, furry, black and white.

It must’ve been hard
to grow up without a tail to chase, but
what foul air missed in swishes and twitches,
ears and long stretches made up with scratches.

To sleep forever for pearly white teeth,
is one way to slip out without saying goodbye.
But, you left everything cluttered with tears, now
your memory will have to clean up this mess.

( For my sister who just lost her cat)

Fanatical Followers

My shorts are getting seasonally shorter, and
my jeans are hanging precariously close to a fall.
I prefer the shorter to the longer, unless it’s
the un-hemmed intrusion of night into day.
But, my choices are whims of illusion, my pants,
fanatical followers of the realities of air.

Harvest Time

Her eyes have squinted tracks on sunlight
more years than first glance would show;
a smile flushes out a flock of stars
from a temple with priests of lightning and rain.
She dreams with the maidens of poppies,
but still walks with children of cloth and steel.
It won’t be long before tears make mud of earth,
and her harvest filtered through clouds and light.

Blessed Dysfunctional Clouds

The thunderstorm, that needed Viagra
to express its pleasure as a virile entity,
cooled the afternoon enough so I could
sit on the back deck, and listen to a hoot owl
and hawk harmonize on the same dinner melody.
I’ll never know if the screech, or the hoot,
won the take-out prize, but, I thoroughly
enjoyed the dysfunction of the afternoon storm.

Breakfast Marauders

There’s more to life than cinnamon pancakes,
and fat-sweet bacon frying in a non-stick pan.

But, when

the raging fragrances of breakfast are close
to breaking down the olfactory gate, and

drowning

my appetite in buttery maple syrup,
it’s time to cease my Sunday morning prayers—

“we give thanks...”,

and slice and stab the source of the raiding smells,
sending them to the bowels of contentment.

Skin Art

If I ever decide to redecorate
the birth-issue-fits-all-ages skin God gave me,
I’ll probably rip off two patches
of peel-n-stick blue sky, and
lay them over my dried-out hairy arms.

I have enough sun covering
the hills and valleys on my forehead—
ground cover that never needs mowing;
maybe, some moon-cream to moisturize,
and bring out a soft night luster.

I already plan to get an earring when I retire,
but, before that, I might steal two studs
from Orion’s belt, and brighten up my nipples.
I can hide those under my shirt.

Stud-Mutt With Means

Murphy loves tassels on shoes,
strings on rugs, and gritty lumps
from the cat’s litter box. Yes,
oh yes, that is what it is.

Dry Onion Soup mix is a favorite,
two packets to a box, chewed and
scattered all over the kitchen floor.

He’s in love with the girl next door,
who won’t give him a prayer of a sniff.
Milk bones and Pedigree dining at six
have him acting like a stud-mutt with means.

Needle-Tooth Pricks

She will stick a hollow steel fang
in my arm, or hand, depending where
she finds a vein unwilling to roll over.
Then, draw the plunger back sucking
my blood into a plastic “vial” throat, with me
sitting helpless on sterile butt-sticky tissue.

If she hits the mother lode on the first stick,
it won’t be as excruciating as the last. But,
I know better, my veins are tunnels of
make-the-eyes-squeeze, dog-slink rollers
away from needle-tooth pricks.

Always A Meal After

It’s been over two years since a fish bellied-up
above the ceramic castle in our aquarium.
It floated like a yellow cloud over those
it swam and ate and nipped at as peers.
I slipped the net under its fin-still form,
a dripping mesh hearse for the ride to the trash.
Wet coffee grounds to coffee grounds, covered
on a pile of gnawed-to-the-bone chicken legs;
the burial done, time to feed those that are left.

Keeping Up With

The crape myrtle is full of itself,
decked out in fine Summer blooms.
You’d think it was going out for lunch,
or receiving guests for afternoon cards.
Of course, it’s just keeping up with the petunias
wearing purple and white, everyday the same.
And, they’re determined not to be outdone by
uppity impatients sneering at them from the shade.
My God! A yard full of one-up-it petty “petalites”.
The grass, in lingerie shadows, will not be left out ,
and nothing will stop the pines and pears from
braiding their leaves with moon-dyed ribbons and stars.

Two New Dogs

The one hates the other,
the other is playful and young;
neither of these “anywhere-on-the-carpet”
dog food re-processors is house broken.

The first, was a male Australian Shepard,
street trained, between one and two,
or seven and fourteen in canine math.
The second, a male black cocker with
a schnauzer nose, cuddly, cute
and quick as a blast of back-fire smoke
when escaping the Shepard’s snout.

The younger came without his manhood,
the Aussie’s are intact for another week. But,
even without his testosterone birthrights,
I’m afraid he’ll always piss-out yellow post-its
telling the cocker to get out of his house.

All Weather Wear

Today, I’ll wear
a starched shirt of sun,
trousers of pressed trees,
and shoes of tasseled grass.

Later, let rain
trickle over my ears,
like long silver hair
under a broad gray hat.


Providing for my worldly needs has taken precedence over writing and visiting blogs. I apologize for not getting around, but next week I should be back to normal, hopefully.

