Took My Breath Away

I’ve struggled with men over a football, struck
dimpled balls on fairways and greens into a hole,
flirted my ass off turning “NO” into yes, Yes, YES!!
Won or lost, it was the challenge I loved most.

But, with this breath-stealing, snot river cold,
there’s no line to cross, no holes to enter,
nothing I can finesse into a positive score.

Suck on these, swallow two gel caps,
sleep for hours, and wake up the same.
Of course, it’s not my first,
I was deflowered as a child (perverted little viral beast).

It’ll have its way with me a few more days, until,
this mucus lusting lothario takes another's breath.

Bare Limbs

The trees outside are bare,
with limbs swirling around their trunks.
I’m not a fan of Winter, but
nakedness I advocate all the time.
There’s been many a pole
I’ve watched bare limbs twirl around;
doling out green leaf after green leaf,
making sure the covering wouldn't return.

Favorite Time Of Day

I walk Murphy, my Australian Sheppard mix,
most days, but, with the wind chill being 14
he’s just going to have to bark, whine,
growl--under his breath, and bounce off the walls.

A rescue we got back in June, that didn’t know
how to play with toys, people, nor other dogs.
He was scared to death of men, but, never me,
which I thought was very strange.

All of the above has favorably changed:
he scatters his toys all over the house, and
some things that cause us disdain. We walk
with a regular group of four, or five bitches--
all their owners are female too. It is our favorite
time of day, I hope my long johns can be found.

When The Well Is Dry

What’s the point of writing, just to write?
The well is dry, there’s no words left
hiding in the mortared walls of my creativity.
I look at the snow, snow we rarely get,
and see just that, instead, of an invasion
of white hedonistic flies procreating on dead grass;
eventually, leaving the slush of their sin
to stain our soles going out for the mail.
I drop my thoughts down the dark shaft,
again and again, hoping for lines to fill
the empty strapped slats of a page.

A Fool And His Gold

The sun races through her hair
like fire-angels playing tag.
The sparkle in her eyes is probably fool’s gold
but, I’m addicted to the glitter of that dream.
I definitely know better having sluiced
many streams and creeks the same.
All I need is one, and maybe this one's mine.

From Fog To Fog

The fog on the lake New Years Eve
was smooth and silky, seductive and mysterious.
The fog in my head New Years day
was neither seductive, nor mysterious:
it had the fury of a woman scorned,
the fiery quills of a porcupine cornered.
Thankfully, though, the memories
will fade into myths and legends, since
the batteries in the video camera were dead.