Wednesday, December 30, 2009


(i carry Christmas with me)

i carry Christmas with me
(i carry it in my heart)
i am never without Christmas
(anywhere i am Christmas lives;
and whatever is done by me
is because of Christmas)
i fear no reprisal
(for it is my choice)
i want no ridicule(for the beauty
of Christmas has become my world)
and it is whatever
a child's smile has always meant
and whatever melodic carol is sung
Christmas will be within me.

here is my deepest secret nobody knows
(the birth of love is the cause of my joy
and the bounce in my step
and the feeling of heart
for a time called Christmas;
which grows deeper than the soul can grasp
or mind can conceive)and it is this wonder
that's keeping the spirit alive within me.

i carry Christmas(i carry it in my heart)

i am santa

***based on "i carry your heart ~e.e. cummings"

Thursday, December 24, 2009


One of these days
I'll get around to it.
Every Christmas

for twenty three years
it has been my "thing".
A tradition that

insinuated itself
into my yearly yule
routine. Grown daughters

home for the night
wide-eyed as they used to be.
Innocent as I'd like them

to remain. "Believers" still.
And as all and the mice
assume a non-stirring

posture, I bide my time.
Waiting for every last one
to achieve dream stage,

sugar-free sugar plums
not withstanding. In the
silent night I creep

having donned the outfit
every year for twenty three.
Me, my bag, my scratchy beard.

No one sees what they don't know.
For the night my cover is secure.
I am the man. I am Santa.

One of these days, I'll get
around to it. I'll stop
wearing the suit and slinking

through a dimly lit Christmas Eve.
Pass on the tradition.
One of these days. But not today.

Monday, December 14, 2009


Masses with their packages
Christmas cards galore,
Simple folk who pick and poke
on the bargain basement floor,
Holiday music fills the airways,
Jingle peace in a midnight Santa manger,
people couldn't act any stranger
than they usually do, but
it's Christmastime, and
anything is possible.
There is no time to stand in line,
but lines still do overflow,
especially on this Monday,
ten days before "the show"
Sending packages to Aunt Flo,
cards to cousin Mary Jo,
certificates to I don't know,
and miles to weep before I go.
A Postal Inspector at wits end,
stamping, pasting, weighing
waiting for the end of day,
heading home in a one horse open sleigh,
torn between showing for work
for more of this madness tomorrow,
or hitting the roof with the
Magnum. "Merry Christmas this!"
punctuated by ricochet sounds
and the fluff of large snowflakes
and body count hitting the pavement.
But, suppressing a sneer,
he'll be right here to guide you,
getting your presents there on time.
But over at UPS, "Going Parcel"
will be a real certainty.

Saturday, December 12, 2009


Imbibed a wee much Christmas cheer,
and someone spiked the punch,
the mix within doth stink of gin,
and that is just my hunch.
You truly are inebriated,
you've climbed into a tree,
singing bawdy Christmas songs,
oh so merrily
"Come down you Ding-Dong, you've been bested,
you're gonna get us both arrested!"

Friday, December 4, 2009


I remember my Grand-Father.
He was a large man, quite jovial,
every time I would visit him,
he would be seated in HIS chair.
It was a big chair for a big man.
I would stand near his feet,
gazing up at his ice blue eyes.
They twinkled when he winked,
and his nose wrinkled when he'd think.
He would always tell me,
"Climb up here little man!"
And my smile lit up the
eastern seaboard, rumor had it.
Granddad always asked if I
was behaving myself. That was
something everyone in my family
always asked over the years.
"Been good, boy?" he sized me up.
I would nod loudly leaving no doubt
that I had. "OK, I'll take care of you"
he would always say. Then, he'd tilt
his head toward his candy jar,
and hold one finger crossing his lips.
This meant, take one and be quiet about it.

Then on one visit, he let my father
sit in his chair. It fit him nicely.
He looked like a large man himself
when he'd sit in Granddad's chair.
I would stand near his feet,
searching his cold blue eyes.
They twinkled like Grandpa's,
and his nose turned red when he'd drink.
He would always tell me,
"Climb up here little man!"
And my smile filled my face
from side-to-side, rumor had it.
My father always knew, but
asked anyway if I was behaving.
Some family traditions never
changed over the years.
"Been good, son?" he verified.
I would nod tentatively leaving some doubt
that I had. "OK, I'll see what I can do!"
he would always say. Then, he'd tilt
his head toward the candy jar,
and hold one finger crossing his lips.
I remembered what this meant,
take one and be quiet about it.

There came a time when my father
could no longer man Grandpa's chair.
He had turned frail, and weak,
not a big man anymore. Not even
when he sat in the chair.
He called me to his bedside.
I came to stand near his feet,
searching his old steel blue eyes.
The twinkle had faded,
and his nose held his glasses aloft.
He gazed at me and said,
"Climb up here young man!"
And his smile shined upon my face
with me by his side, rumor has it.
My father didn't have to ask
the age old question, he just said
"You're a good man, son".
At that moment I was glad that
Some family traditions never
change over the years.
I nodded solemnly accepting
that I had become that.
"I need you to see what you can do!"
he said. Then, he'd roll
his head toward the candy jar,
I handed him a striped cane
and held one finger crossing my lips.
He knew what this meant,
I'd let him have one,
but he had to be quiet about it.