Don’t Do windows

I’m lying in the gutter of this keyboard
begging for a long, hard drink of words;
swill from a rusty can of sentences, or
backwash from a brown bottle of lines,
anything to slake this blank page of thirst.
I’m not embarrassed to put it in print;
I am what I am wallowing between these keys.
Spare me a guzzle or two of letters,
I sure as hell won’t wash your windows,
but I will type out a line or two of verse.

Whooshfulness

The ceiling fan droned on and on
about the fruit of its whirling
being a full blown relative to wind.
With the evidence breathing down my neck,
it was hard to deny some validity to the claim.
As the only witness, judge and jury
to the “whooshfulness” of this argument,
I accepted it as a techno cousin of a breeze,
but not enough oomph to be a sibling of a gale.

When The Wind Blows

Trees, why do you tease the wind
with your green tasseled skirts
lifted above your waists?
What can you hope to gain
from your flirtatious wiggling about?

The wind is nothing but pure lust;
no semen in the thrusting of its loin.
You know this, yet, you continue to undress.

Don’t you hear the mocking bird
laughing at your silliness? The cardinal
flew behind the neighbors house
embarrassed by the gyrating of your trunks.

Enough! Enough! of this XXX exposé.

It’s not so much I mind you acting like a tart,
I’m just tired of cleaning up your mess.

Day Moustache

Morning has come,
like the milkman used to,
picking up empty stars, leaving
a blue basket of Grade A clouds.

I have a haircut at nine,
grass to cut after that, then
the rest of the day is mine
to drink it in at my leisure.

Moonlight Prayers

A boat in dock
collects more spider webs
than leaves do sunlight
on a hot July day.

Maybe, they’re attracted
to water as we are:
leaning into mother’s breast
when no other comfort will suffice.

They weave their moonlight prayers,
fragile tethers to nature’s pangs.
But, for the sweep of a black bristle broom
their fate would be a midnight feast.

Waiting

The leaves are listening,
being very still
for any murmur of wind.
Are they waiting for gossip
on rustling cousins two streets down?
Fire and brimstone sermons
from root-ripping itinerant clouds?
The air hasn’t spit out a hint
as I watch, and they wait.
Most likely it’ll be neither,
just silence on a long hot day.

Harvested

Your eyes,
sad as rotting tomatoes on a vine,
now, past wanting
the hungry pull of a hand.

I can’t imagine
the fruit wouldn’t have been
chin dripping sweet, but

there’ll be no tasting,
no savoring juices
exciting the genitals of a tongue.

When death
lays like polished granite over your eyes,
the pain will be gone,
the fruit finally picked.

Small Rewards

I sweat dream-drops
into the diamond-tipped dust
of callused hands and concrete alteration.

The sun burned passion into my thirst
causing me to strike the cask of orange stone
many times without speaking a word.

I may not cross the waters into Canaan,
march around Jericho and topple walls, but
the job is done, and I can sleep in, in the morning.

Working

Working out in the field this week. Will return by Sunday, I hope.

Saturday’s Ghosts

Well, now it’s Saturday.
The long neck ghosts aren’t rowdy
punching holes in the walls of my head,
but they did wake me up talking about:
pine trees chewing on the chin of the sun,
egg rolls swabbing tongues with duck sauce,
a Texas Hold-Em game that held me up.
Their chit-chat of Friday’s antics make me
determined to give their pop-top cousins
something to talk about in the morning.

Miller Time

Friday again,
my favorite day of the week.
The day I go to the lake,
grab a half dozen, or so,
bottles of Miller Lite
around skinny forty degree necks,
watch the brown glass sweat
as I drain their chilled-out lives
down the stressed-out throat of mine.


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Shoot For The Stars

It’s been awhile
since I shot my potato gun
at the stars

never hit any

but the thunderous fire
that bid farewell
to the missile of its birth

was close enough.


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Toast And Jam

The sun—
a favorite poetic theme,
spread its honey-gold jam
over the lightly toasted ravine,
with the far crusty edge trimmed off
by a serrated muddy creek.

What better way
to take the first bite of day?

All Used Up

His body rummaged through
drowning lungs of inevitability,
searching for the proper breaths
to accompany him to death.

There were only a few left—
short, gasping rattlers,
but he used every one
before the next occupant took his bed.

Water-Wool Thread

Water-wool sheared
from wild herds of rain
spins the finest crystal thread.
The first time I kiss you
will be stitched to the last, and
you’ll never feel the scratch of a seam
from our beginning to our end.

Heart Of A Storm

I watched your jowls
flush up with fury,
jagged electric veins
pop up and down
your stout gray neck.
I listened to you threaten
cowering trees, and neighborhood cats.
Yet, underneath all that whoosh and fume
beat a heart full of tears
for thirsty roots of dying souls.

Dressed For Love

Silence draped the night air
like a satin gown flowing
over moonstone slippers
stepping on the cracks of a ruffled sea.
It was formal and eloquent,
articulate in whispering soundless words,
definitions beyond meaning, expressions
tangled like tongues in a midnight kiss.

Sorting Echoes

They called at 8 p.m. last night
while we were listening to seagulls
squawk about being seagulls,
waves and sand arguing over boundaries
neither have, nor ever will honor,
an over-the-shoulder retort of a red hot sun
shoved into the silence of a watery night.
We decided to wait to return the call,
our ears were busy sorting through
the echoes of all we’d just heard.

