Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash. Leonard Cohen

Friday, June 26, 2015

In the Middle

The last item checked off Friday's list
I jump into my car
Head South
The desk clerk at the hotel
Knows us by name
Our little secret
We take off our clothes
Our identities
Our responsibilities
Giggle like the kids we actually are
Hide under the covers
Two turtles in a doublewide shell
Poke our heads out
Only to get a little water
Or burgers and fries
Come check-out time on Sunday
We reassemble our adult costumes
I drive North, you South
Count the days until next time
In the middle.

submitted for Magpie Tales, Mag 275

60 Words

Ashes to forehead
Hand to the fire
Mold your own morals
Whatever's required

Pray to your God
Know that he'll hear
Hate all the others
The ones that you fear

Enter the church
Wearing your sin
Sit near the preacher
Welcomes you in

Spit out old hatreds
Blue, white, and red
They offer love
You shoot them dead.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Words Count with MZ, 

Tuesday, June 23, 2015

Ode to A/C

You save me from the burning depths of Hell
From life in the Inferno oh so cruel
Embracing me in your arms, clean and cool
If not for you, in misery I'd dwell

But you surround me like an autumn breeze
Though better for your constancy and speed
So loyal, you are never to recede
My love for you keeps rising by degrees

Though some claim you are frigid, find you chilling
You've healing powers to which I avow
The remedy to soothe my fevered brow
What 'ere you ask of me, you'll find me willing

Through August depths you answer all my prayers
I love you, and I'll always put on airs!

Tuesday, June 16, 2015

Leave a Message

image by Sarolta Ban 
She calls the number every day
just to hear his voice on their  answering machine
Her friends and the kids say
that it's been long enough
that it's time
but she can't erase the message
It's all she has left of him
After all,
his scent has faded
from his clothes and the bed linen
She no longer gets startled
when she awakens alone
So she clings to this last piece
She won't make him a ghost
at least, not yet
She listens to him say
"Leave your message after the tone"
She pauses, then
whispers "I love you."

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Tuesday Platform and
Magpie Tales, Mag 274

Tuesday, June 9, 2015


Men who act like children
We see them every day
Perpetual adolescents
Shout and tease and play

Complain about their bossy wives
Always on their tail
But when they get arrested
Who comes to pay the bail?

Men behaving like children
Serve only to annoy
Women want a grown ass man
Not a little boy!

submitted for Magpie Tales, Mag 273
and for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Flash 55 Plus

Friday, June 5, 2015

Forget Me Not

Wild Violets for Mother's Day
painting by artist Paul Wolber
Pink carnations at the prom
White lilies for the wedding
Roses on the five tier cake
The petals on their bedding

Honeysuckle in the yard
A garland on her head
Daisies in the garden with
the tulips bright and red

Perfume scented lavender
with just a touch of clove
Tucked within her diary
Saved mementos of her love

Violets pressed between the pages
from another life
Faded into memories
when she became a wife.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Bits of Inspiration, Floral Explosion

Tuesday, June 2, 2015


photo by Toni Frissell 

Beyond repair
I drift back home
Some say life
began in water
that existence was crafted
out of a soup
So I chance to return
add my frame to the mix
Bones are a good beginning

I will keep the obol
locked in my teeth
Ride the sea's billows
ready to deal my way 
across the last river

Perhaps I will hear
the mermaids sing
Add my voice
to the sirens' call
the fiery despair
that burns my heart
finally will be extinguished

Even if
I wander the banks
of nothingness 
a wraith 
for one hundred years
What does it matter?
I am already a ghost.

submitted for Magpie Tales, Mag 272, Sunday Whirl, Wordle 205, and Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Tuesday Platform