My Grand-Father and Father handed down
the mantle which I have accepted gladly.
Coming from a long line of large men,
I was now a large man, quite jolly,
every time children would visit me,
I would be seated in Father', my chair.
It was a big chair for a big man.
The younglings would stand near my feet,
gazing up at my warm blue eyes.
They twinkled when I winked,
and my nose wrinkled when I'd think.
I would always say,
"Climb up here little one!"
And their smiles would light up
like Aurora Borealis, rumor has it.
And I always asked if they
were behaving themselves. That was
something everyone in my family
always asked over the years.
"Been good?" I'd size 'em up.
A shy nod came, leaving no doubt
that they had. "OK, I'll take care of you"
I would always laugh. Then, I'd tilt
my head toward Grandpa's old candy jar,
and hold two fingers across my lips.
This meant, take two and be quiet about it.
I am Santa. Like my Father before me,
and his Father before him.
And that meant, I can change the rules!

Tuesday, December 1, 2009


November is in the rear view, and I wave it a fond goodbye. It started with much ambition: the Poetic Asides November Poem-a-day Chapbook challenge ( was at the fore, I thought the NaNoWriMo ( would be the answer for that novel I've been thrashing about since puberty, keeping the micro poetry ( page on facebook vibrant, finding my flash fiction fully ensconced in the "Flashy Fiction" ( page and attempting to put this blog to better use. I realized early that the choice I made for my novel was a treatment based on one of my stage plays called "Taking Up Space". The story is solid, but I couldn't release myself from the preconceived ideas already solidified in the performance of said piece. I found that I was locked into perpetual poet mode.

Having been hammering the poetry out since the April Poetic Asides challenge, I couldn't think in terms other than the poetic nature of my writing. Now, with the writing complete for the challenge, I am entering into the revision phase of my chapbook selections. Based upon the song catalog of the Beatles, and driven by the inspirations apparent, I feel confident in this direction. This set is entitled: "The Beatles: Their Music as Muse".

Unknown to all, I kept a separate theme running as well. Being the consummate geek in High School, my second set of works (all previously unseen) is based upon my affinity for space movies in general, and Star Wars in particular. I call this leg of the challenge: "The Vader Chronicles: The Muse Behind the Black Mask".

Feeling relief from the cessation of the daily grind, I'll move towards trying to free my thoughts in the pursuit of new possibilities. No one said it would be easy!

Friday, November 27, 2009


Different shape,
different demeanor,
heart full of love
gentle, serener,
nurturing, caring,
hopeful and compassionate,
warm, teaching healer,
wife and companion,
mother and mate,
her own woman,
a gift from God,
an improvement on man.

Wednesday, November 25, 2009


Dang, my friend you've got the flu,
Doctor Robert.
Night or day, anytime will do,
Doctor Robert.

Doctor Robert.
You're burning up with fire,
he can help, if you desire,
to control your hot and fevered pyre,
Doctor Robert.

With a shot he'll pick you up,
Doctor Robert.
Tamiflu from his special cup,
Doctor Robert.

Doctor Robert.
Take a stand if you believe,
helps the sickly ones indeed,
there's no one else that can succeed like
Doctor Robert.

Hope you're well, and feeling fine.
Sickness sells, he'll make you sign..
Doctor Robert

H1N1 will sap your health,
Doctor Robert.
pay the price with more than wealth,
Doctor Robert.

Doctor Robert.
Take a stand if you believe,
Helps the sickly ones for greed,
there's no one else that can succeed like
Doctor Robert.

Hope you're well, and feeling fine.
Sickness sells, he'll make you sign.
Doctor Robert.

Dang, my friend you've got the flu,
Doctor Robert.
Night or day, anytime will do,
Doctor Robert.

*** A parody lyric based on... Doctor Robert by Paul McCartney and John Lennon.

Tuesday, November 24, 2009


(Everybody Says It Couldn't Be Done)

Lightness of being,
a free bird, free as a bird,
releasing convention and
holding firm to the belief
that love conquers all.
They speak of the impossible
nature of the ability to "fly".
But, inside your heart, there
starts a flutter, a spark
that ignites your emotion,
stokes your devotion and
brings your soul into the wind,
where you can begin to
speed blindly down the runway
of love and compassion,
allowing you to fashion
wings to let the two of you,
achieve weightlessness;
that lightness, where your
pilots license is a license
to love. Skies are clear
and you're ready for take off.
Thank you for flying the
friendly skies!

Sunday, November 22, 2009


(The Thing-me-wats-it)

Behold the thing-me-wats-it,
the modern mini marvel.
Made of a space-age polymer,
about the size of your navel.
It clears your head congestion,
it monitors your weight,
it gives off light when power goes,
this thing-me's really great.
They are in mass production,
the assembly line is quaint,
it looks just like an aspirin,
but, be assured, it ain't.
A half a million are in use,
a million more projected,
airport security bans their use,
(but they've never been detected).
They're coated with a resin,
so it doesn't need a case,
but use the wats-it with caution,
don't put in near your face.
This is the ninth rendition,
their condition is just fine,
you can tell them by their label,
They're all marked Number 9, Number 9, Number 9....

Friday, November 20, 2009


(And Then He Begged)

In his carefree days of bachelorhood,
he politely asked, "Please, please me?"

As a young newlywed he said
in loving tones, "Please me."

Twenty five years down the pike,
his query comes only as, "PLEASE?"


I thought about you last night.
I think about you every night.
It is something I do, because I can.

But last night you were in my dreams.
One of those, "so real you can touch"
dreams that awaken you in cold sweats and

make you clench your eyes, hoping to see
one more glimpse, or share one more moment
before what little sleep you get evades them.

You were there, by my side with smile wide,
and eyes that stayed trained only on me.
When we walked, I became your vision, steering you

around obstacle and hazard in our way.
My arm around your shoulder, feeling the tremor
in your every breath that landed upon my nape

keeping my pilot light well lit, and reminding
of the vibrancy you have given my purpose.
And we walked, because that's what we did.