A Mother’s Chill

She sits wrapped in a towel,
trying to stay warm in a poolside breeze.
Her children, a boy and girl,
swimming with wings holding her breath,
unable to feel what she feels.

Naked Beauties

I dog-ear waterfalls,
like memory pages
in God’s premier issue
of all time naked beauties.
Their roaring words slam
onto indifferent rock ears,
tangling strands
of green and white,
always flowing,
always pulling me
into the never ending
wetness of a first love

Fast Food Mugging

A murderous gang of fast food fries
mugged my heart in Greenville, Alabama.
As best I can determine, since my eyes
only read obits in the now and back when,
they made off with approximately 24,382 beats.
I also think one of the greasy slick sticks
slipped a hand inside the vest pocket of my lungs,
and lifted several hundred old and fading breaths.
Not a lot when calculated in minutes and hours,
assuming I have years to recover what was lost.

Music To My Ears

Do you hear it?
Tell me I’m not crazy…
I hear cello music
stripping caulking from my windows,
hanging notes on my ears
like antique baubles
that chime in perfect harmony
with every thought I have of you.

Forbidden Fruit

I know right and wrong,
admittedly, wrong better than right.
When I choose what I know I shouldn’t,
pangs of guilt like Ninja warriors
spider-crawl from the pit of my stomach—
they thrive in dark, smelly places,
throwing their poison tipped shuriken
at every thought milling about ear to ear.
Likewise, on the rare occasion when I squeeze
my fat belly through the eye of a needle,
angels shake off dust from a closet in my brain,
and leap to sparks that gleam in my eyes.
Now, that I’ve shown I’m familiar with both,
why do I want what I can’t have?

Maximum Capacity Twelve

Instead of a graduation ceremony,
from the hallowed halls of politician “U”,
the graduates bow before the altar of
“all sides of any issue”, and flick
their tongues through “tickle your ear” blades
of cheap plastic—donated of course, shredders.
Now don’t get weepy eyed, and
pressurizing your veins with sympathy,
all feelings and intelligent thought
have been disconnected from their brains.
They also get to carry one home
in case any of the flapping strands
start bonding together in an honest opinion.

Menu Of Molecules

It’s belly swollen, like
a water hose ready to burst,
stretched out on warm asphalt
digesting a meal of critter a la carte.

I could envision it slithering
through the weeds and tall grass,
flicking through a menu of molecules,
airborne specials of fur and fright.

Think-N-Wear Thoughts

I love Spring mornings
when the sun towels dew
from bushy heads of green,
and white cloth clouds
scrub night from baby blue skin.

My think-n-wear thoughts
flap in a tumble-dry breeze,
refreshing what I’ll put on my mind,
before I start sweating out the day.

Squinting Rosewood

I woke this morning
to my brain sweeping
the detritus of dreams
under the rug of a first yawn.
The sun, with feathers of birdsong,
wiped the dust of darkness off
the squinting rosewood of day.

A Special Rose

Roses are the most common
floral expression of love.
Six for $9.95 at Kroger
says as much as $29.95
at the florist shop with
the little bell that thanks you
for coming in and going out.
Twenty bucks is a lot to pay
to say your welcome to a bell.
But, for someone more special
than common can convey,
the first ray of morning sun,
cut diagonally above its fiery roots,
is the only stem and pedestal
that can hold my thoughts of you.

Alphabet Rust

Like old “Buk”
I’m looking for the perfect poem,
one that captures the birth of a world
in the dot above the “i”.

Of course, if I found it
I’d be done, and have no need
for metaphors kept in zip lock bags,
nor synonyms in a screw top jar.

All my boxes of “a’s” and “e’s”,
separated from the “t’s” and “q’s”,
have no value as alphabet rust, only
strung together are there threads to read.


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Duets With Dust

He’s wearing sunglasses
and holding a plastic saxophone,
a red silk shirt and no pants;
whiskers protrude from his snout
like arms on an old TV antennae.
It’s a stuffed animal, of course, with
a “press-here” button in the empty paw
that makes him bump and grind,
and toot a tune that’s irritating as hell.
A jazz rat playing duets with dust,
limited engagements, as I allow.

Feet Don’t Fail Me Now

Calories stormed the walls
of mouth and teeth
under cover of fried chicken,
mashed potatoes and gravy.
They compromised my tongue
with unholy bribes of taste,
repelling down the throat
into a warm sea of Belly Bulge.
They're intent on colonizing
the outer territory of my waistline,
but I’ll damn their venture
with the lapping flames of my feet.

Honey

I love honey
in whatever form it comes:
a sweet, slow-mo waterfall
raising the level in a glass pool
of smoke-the-tongue barbeque sauce;
a word whispered in my ear
drizzling dreams on unglazed thoughts
from a ladle of sterling lips.



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Mercy Of Clorox

It’s laundry day,
and I have a basket full.
There are blue jeans I wore
when the weather turned cool, shirts
still sweaty from last week’s walks.
Bras and panties (not mine of course)
and a pair of defenseless briefs,
even Clorox can’t absolve.

