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.