Sunshine or rain, our footsteps never faltered.
Snow and sand, our trek was not deterred.
In sickness and in health, as you always said

not promises we had exchanged before God,
but a life commitment we shared in what
our love espoused. You were my sun and moon,

you walk our heaven amongst the stars
we counted in futility, but as endless
as this love remains. A lifeline

that joins our hearts still; a tether
that keeps your being alive within me,
an attachment that illness could not dampen,

and the darkness of death cannot shadow.
So we meet often in my dreams knowing that
your influences and direction serve me still.

In our last moments in life, your beauty,
hidden within the emaciated form you had taken,
your brilliant auburn fire had become

sparsely patched and faded, your eyes were
dim flickers of the enlightening flame
that warmed my heart and soul, but still glowed

for the sight of me. Your voice lay silent,
words of love only played on the periphery
of your vacant stare. Your lips, dried and cracked,

pursed and puckered from your disease still
desired to feel the touch of my own bringing you
the sensation you always awaited. It brought it out.

Your smile. Faint, but apparent, you knew.
Beauty. It lived in you even when death struggled
to wrestle it from my firm grip. I held on.

And I continue to hold onto the meaning
of what we shared. The love. The attachment.
The part of you that never died. The last lasting gift.

From me to you.

Thursday, November 19, 2009


A human tether
linking two souls
with their very touch.

Tactile embrace
in an intermingling of fingers
holding our hearts in each others hands.

The warm moistness
transfers the heat between
and becomes self sustaining.

Always at your fingertips
I await to manipulate life's difficulties
in the wave of my fidgety digits.

Never lost in the crowd
saying out loud what a whisper
could just as well convey easily.

For in the reach for your love
I have found something to hold to keep you.
Take my hand, and you will have my heart.


Hold me tight
so I can feel you breathing.
The sweet in and out of life's rhythm
clutching onto the thought of my being.
In return, your presence is welcomed
and most needed in the clasp of
your arms around my shoulders.
You hold me up, keep me secure,
you offer your self as an anchor
to keep me from drifting too far out
from your safe shore. Keep me right.
Hold me tight.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009


Ignitions sequence started.
"T" minus 10 seconds.
You're feeling the pressures,
of a conflicted muse.
"T" minus 9 seconds.
The words you use
find you grasping for the
right ones, falling just short
of your objective.
"T" minus 8 seconds and counting.
Your payload is secure,
a seven month journey
into the cosmos of collective thought,
fueled by passions: yours and your "crew",
"T" minus 7 seconds,
and a steady flow of inspiration
from loves lost and found
feet on the ground but ready to
blast off for poems unknown.
"T" minus 6, 5, 4 seconds.
The countdown continues,
bringing you closer to
your objective, 3...2,
a collection
of your thoughts and notions,
elixirs and potions to take
you to that "special place";
your own inner space to explore.
"T" minus 1, and cou...
Internal combustion.
Houston, We have a problem.

Sunday, November 15, 2009


(Time line)

Score and fifteen etched the faces,
some coming from most distant places,
just to bring the circle closed.

Youthful memories to the fore
for men and women who before
were classmates on the brink of aging.

Over time we've gotten older,
mellow now, where once were bolder,
with wisdom lacing our decisions.

Parents now, some grandkids too,
and pride in everything they do,
at this stage of life we share.

And share we did, through the ages,
faces posed on all the pages,
come to life to touch our histories.

Recognition brings a smile,
sadly thinking all the while,
"What the heck is that guy's name?"

Grouped together with familiarity,
cliques of old held high hilarity,
now accepting, all were welcomed.

And me, a bookish nebish then,
stood abreast with these old friends,
who remembered me with some affection.

Why do situations pose,
a change of manner, do you suppose
I could have been a different man?

For back in High School where life bloomed,
blossoms of beauty in every room,
the directions chosen were our own.

Some, the choices were not theirs,
and death had sadly nested there
to take old comrades from this earth.

Surely in spirit they raised a glass,
to celebrate this reunited mass,
the storied Class of Seventy-Four.

I regret to say, through faults of mine,
I met old classmates for the first time,
thirty-five years past the bar.

The smiles and hugs will surely linger,
and I can count on just one finger
the seconds I'll hesitate when forty calls.

Long live Lackawanna High School Class of 1974!

Thursday, November 12, 2009


(If Only …)

I ply you with the romance game,
a game I love to play,
and something that appeals to you
in every single way.

I smatter you with phone calls
just to hear your sound,
and whisper nothings in your ear
where words of love abound.

I send you cards and letters there
quoting words professed,
poetic nuance Hallmark style,
I care to send the very best.

I have flowers delivered to your house,
roses by the score,
floral fragrance fills your senses,
always wanting more.

I give you gifts without a cause
baubles by the bag,
anything to give you pause,
you’ll know without a tag.

I offer all the things I can,
my love remains devout,
I’ll try and keep you satisfied,
if only the Viagra holds out.


(If Only I Could Find the Words)

If only I could find the words
that would make the difference in your world
and keep you from running to hide
every time you feel it crashing down around you.

Your beauty is an illusion to you
for even in the eyes of the beholder, you will
see what you want to see
and disregard the thoughts of others.

The outward manifestation of that vision
has made people stand up and take notice,
only to have you sit down and blend into the woodwork,
seeking a refuge in clear coated oak.

If only you would know
that all the thoughts that you think
would be deemed as wisdom,
if only you’d share them more.

Your voice is a symphony,
an aria for my ears and a score
to hum throughout my day,
if only you would set it free.

The tenderness and compassion
that resides deep within you,
suffocates on the precepts of indecision,
with no resuscitation possible.