Can’t Teach An Old Dog New Tricks

I caught a whiff of a lady's perfume
while taking my afternoon walk.
It must’ve got hung on a leaf overhead
waiting on a nose to break its fall.

My eyes burned vision like tires on a car
trying to catch the owner of the scent.
It was smell pleasant enough, and
I thought it’d be polite to return sniff for sniff.

They were way too slow, and had to wait
on me before rounding any curves. So,
my organ of smell was all that got pleased,
and it was pleased on several more turns.

Sun Puppies

Shadows scamper around my yard
like a fuzzy litter of frisky pups.
They yip and nip at a passing breeze,
stirring up the ire of jealous, old pansies.

Darting in and out between legs of light,
a mother that protects her paw-less heirs.
They nuzzle and nurse on sagging rays
growing taller and stronger by end of day.


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On The Road

Sunday Morning CBS reviewed
every movie
coming out for ‘07 summer release.

Some, seemed exciting enough
others
the allure of chocolate boogers.

My girlfriend watches this show
religiously
church, as it were, with inspired commercials.

I always sit scratching hair off my thoughts,
wondering if
Charles Kuralt ghost writes the show.

Putting On Airs

We all have personal waste factories
with internal smoke stacks pointing “south”.
There’s no switches, levers , or valves
to control accidental emissions release.
They rumble through working guts of automation
(fine tuned by the hand of God)
in their own inconvenient timing, of course.
Most cover the end of the line with fancy filters,
colorful, sized-to-fit cotton or high dollar silk.
Useless for protecting the immediate environment,
works well for putting on airs, if you get my drift.

Illuminating Infrared

Today, as I walked on
the backs of waving shadows
part of a conversation jumped
from a pair of wagging pony tails
to an ever inquisitive appetite
in the belly of my inner ear.

The one blurted out to the other, as if
I was one of the myriad of tree reflections
flirting for the attention of rubber soles,
“you won’t believe what Alan did
when he turned out the lights”.

Everything in me stopped,
except for my feet that knew better
than to turn around to hear what Alan did.
When my mind caught up with my stride
I switched on my peeping-tom,
night-vision imagination, and filled in the blanks
with illuminating infrared.

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What’s In A Name

A cardboard box sits on my desk,
navy blue on the sides and ends,
white on the top and bottom.
There’s no mystery what’s inside:
blank checks, check register and
deposit receipts from the young
drive-through teller who insists
my first name is “mister”.

Junk Thoughts

I took a couple of junk thoughts
I had laying around, and
tied them in the shape of a cross.
Covered the frame with paper-thin dreams,
and tethered it with hope to fly.

I ran on the soft sand of clouds
pulling it high with the wind of will.
It rose and dove, and danced this two-step
several times before it reposed at a height of pride.

It looked good hanging out with the sun,
new best friends kicking up the dust of blue sky.
All was well, right and fine with my fancy
‘til its pal ran away from a brood of dark bullies.

They took their saw-toothed sticks,
and beat my dream to its death.
All that was left was a frayed end of hope,
a whispering will of wind, and
a mind full of junk thoughts.


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Headstones Of Trees

I watched a worm squirming
in the beak of a robin
feeling sympathy for its plight.

There was no hope of escape,
only a moment before
being gulped into oblivion.

Doesn’t seem fair to be
Monday’s blue plate special,
especially without recompense,
or a ceremony for sacrificial service.

But, nature has its own set of ethics—
actually, she doesn’t. We’re the ones
that write books of rules
printed on the headstones of trees.

Spare The Rod Spoil The Tomatoes

Staked the tomatoes today,
they’ve gotten tall enough
to be tethered to rigid control.
Sun and water are necessary peers,
but, could cause them to fall.

Moonshine Muse

Another poem about writing a poem,
which means, my muse is no where to be found.
I’ve looked in the bottle of beer I’m drinking,
she’s not surfing the foamy waves of my thirst.

There are kids across the street
batting a ball over the sound of laughter,
but I don’t see her in the gray of dusk, nor
in the audience of grandparent eyes.

Stirred the stew of paper on my desk,
her carrot head didn’t roll to the top.
She’ll sashay her butt in around dawn, likely,
stinking of shine from the ladle of the moon.

Family Reunion

His thoughts,
unlike a covey of shot at quail,
will never reunite
under the bramble of wintry hair.

He spends hours
talking to whiney ghosts
hiding under the rockers of his chair,

and often goes to visit
the only child of his parents,
like a brother he never had.


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One To Blame

It’s the guns!
It’s the guns!
No, it’s the people that shoot the guns.
Pressures of modern day living.
Life is too fast.
Leadership failure.
Mad human disease.
Overcrowding.
Globalization.
Moral decay.
Maybe some of all,
mostly, just the hatred of one.

Chill Out

Yesterday, the wind
was jovial in conversation,
and easy to hang out with.
Today, it stormed out
with a bitter tongue,
and obviously wants
to spend the day alone.

First Grade Poem

I write poetry because
I enjoy playing with words;
putting them together like
six year olds their first day at school.