And if only I could find the words,
I would tell you that you are loved
for who you are, as you are, and
for as long as you remain, dear Prudence.


(If Only Love Were Enough)

If only love were enough,
it would be all that we’d need
and because it would stoke our greed
we’d want all we could get.
If only love were enough.
It would be all consuming
and drive all that we do,
making all that we do more special,
if only love were enough.
All the evil in the world
would be forced to retire,
and all sadness expire,
if only love were enough.
Loneliness would be an abstract,
separation would be joined
and peace would be possible.
If only love were enough.
But without someone
with which to share it,
love will never be enough.
It's only love.

Monday, November 9, 2009


A man of words
the silver tongued devil
spellbinder with reminders
of all the things needed to say;
all the thing they want to hear.
A twist of the truth to
satisfy the curious, and
your conscience is furious
that you'd stoop to such lows.
A snake oil salesman with
a special on slick, take your pick
of which fork in the road you choose,
Monty, what's behind door number two?
The lies flow downstream, taking
you deep into your deviancy,
and keeping you stuck in your station.
Another slippery diversion brought to you
by the darkest reaches of your soul.


Neither a lender,
nor a borrower be.
Such is the rule that's fair
to keep friends friends,
and keep them from
vanishing into thin air.
A matter of trust gone awry,
suddenly too sly, they
avoid detection. On
closer inspection you
should have feigned broke
and it's a running joke
that he's already defaulted
on the loan, no shock, it
was a forgone conclusion when
the cash left your pocket.
And now his illusion is a
broad disappearance, do you
cut your losses, for a strict
adherence to the rule as so stated.
Neither a lender, or a borrower be,
the money slipped through my fingers,
when you failed to repay me.
Fool me once, shame on you...

Sunday, November 8, 2009


A poetic word magician
performing feats of fiction.
amazing micro poetry,
prose prestidigitation,
pulling rare bits from a hat,
trick and gags, and all of that.
Alliterative illusions here,
making limericks disappear.
Literary magic, that's my deal,
I'll be here all week, try the veal.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009


(Maybe I Should Have Left Her The Key?)

All my toiletries strewn about,
my deodorant in the "soup",
Roll of tissues all unfurled.

My towel bar was ripped right out,
my shower curtain torn,
my hamper upturned with my undies asunder.

My nosy old neighbor not minding her own
was the reason authorities came to my home,
A frantic call for extradition and bail.

You didn't speak to me for weeks,
even though your passage is assured.
Next time check the welcome mat, avoiding time in jail.


(Maybe I Shouldn’t Wear My Heart on my Sleeve)

Just a hopeless romantic;
a fool with a heart,
going through life
with this need to be loved.
A minstrel of love songs,
a purveyor of mirth,
a reason to rhyme,
waxing poetic and often ,
hoping to soften the blows
of a misguided emotion,
lost in devotion to one so fair.
In my eyes, a vision,
a purposeful wanting,
desires unfolding,
in scope and breadth.
The vacancy sign
worn like a badge
high on my shoulder,
an advertisement.
A prurient “want” ad
reading as such:
“Hopeless romantic,
a fool with a heart,
looking for same.
No need to reply,
I’ll know by your sign.
Worn on your sleeve,
the same as mine”


(Maybe I Shouldn't Have Bought These X-Ray Glasses)

There it is.
In back of the
Superman comic book
I revered as a boy.

Next to the prize catalog.
Under the advice about
handling bullies on the beach.
Joe Wieder you steered me wrong.

Arriving in a manila envelope,
shrouded in secrecy, a sworn oath
to myself that neither my mother nor brothers
would ever know of my hidden "powers",

a fantastic ability to see through clothes.
I never wore them in the house
just in case my mother or sisters
might cross paths with my enhanced vision

and I end up in therapy for the rest of
my natural life. Countless hours standing
at the back fence staring down
the neighbor's daughter as we both

wrestled with pre-pubescence
(all the while, dreaming of wrestling with her).
An afternoon shot and not a stitch of fabric
had left her developing form.

I was no longer hot and bothered.
Damn, I wasn't even warm.
Out a couple buck plus postage.
I should have seen that coming,

but my x-ray eyes failed me.
Joe Wieder, what's your spiel again?


I ruled the world, you see,
and then the world ruled me,

a singing jester, a bloody fool,
one of those lads from Liverpool.

We came to America, land of the free,
but as our music grew, it stifled me.

My choice of partners made a stir,
and the world had come to ravage her.

But we made a home and found our place,
without all that screaming in our face,

to settle into a life of seclusion,
and perpetrated this fantastic illusion.

So a glad house husband I became
while Yoko worked to make her name,

and I, a Beatle, husband, dad,
was happy in the life I had.

But music, still my love and passion,
had lured me in a rhythmic fashion,

to feed this "Double Fantasy"
and brought the world right back to me.

But, a yellow-bellied bastard made his name
by stealing someone else's fame.

Mark my words David, he was a mean Chap, man,
couching there with a steady hand,

I sang that, "Happiness Is a Warm Gun"
"Mr. Lennon?" bang-bang, shoot, shoot. I was bloody done.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009


A new development,
a medium quite unseen,
it's called photography
and Pablo, you're my very first
subject. To capture you on film
will be a coup for me and my art form.
Sit right there and I'll get some
light readings in. Ha ha, no Pablo,
I'm not doing a little light reading,
I have to see what exposure I need to use.
There, now hold that pose and smile.
No? OK say cheese. It will appear
that you are smiling. Pablo, it doesn't
matter what kind of chee...Gouda? Yes,
Gouda is gooda, eh... good. Yes,
Camembert is good too. Look, just turn your
lips up on the ends. There, that's it.
*FLASH* You blinked and it's blurry.
I'll take another, just sit still.
*FLASH* You moved again. One more.
*FLASH* Well, there's a face there...
sort of. There's an eye. Over here,
part of your smile. Next to that, there's
an ear. And there's an ear. And an ear over there?
Wait a minute! VINCENT, can you please
sit down and wait your turn?
And take that ear with you!