They all have quirks
that define who they are:
ribbon and lace dainties, scrappers
with scratched knuckles and knees.

Some mingle well,
others cry to go back home.
It’s the ones with a far off gaze
that tell more than letters show.

Inspected By

I clean my glasses once a day
with tap water under the faucet.
My fingerprints, from scratching my eyes,
come off with little effort at all.
The smudges that are hardest to remove
are halter tops barely covering
what they smartly advertise,
and back pockets on ladies jeans
you couldn’t slip a peek down in, to see
if there was an “inspected by “ label inside.


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Shadows Are The Fingernails Of The Sun

What?
You say this can’t be so?
Of course it is!
There are times the sun rubs the earth,
and shadows are nowhere to be found.
But, if I show you the palms of my hands,
my fingernails are hidden from your view.
There is no place the sun touches that
eventually a shadow will scratch its hide.
So, shadows are the fingernails of the sun,
if you still don’t believe disprove it if you can.


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Cheeseburger All The Way

People that don’t show age
should be ashamed, I think.
It’s not fair to those that do:
belly buttons with their faces
bowed in prayer; skin that
looks like a topography map.
What is it that keeps them young?
Attitude? Refusing to eat fast food?
Exercise? God forbid!!


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Loose Breeze

A chilly little breeze
rustled flirtatious fingers
through the curious hairs
peeking out of my open shirt.

I quickly turned around,
not wanting to appear
accepting of its advances.

It brazenly nibbled
the outer edges of my ears,
and whispered lewd suggestions
sending shivers down my spine.


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Easter

Death reigns
for a moment…
sunrise

Sunrise breaks
the bonds of night…
Easter

In The Shadows

I’ve been trimming tree limbs
trying to get sunlight
to my disappearing grass.
It doesn’t like the shade,
too dark, too cold, deadly.

Accessorizing

A poet takes their bones and bowels, and
wears them like a string of cultured pearls.

A very fashionable accessory
that goes with whatever they write.

Don’t Tell The Well

I confided my darkest secrets
to the crumbling brick hole
of an abandoned well. Certainly
seemed a safe place to lay to rest
the remains of rotting thoughts.
I never expected my every word
to be repeated over, over, over...

It Ain’t Fair

When I get over saturated
with my golden brew of choice,
I wilt, stumble and fall.

When I load up the flowers
with the crystal liquid they’re addicted to,
they could pass the most stringent breathalyzer.

Out Of Here

The Sun flies
over the horizon—
homerun

Happy Trees

The oaks in our front yard,
like a pair of randy young studs,
fling about their flirtations
at every hussy passing breeze.
This is how they procreate
I understand, I understand…
but, Lord God Almighty
why does everything,
including my nose and truck,
have to be coated with their joy?


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Posted: Private Property

A tiny speck of a splinter
moved into the palm of my hand.
I didn’t advertise “skin needing caretaker,
only sharp and pointy apply”.

I’ve made several attempts
to evict the slivery interloper, but
it screams to my bleeding-heart fingers
invoking some archaic squatter’s law.

I have the latest in high tech weaponry,
tweezers and a Swiss Army knife.
I will prevail regardless of consequences
to retain what has been mine since birth.


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Blazing Hawk

The sun climbed a tall pine,
as it does on cloudless days.
At the top, it leaped and flew, like
a blazing hawk honed in on a prey.
Its fiery feet grabbed the horizon, then
slipped away in the dark of night.


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Late Afternoon

Soft, white petals
tumble down the slope
of a gentle breeze.

Birdsong, like
a kite tail, follows
a setting sun.

My thoughts
end the day
on the night ahead.

Beef Stew

Turbulent emotions
roil like a boiling stew;
one minute it’s sliced carrots
snorkeling in the broth, the next
shriveled up pieces of beef
surfacing with the ghost of you.

Passing Through

The breeze tosses a flag
up and down, like a child,
up and down, like a child.

A robin jumps from limb to earth
singing songs, eating worms,
singing songs, eating worms.

Shadows cover lawn and drive,
touching both, holding neither,
touching both, holding neither.

A Toast

May all your blues be skies,
your darkest hours full of stars;
may the last tears you shed
water the seed of a rising sun.


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Spring Concert

tree limbs
blooming with birdsong—
standing ovation

Back-Ups

The school buss's brakes
squeal at 6:50 a.m.,
Monday through Friday.
We have an alarm clock, and
the television is set to a timer
that goes off ten minutes before.
I guess if the power gets knocked out
grinding metal on metal will replace
the obnoxious beep, beep, beep;
rain, thunder and trash can lids performing
gymnastic routines up and down the street
will suffice for the morning weather report.

Tapped Out

I looked at my hands to see
if any words were loitering about.
None lounging in the wrinkles
pitching pennies to scars and scratches,
bungee jumping from bent knuckles, nor
poised off the nails of fingers ready to type.
I took a toothpick and ran through the life lines,
nothing but remnants of some melted M & M’s.
This poem was written courtesy of the keyboard,
I was able to tap-tap-tap it for a generous loan.


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School Of Thoughts

My thoughts,
swimming like a school of porgies—
jumping, darting,
crinkle up the placid surface
of the first low tide of the day.

Would You Believe

A toothy T-Rex
came into the house, and
ate the cat, just like that.

One bite,
two gulps—her meow
was hard to swallow.

He left as he came,
all I need do is explain,
it was that bitchy cat, or me.


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(I promise the cat wasn't harmed in the writing of this poem; even an emaciated, hunger-crazed T-Rex wouldn't mess with her)

Watermark Express

Drops on the shower door, like
tiny locomotives on invisible rails,
streak through “S” curves and straight-a-ways
hauling off the remnants of a day
digging in garden dirt.

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Eating Worms

lottery blues...
birds delight
in their morning fortune

Last Stand

The last of the firewood
stands in the firebox, uniform
split and trimmed, like soldiers
in a light armored troop carrier
waiting to take on fire.

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Sibilant Sing Along

The shadow of the deck chair swayed
to strumming strings of brass wound notes
floating on shallow pools of filtered sun.
Neither sharp, nor flat, nor stuttered staccato,
just soft, and pure, and steely sweet.

Two Act Day

With high reaching wings,
and propelling blades, it ignores
the wistful wants of waiting clouds
to take the hand of a rising sun.

Seagulls circle like tethered toys
looking for silver glints of edible scales;
a pair of mallards indignantly demand
drive-through orders of hand tossed bread.

Coffee cups echo with chit-chat noise,
frying bacon wafts like a sirens song.
Morning has directed her characters of choice,
this afternoon we’ll see the wind perform.

Rude Reminder

This actually happened exactly as written.

Yesterday, on my daily walk,
a boy of about four or five
looked up at me and said, “hey! old man!”
Of course it immediately brought
my blue-sky-wandering thoughts to the top
of his lightning-striped, helmeted head.

I kept going
rummaging through my repertoire
of appropriate replies for delicate ears,
and the best I could find—
after clipping off the gray-haired adjectives,
was, “hey! young boy!”

Feeling like I’d offered equal tit for tat
I started searching through the trees
for that patch of cloudless reverie I left parked
under the pale eye of a daytime moon.

My Nikes perked up their pace for several steps,
when, like an arrow shot dead center of my back,
I heard, “I’m not young, I can ride a bicycle!”
No need to stop, turn, and hip shoot a retort,
I knew he was right, I’ve been riding for years.



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Night Songs

This is a piece I wrote years ago. Definitely needs some editing, but as I don't have time right now, here it is in the raw.


In the middle of a particular forest rests a tiny pond guarded by shady oaks standing years of faithful watch. Reflections of dangling moss adorn her aging face like gaudy earrings. Willows bend and sway like uniformed school children nodding to the old watcher’s tales of all they’d seen come and go.

Night ushers in the audience of moon, stars, and bands of gypsy clouds to catch the evening show. Programs are never issued, as the bill of players is always the same. The creatures that go unnoticed during the normal course of day slip out of their bramble hovels to entertain those with ears to hear.

Crickets arrive first nestling in their dew-coated, grassy chairs; Katydids light on leafy platforms announcing the concert is ready to begin.

The maestro for the evening’s festivities is a squat-legged, bulging-eyed bullfrog named Cat Gut Slappy. Cat Gut diligently carries out his nightly duties as generations of Slappys before him have done. His ascension to the post of leader of the band had only recently taken place. His father, Razor Lips Slappy, had to pass on the mantle as the deep rich tones that once were his, were now more scratch and rattle, than clear and soothing. His reign over the woodland troupe had lasted longer than any of his predecessors. He had been credited with adding a jazzy flavor to the concerts, and after much haggling between the generations, it was accepted.

Razor Lips sits perched on the highest knee of a friendly oak on the far side of the pond so as not to distract from his son’s authority. He swells with pride, and blinks back tears from his sagging eyes, watching his son carry on the family tradition. No one knows how long the concerts have been taking place, but, it really doesn’t matter as the family of night creatures enjoys sharing their gifts of whistles, chirps, croaks and clicks. On nights when the moon is full, and her light bathes the entire community, he forgets himself, bellows out with a rush of air that reminds all around his time has past.

Cat Gut hops on the flat rock wallowed out by grandfathers, too many to remember, reverently placing his feet on the history of his ancestors. Silence blankets the arena like freshly fallen snow. As his eyes survey the host of onlookers the stars momentarily hold their twinkle in anticipation of the feast of notes preparing to float their way. His gaze falls on an elderly matron toad, Ribibal Sweets Slappy, his mother. Unlike her husband she can still belt out the songs that serenade the heavens each night before the angels close their eyes. The son gives a wink to his mother, and the low earthy tones of dusk begin.

The Katydids stroke their violins producing wave upon wave of tenor melodies, while the crickets fiddle harmonies flavoring the string sections contribution.

Cat Gut turns to Billy Bang and the tree frogs to join in with Ribibal adding volume to the choral background; sopranoes, Rhapsody Red Robin and Ruffle Sassy Bluebird, chirp in at Cat Gut’s nod applying the final touches to the lively array of night songs.

In the cool of late evening listeners reflecting on the cornucopia of sound are satiated with delight. The moon and stars give silent yawns, then gently pull the gypsy clouds over their eyes, and drift off to a restful sleep.