Wednesday, October 28, 2009


(Bad as I wanna be!)

She stood in the shadow of doubt
wondering where she had left
for Chicago in the down pouring reign
of terror. The half-baked plans

of mice and men, two cats and a lemur
scurry for shelter in the last bastion
of human kindness, groping and squeezing
ten pounds of excrement in a five found note.

All the while, Lancelot rode astride Guenevere
’s goat, slapping it’s hind quarters and
shouting, “Who’s your good knight?
Who’s your good knight?””

But I digress.
In the winter of his content
the young forlorn lad had bought a soda and shook
hands with the devil knowing full well

he had better not make any deals
until all the cards are on the table and back on deck.
The shuffling of music on his mp3 player
constituted a contract ratified by two-thirds

cup of flour and three eggs beaten
to a bloody pulp. Fiction is good.
Bloody pulp fiction is badly written.
And the promise of tomorrow

never comes but next Tuesday will
be here by Thursday as the crow flies
(and gnats, and all God’s creatures
grate and stall like the dickens) until

her train arrives in the Windy City,
long after her beans have been digested.
Where did you think the wind came from?

Written with fond memories of every non-musical Lennonesque piece every written, badly. Pretty badly. Bad enough to stand up and take umbrage! Or take a seat. Take the 'A' train, and you're back in Chicago. The full circle of life cereal. Well, no actually, Life cereal is square and is great with slices of.....

Thursday, October 22, 2009


Leaves ablaze
smoldering colors
of a palette warm,
an Autumn masterpiece,
painted by the hand
of the Grand Master,
a signature work.
Fragrant perfume
gracing the shortening sky,
darkness comes too soon.


Lost in writer's cell block 3,
the green mile of my written indiscretions,
searching for a jolt or jump start
to my weary muse, seldom used.
A poetry blog surfaces offering
refuge for that tired muse,
a home for worn phrases and ideas.
So the poet emerges, writing verses,
a rondeau here, a sestina there;
pantoum and villanelle, going to hell
for the sake of redemption,
not to mention all this haiku
I swore I'd never do,
being brought to bear on
this need to be expressive,
quite excessive, progressively
oppressed but, none the less,
a man whose words explode from his head
spraying his page with
the shrapnel of sardonic wit,
ere to wit, a spastic fit
of poetry that spans from
April until the twelfth of never,
cascading and parading
the sense of whether
the work will find
it's natural conclusion,
giving the illusion
that break time is over.
A writer sentenced to
a lifetime of solitary refinement,
a poet, with more things to say
than there are hours in a day.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009


Heartfelt Award

Do you reach for a cup of cocoa or tea when you're relaxing, seeking comfort, sharing a plate of cookies with family and friends? You know the feeling you get when you drink a yummy cup of cocoa, tea, or a hot toddy? That is what the Heartfelt Award is all about, feeling warm inside. Rules:Put the logo on your blog/post. Nominate up to to 9 blogs which make you feel comfy or warm inside. Be sure to link your nominees within your post. Let them know that they have been nominated by commenting on their blog. Remember to link to the person from whom you received your award.

I had just started really paying attention to other's blogs, but I would like to nominate a few blogs I've recently discovered that trigger many emotions within, offering comfort at knowing there are other writers out there dealing with their stubborn muses, just as I do:

Since Deb Markanton had nominated my blog for the Heartfelt Award, I must return the favor, but not for that reason. "Diving Into a Writer's Life" is the reason. Finding each other's works rather by chance, I have found her voice to be akin to my own, but with her distinct perspective. I do enjoy reading the delicious soup Deb ladles up.

Patricia A. Hawkenson's "Expressive Domain" brings the best Patricia has to offer with her reflections on life through her poetry. Her work is inspiring and thought provoking. It is for that reason I nominate Patricia for the Heartfelt Award.

Also enjoyed for her wit and humorous entries in poetry along with her more serious work, is Barbara Yates Young. At "Briarcat's Thicket", Barbara puts all that on display in this Heartfelt Award nominated blog.

Even though you may not feel compelled to display these awards on your own blog, just know that your writing is appreciated and I wanted to share that.


The two rumpled gumshoes sat in their dank office; feet up on their desks, fedoras drawn down over their eyes.

Brothers. Garrett Sayer was bright and high-functioning. Jarrett Sayer was just high. Twins. Identical twins. You wouldn't know it by looking at them. Jarrett always admitted that his smarter brother was actually more identical that he.

The knock on the office door brought Garrett to his feet. Jarret pulled his hat lower on his face.

"Here you are Dick" the delivery guy spouted. "Fresh from the printer."

"Great, we've been waiting for these" Garrett beamed as the courier stood awkwardly, palm up.
"And the name's Garrett, not Dick." he followed with a slap across the young man's exposed hand.

"Uh...Gilley at the print shop says I should get some money from you this time."

Garrett patted his empty pockets knowing the futility of the gesture.

"Tell Gilley I knew he was gonna say that. The check's in the mail!" Sayers lied.

"Gilley knew YOU were say THAT!", the messenger retorted as he turned on his heel. "You should give Gilley a call!"

Garrett closed the door and excitedly called to rouse his slumbering partner.

"Hey Jay, the posters are in!" the brother said having a hard time concealing his excitement. He pulled one out of the box and admired it. Garrett then turned it for his brother to see.