Shadows In The Rain

Shadow wings
over a gypsum moon,
born of a soft white sun
in a brass-lamp world.

Paper dolls weep
in rain walls without doors;
tears are seeds of laughter
in the hands of an old muse.

Tissue Thin Shoes

Do you ever feel like
a pair of tissue thin shoes
exploring the depths
of every mud puddle
two malicious feet can find?

You thirst for sun and clouds, then
slam through watery reflections
leaving rivulets of silver linings
draining back into mimicking mirages
for other worn soles to be plunged.


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Dressed To Sell

The "For Sale" sign
in the neighbor’s yard
sways on knee-less wire legs
dressed in a white and blue,
wax-board, starched suit;
brown grass shoes with
scuffed-up curb toes,
round out the attire
of this street side hawker of homes.

Sunset

Fire bristles
on the feathers of her wings;
clouds, smoke-memories
of a fleeing flight.

Blow On The Bones

My thoughts shoot,
like dice across
a split-felt mind of random,
tumbling black dots decelerating
from blow-on-the-bones frenzy,
to craps, or roll again.

Pending

Storms approach from the west
promising colder days to come.
Today, I head south to demand
payment for work two months past,
a light rain starting to fall.

Be My Valentine

Two mallards chase around
the shrinking footprint
of last week’s rain,
frogs, hidden in the brush,
serenade their Valentine mood.

Garden In A Weed

We plant the seeds
from the fruit we are.
Some, in fertile dirt beds,
others, wind born spillage,
in gutters and cracks.
Raindrops and sun
nurture weed and flower;
does God prefer the one,
over the other?


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Spurned Lover

I kicked sleep out of bed at 3:30 a.m.,
tired of cuddling its soft, warm skin;
I had thoughts to wrestle with,
conversations to rehearse prior to being spoken.
Its feelings were probably hurt,
but I had things to worry with,
it’ll just have to get over it when it can.

Double Down

From behind
crow caws and caws,
dark horizon

Phone call,
check’s not in the mail,
oh shit...

Skeletons To Bones

The majority of thieves in the world
don’t wear ski masks, carry weapons
of gunpowder and slice destruction,
performing their drama in front of
rewind and freeze frame security cameras.

They wear ties, pressed suits, heels
that announce the authority of their presence.
Weapons of choice are cell phones, board rooms,
lap tops, and employees that left click
the death sentences of whomever they choose.

I don't mean to imply that all business people
are high dollar crooks addicted to blood. But,
we all know those that snort greed and ambition
up their brown stained nostrils, multi-tasking
from prey to promotion, skeletons to bones.

Focus

My reflection wobbles
up and down
the dark sides of the cup I’m holding;
features fade in and out,
as I sip the bitterness of coffee.
The question that comes to mind is,
am I coming into focus,
or slowly disappearing?

My Tears

My tears, like beads in a rosary,
count the wasted decades of love,
scattered shards of memories,
dimples in dust to be swept out.
Explanations are for your ears only,
to me they’re rocks comforting glass.
The blood that spurts from each word I write
will never convict you of a crime, but you
sliced my heart with the steel of another’s lips,
a taken life cries for vengeance.

Poetry In A Garden Of Fire

In gardens of fire we grow
gold moon studs to pierce
the dark tongues of midnight dreams,

origami shadows with sun-feather wings,
hollow lightning chimes
to dangle in the wind-beards of storms.

There’s no yellow fruit, green, red,
or sprouts breaking earth, only words
rising from the furrows of fallen stars.


Today is the one year anniversary of Laughing ghosts. For year two, a new name, slight change of color, but the same old poet, at the same old address.

Faux Spring

Fire roars
in the hearth,
waxing gibbous moon
rises over a chilling
chorus of croaking frogs.

Flower In The Woods

When you pick
a flower in the woods,
you’re stealing its wild heart.
For a time it becomes yours,
pumping rain and soil
through the veins of your dreams.

It dies, they always do.
You don’t feel remorse,
nor mourn the bruised petals of beauty.
After all, it’s just a flower in the woods,
and tomorrow you’ll find another.

Ceramic Felon

Grabbed for the cup,
instead of being picked up with my hand,
it shot over the mouse pad
spewing its steaming brew on the desk.
Papers were ruined, the computer speakers
acted like a defiant breakwater, but
my favorite calculator, with soft rubber keys,
either boiled or drowned;
it flashed err…, then off.

Tagged

I was tagged by Russell Ragsdale. Because he looks so cute in his Darth Vader PJ's, here are 5 things some may not know about me:

1.) I graduated from a non-denominational seminary in the '70's. I have never preached a sermon (my kids might disagree with that), God is too kind to impose that on the world.

2.) I play rock golf. A game I invented to keep me somewhat amused while I walk. The rules are very simple. I see how many times I can kick a rock without it going off the 7 to 8 foot wide asphalt trail I walk on. As the trail twists, turns and undulates, it's not as easy as it sounds. My best is 9 times.

3.) I traded in a dilapadated vertebrae in my neck almost 4 years ago for a sturdy, reliable pre-owned one. Not sure the mileage on it, but so far it's running fine. I also got a shiny titanium plate/plaque to go with it. All for a paltry $108,000.00. Quite a deal!!