"Let me ask you this again," Jarrett started, "The poster says 'WANTED - Dead or Alive" with a million simoleon reward, right?"

"Hey, you're starting to catch on." a sense of relief lacing Garrett's reply. "What's your question?"

"Well, there's never a picture on it. How do we know who we're looking for?" said Jarrett logically.

"For the last time, can you read the sign on our door?" asked Garrett perturbed.

"srehtorB reyaS - sevitceteD cihcysP" the brother said slowly.

Garrett opened the door, pointing sarcastically. "Read it now, moron!"

"Sayer Brothers - Psychic Detectives" Jarrett corrected himself as the phone rang.

"Sayer Brothers - Psychic Detectives" Garrett answered. "Don't tell me, you want someone followed, Right?"


"Uh, you're looking to solve... No?"

"You want a...oh, I see. Thank you.", Sayers said sadly.

"What's up?" the sibling inquired.

"We're late on the rent and we're being evicted." Garrett responded.

"Boy, we didn't see that coming!" Jarrett inserted as he pulled his hat back over his eyes.

Sunday, October 18, 2009


A black cat crossed my path.

I saw him lurking there as I entered the room. His wide piercing eyes stared me down as I approached. The tension in the air was palpable. You could see the trepidation in his gaze. I felt the slightest tremble in my hands.

He caught me off guard when he jumped up on the piano and stumbled along the keys making a dreadful noise. I was relieved when he stepped down off away from the piano, giving me the opportunity to take my seat, still under his watchful eye.

Then he smiled that Cheshire cat smile of his. You know the one that stayed with you long after you parted company?

He ducked from sight for a brief moment, that grin still hanging in the air above him, only to re-emerge clutching his horn. Malcolm Jenkins played a smooth trumpet. His riffs were flawless, his passion was off the charts; his soul reached into the depths of hell to slap the devil into paying attention to his muse.

And as I began to tickle the ivories, Malcolm followed my lead, only to abruptly take charge and bring me along for the ride. We jammed until the wee hours of the morning, and when we were done, the devil and I were on a first name basis. Like I said the Dude was smooth.

A black cat crossed my path.

And it was apparent, that cat could blow!

Saturday, October 17, 2009


Like a slap to the back of the head
the awakening begins. Illusions
become disillusionment, but
reality is a great professor.
The lesson is clear; that my
expression is mine and
competes with no one. My
feelings steep within with a fire
only muse can stoke. The Great
Tender of the great pretender.

Friday, October 16, 2009


Another holiday.

You wait all year and you make your preparations. Halloween. The witch's Christmas. My mother was being difficult. And my outfit was all wrong.

I took off the hat. The pointy top was making my face look chubby.

"If you're going to be a witch for Halloween," my mother said. "You should really wear the hat."

I turned on her. "Uh, I'm already a witch every day and you don't see me running around with a broomstick, do you? I really don't think we should play into stereotypes by wearing ridiculous costumes."

There was more to it than that. But really, the hat just made my face look chubby.

For every insistence my mother had, my power against her will was challenging. But my mother always got her way in the end.

"I'm not wearing it!" I finally announce, turning for the stairs.

"Fine, have it your way", my mother called.

There was a flash of light behind me. It made my head tingle.

Back in my room, I got ready for the celebration. I felt empowered. Mother didn't pursue with her usual persistence. And I removed my hat.

"MOTHER!" I cackled, "how could you?"

The image that returned its gaze from my vanity mirror was hideous. My head was the exact shape as my hat.

"Something wrong, sweetie?" Mother mocked.

"Look at my head" I yelled. "How could you?" I repeated.

"At least your face isn't chubby anymore," Mom smiled, "Now, it's long! And pointy"

"What am I supposed to do now?" I cried.

"Wear the hat, dear! No one will even notice your head!" Mom smirked.


My cranium, once cavernous,
is filled with such minutia,
with words that flatter, my gray matter
has turned the boldest fuchsia.

The evening news has taken space
reserved for all my musing,
I remember each and every face,
but not through my own choosing.

These grand ideas that haven't hatched
will find a way to haunt me,
they all look good on paper,
but in action, are just daunting.

Events that hold a special spot,
retained through repetition,
birthdays, anniversaries, and the lot;
to forget one is sedition.

My head's all clogged from writing blogs,
my thoughts are one big jumble,
If I would try to speak my mind,
I'd probably only mumble.

Clarity has flown the coop,
my logic's hard to follow,
I get so flustered I could spit,
but you'll find that hard to swallow.

TV is a mindless task,
I'm not the biggest viewer,
I'd put my mind up on e-bay
and find me something newer.

My thinking is an endless drone,
the humming starts to bug me,
I wish that I could find a way,
for someone to unplug me.

Thursday, October 15, 2009


"Quentin said there was this place...a way station. Do you know of it?"

The old codger wiped his hands in his haggard beard, a thoughtful swipe. He stared at me for a brief eternity, wondering if my question was an interrogation.

"Well, you know Quentin," the Keeper began, "said a lot of wild things. Said we was goin' to hell. Always drummin' up some noise about this here rapture."

"What do you know of this...rapture? Do you believe?" I continued.

"Don't know what I believe. Ever since the Creed was declared, I ain't been sure of nothin'."

"But what is this place then? All these chairs.
Quentin spoke of this too. That this was..." I was interrupted by the old man, completing my thought.

"...this was where the angels came? Quentin was censured by the committee. Shouldn't have been speakin' his mind like that, I'll tell you!"

"Why do you just sit here old man? What is your purpose?", I asked, making the first query of interrogation.