4.) Because of the above I quit playing real golf, started writing poetry and playing rock golf.

5.) I've cheated 4 times (not at all what that immediately brings to mind) and played the real game. If you haven't gathered I love GOLF!!

Cold As...

The damp, cold air
reached through my skin,
grabbed my bones, and
shook me like a tambourine;
teeth chattering,
hair follicles stinging,
sniffing back a waterfall
trying to form a scenic view
flowing out the end of my nose.
Saying it was as cold as
the shriveled breast
of an old lady dressed in black,
stirring a caldron full of dead rats,
seemed an understated simile to me.

How Far Will You Ride?

When the wind blows, and
you pull out your token to get on board,
a mocking bird will ask,
“how far will you ride?
How far will you ride?”
An answer isn’t required,
it’s only a reminder there is a destination,
the journey’s just time spent in between.


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Scent Of A Rose

I saw you in the shadows
of a dream I had,
riding wild horses
on the petal of a rose.

Drifting like snowflakes
on a dark silent night,
you held out your hand
and I reached with mine.

Light broke our hearts,
and swept away dream,
but your memory is mine
in the scent of a rose.

Picture Gallery Full

I saw the hawk again,
yesterday on my walk;
it flew down from a high perch
to a lower one just off the trail.
We exchanged glances, then
it froze in a straight ahead pose.
Not needing a second invitation
I grabbed my cell phone,
pressed the camera icon, aimed
and clicked to take the shot;
it flashed “picture gallery full”.
I quickly selected options,
erase all, and erase all again;
threw my arm back in the air,
searched through the viewer,
and found only a bare limb.

The Promise

I know I promised
to mop the kitchen floor.
I said I would,
I will, I will…

after I walk,
after I nap—
and anything else I think of.

If there’s time leftover
I’ll push and pull,
rinse and wring,
you have my word on it.



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Tart Of A Poem

This page
begs for a poem
to sully up
its clean white reputation.
Who am I
to stand between
paper and desire?

Outlook For The Day

Morning slipped out of the dark.
Definitely there, but more out of obligation
than enthusiastic about performing its daily chore.

Noon, always a brief moment, seems to be
lining up with the same overcast attitude.

I’m sure afternoon will be infected by its peers,
a disposition more related to night than day.

In The Light

I made a turn
down a dark street,
and when I came out
I dripped shadows,
like raindrops,
everywhere I stepped.

I rolled in the light
like a dog in dry grass,
I just wanted it off of me.

The sun eventually
dried my demeanor, thankfully
the trail of black spots
disappeared.


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Conquistador Pat

Like a Spanish explorer, or conquistador,
I claimed this plot of ground as mine.

I planted a mailbox like a flag,
with an address as a coat of arms.

Borders were set with neighbors right and left,
and allies established across an asphalt sea.

I defend it against mice and ants—natives
that refuse to civilize to higher standards.

The gold of flowers and birdsong are plundered
for consummation by my eyes and ears.

Posterity will consider the worth of this venture,
and settle the spoils of conquistador Pat.

Conversation Overheard

The wind escorted
a handful of brown leaves
over a serpentine curb onto the concrete drive.
They rattled and chatted
about global warming, or being gone
before the lady with the red Honda returned.
Since I don’t speak wind, or
any particular dialect of leaf,
it was the best interpretation I could make.


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Forgetful

I pulled out a book of poetry
I had read before;
started at the first poem,
and stopped at the third dog ear.
Nothing had changed since my last visit:
words were the same,
line breaks hadn’t moved,
but the metaphors seemed to jump at my eyes
like a small child wanting to be picked up.
Maybe, they did this before, and I don't remember.
I played with them, rolled them over and around
the edge curling planks in my mind, then
closed the pages, and smiled at my forgetfulness.

Shadows Don't Kiss

I don’t recall agreeing
to live with your shadow.
It moves like you,
in fact it mimics everything you do.
But, its touch is cold, no
actually it’s worse than that,
there’s no discernible temperature at all.
There’s no color of you to explore in its eyes,
no cheeks to warm against my own.
I’d press my lips to this dark ghost, but
there’s nothing there to kiss me back.

Thoughts On A Log

I hung my thoughts over
a log in a stream, and let
the cold rush of water
wash away stain after stain.

I threw them in the feathers
of a hawk on a limb;
he shook and flapped
till they all ruffled dry.

I placed them back
under my scalp and skull,
pressed and neatly folded
ready to wear in the lines of a poem.


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Within Reach

A drowning man grabs for rescue
at the cold, watery hands
stealing his last breath.

Splashed supplications splay the air,
screams are desperate offerings,
sacrifices on fading ripples.

The sky is neither blue, nor gray,
reason disappears like smoke in fog.

A drowning man grabs for rescue,
at the only thing within his reach.

Mama’s Recipe

Ate black-eyed peas,
and collard greens,
a New Year’s day tradition
to bring luck and prosperity.
A custom of Southern origin,
without any proof it works, but
who’s going to argue with good raising,
and mama’s recipe for spicy greens,
ham bone peas and white rice.