"I am just minding my mind" he replied. "You sought me out, Intellectual! "

He saw it. Through my wrapping and gilding, the Keeper saw it. The Intellectuals were the first to depart. Quentin was an Intellectual. Our ilk posed a threat. The geezer knew.

"Did I miss it?" I asked of the rapture.

The Keeper's grin was ominous. His laugh hideous. I simply grasped his cloak to establish control. His neck snapped with the slightest of pressure.

Quentin always spoke the rapture; of us going to hell. I propped the limp shell of a man into one of the chairs, and prayed we weren't desolate. For I was not sure if we were too late for the exit, or bound here to this hell.

Either way, I was screwed.


E. Joseph Cossman theorized that middle age is when your broad mind and narrow waist begin to change places.

But what Cossman fails to tell us is this:

Logic tells us that somewhere in this mutual migration, we are the same thickness all over for a brief moment. Thus, the concept of "Middle Age Spread" comes into play.

At this juncture, all you can possibly do is maintain.

Drink beer. Lots of beer. Your mind will still be narrow, but as you lose control over the volume of your speech, you are rendered obnoxious, and no one listens to you anymore. Your point of view is rendered irrelevant.

And as your waistline expands, you have more surface area on which to balance the cheese doodles. Victory from the jaws of defeat.


New dreams await,
a chance to soar with
eagle wings from the
smallness of my perch,
a presumed lofty place,
no more than a resting,
surely not a nesting
place. Lifted by the wind
of beauty, to whisk me
ever-upward. Excelsior!

Wednesday, October 14, 2009


Hans and Greta Falberstraum
your genial hostess and host,
welcome you to the Witching Hour,
the hotspot with the most.
Grab a table, name your poison,
we'll whip up your favorite brew,
inside a steaming cauldron, it
will cast a spell on you.
Our menu has new items,
so take your time, peruse!
Our pastries, breads and cocktails
will aid your self-abuse.
Try our "Grave Turnovers"
they'll have you doing that,
and "Half-dead Bread" will keep you fed,
with only half the fat.
We have "Legosi Lager",
it has a nasty bite,
toss a few right down your throat,
you'll be howling through the night.
Here's something for the ladies,
"Man-eater Martinis" for you,
you can get it with a sandwich,
just don't bite more than you can chew!
There's the "Wolfman" and "Hair O' the Dog",
both to fix what ails you,
the "Eye of Newt and Toe of Frog",
the soup that never fails you.
And don't forget the kiddies,
our fare, they will be lovin',
feeling the heat in every treat
from our "Hansel and Gretle" oven.
The Falberstraums are anxious
to have you all for dinner,
their "Mystery Meat" Pot Roast
is for sure a drop dead winner.
So, we'll see you when you're hungry,
or come in when you thirst,
Hans and Greta do assure you,
you could really do much worse.
"The Witching Hour" beckons you,
to ignore it would be rude,
Wine and dine, you'll do just fine
with all our "Killer" food.

(Formerly the "Kill 'em and Grill 'em Steakhouse", Paramus, New Jersey, 07652)

Tuesday, October 13, 2009


Narcolepsy,you're my poison
you bring sleep to my eyes,
anywhere, anytime
it's really no surprise.
An unexpected catnap
is all you'll let me steal.
I do not mind the quick respite,
but not behind the wheel.

Where's insomnia when you need it?

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

Mental block,
damming your mind's
fluidity. Reservoirs
of thought isolated,
their transmission halted.
Synapses on hiatus,
vacant stares of your
minds eye, unfocused
and blank, blinded by
the dark shroud of cranial confinement.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009


Revealing yourself in phrases,
words, ideas of your own making,
or another's prompting.
All can be expressive
to excess if they profess.
No one shall be silenced,
every voice is heard.
Try to turn your petty words
into pretty words, your cloak
of invisibility is showing
revealing your true self!

Friday, October 2, 2009


The amazing muse of Mr. Muggle,
(writing for him wasn't much of a struggle),
astounded his readers who wanted to know,
how Mr. Muggle made his words flow.
He rubbed his chin and said whole-heartedly,
"'Tis lack of a wife what got me started, see?
The women I've met are a bit short sighted,
and I think that's the reason my love life is blighted."
"I look on my heart as a forlorn museum,
these gals wouldn't know Mr. Write when they see 'im!"

Thursday, October 1, 2009


Cross-legged on the floor
contemplating my navel
finding innie peace

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Sevenling (The Nearness of Ewe)

The nearness of ewe makes me nervous,
and Bovine are fine in a pinch,
Horses can nag while nibbling their feed bag.

Animal magnetism is attractive,
releasing the raucous beast within.
I majored in animal husbandry,

until I got caught at it one day!

SEVENLING (Michel de Notre Dame)

Michel de Notre Dame presumed,
Edgar Cayce so did delve.
The Mayans calendar predicts: 12/21/2012.

Indian Medicine men concur,
with the Bible's Revelation,
of the timing of the end of days final conflagration.

I don't know about you guys, but Armageddon underground!

Tuesday, September 22, 2009


A horse is a horse, of course, of course,
but the glory of it’s in the riding.
And so to with life, it’s just like that horse,
a horse is a horse, of course. Of course,
it can throw you off with a mighty force
and to get right back on takes deciding,
a horse is a horse, of course, of course,
and the glory of life’s in the riding.


The clouds are thick and threatening,
the air is crisp and cool,
the rain has fallen three straight days,
the kids are back to school.
The nights are in the thirties,
the mornings full of fog,
I've had enough of Summer
this weather's for the dogs.


She's quite adept at texting,
she tweets and twitters well,
she's all of sweet sixteen years old
as far as I can tell.
She carries herself older,
she says just what she means,
cut out of her mother's mold,
a communication queen.
My youngest daughter, rife with chatter,
I'd take her phone, but it won't matter.

Friday, September 18, 2009


Bare your double edged wit
and brandish it like Excalibur.
Neither king, nor knave falls
when wielding that kind of hardware!

Wednesday, September 16, 2009


A poet. Lost in the myriad
of humanity a lone voice
seeking an echo, a pulse,
a sign of redemption,
not to mention
verification of the ability
to be heard above
the cacophony of the
surrounding seas
of muted muse.


Friends come and go,
return and re-leave,
but you have to believe,
they are always a
relief. If a friend
in need is a friend indeed,
then is a friend that's clever
a friend for a long time?
Never lose friends,
just misplace them; don't replace them.

Monday, September 14, 2009


Back to basics,
bare bones,
rituals, habits,
Back to the grind.
Out of my mind?
That's a given!

Wednesday, August 12, 2009


The phoenix rising,
back from the dead.
Lazarus called,
he wants his life back.
Lost in the depths
of a broken spirit,
left in the lurch
with much more to say.
You stand in silence,
wishing for the return
of your sanity, and
your security, and
everything else that
leaves you feeling empty;
dead from the floor up.
The randomness of words
tossed together with ease
and flair, brings your voice
from deep within you and
gives cause to express
every heartfelt pang,
poem and passion,
delivering your work
to an appreciative audience,
offering peace and
confidence to your lifeless
rhyme. Infusing your heart
and soul with the breath
of a million soft sighs,
for the poet has regained
his promise and drive.
Once again alive.


Returned unopened.
The letter,
an explanation,
an apology,
an "it's been so long
and I've been thinking..."
It says address unknown.
Insufficient postage.
No number found.
The reasons become
more wordy than your note.
All you wanted to say
was thank you for
everything, I'm sorry for
everything. You want to do
everything you can to
heal the wounds. But,
even though time can heal,
too much time can render
one obsolete. Unavailable.
Resting in Peace.
Returned unopened.

Thursday, August 6, 2009


Standing in
defiance to
the defiant.
Not counting
myself among
their numbers,
An island of one
surrounded by
a sea of doubt.


Mouth contorted
into a cosmic yawn,
hungry for life;
your life.
Wishing to swallow
you whole, but
you only allow it
a nibble. A taste.
Leaving it wanting

Wednesday, July 29, 2009


I have too much time to sit here
and just as much to think,
for in my ruminations
I expose my armor's chinks.

The broad facade of this "perfect" life
is laced with cracks and holes,
and the time I take to stop kidding
myself is when I regain control.

My vocabulary's practiced;
my turns of phrase, an art;
my stories have a certain flair
and have right from the start.

I choose my muse to serve me,
but it sometimes refuses to amuse,
this random course my ideas take
are paths I rarely choose.

I've had my fun and lived through pain
as others have, I'm sure,
and placed each in this prompted verse,
thinking my soul was cured.

But, reality is a pointed sword,
an epee straight and true,
and has a way to cut the fat
to render the truth from you.

So you paint your mind with
a palette wide and hope your colors pop,
but you speak your heart in black and white
and pray it never stops.

Some people will thank you for your candor,
and other will look askance,
and you hope to really sell your tale,
if given half the chance.

But those around you know the truth,
you have that way with words,
a story teller par excellence,
the best they've ever heard.

How do you struggle with the facts
in words that they'll believe?
With that imagination,
how can you not deceive?

A writer walks this tightrope
a tether drawn and taut,
a balance of his verity
not blanched by words distraught.

If you cannot dissuade yourself
to keep your convictions strong,
then every word that escapes your soul
will invariably come out wrong.

So trust your instinct and your heart,
they're all that's left to you,
for to color your world with honestly,
you must, to yourself, be true.

Saturday, July 25, 2009


Welcome contestants,
Here are your categories:
Potent Potables,
Great Inventions,
Things Green,
States ending in “Hampshire”.
Make sure your answer
is in the form of a question?


There’s Trebek, he’s the “star”
hosting this trivial quest.
Cards at the ready, answers to give,
I didn’t know there’d be a test.
There’s two other people vying for cash
hoping to make me look lame,
with loads of minutia stuck in their head
where formerly resided their brain.
“Green” for a hundred, “Mothers” for five,
“Inventions” makes Jeopardy double,
don’t offer a dare for the year I was born,
you’re certainly asking for trouble.
Round after round, asking questions profound,
this trio with encyclopedic knowledge,
will volley and smash this trivial trash,
while wishing they’d all stayed in college.
So we get down to wager, Jeopardy’s final call
and you put all your cash on the line,
your question completed, your foes are defeated
and frankly you’re feeling just fine.
You’ve made a small fortune through nonsense retained
which gave you a chance to appear,
But you have one more thing to ask of Trebek,
“Why in the hell am I here?”

And yes, it was in the form of a question!


A new season is upon us.
Are you ready for some?
Training camp is in session,
time to have some fun.
Vets and rookies have convened,
roster spots for the taking,
nervous jitters rule the day,
players knees are shaking.
Combatants on the team for years,
hope their slot's assured,
and first years guys with bulging
eyes, fight to be secured.
But all attention's on the one,
that player of renown,
riding in to save the team
like some bad-ass circus clown.
No other team would take him,
but he holds all your keys,
and you pray to the football gods
amidst your heartened pleas.
He's known by his initials,
his hands are sure and steady,
and all he asks the fans TO do
is "Get your popcorn ready!"
So Bills fans all around the world:
Americans, Brits, Samoans...
buckle up for a bumpy ride
courtesy, Terrell Owens!

May God have mercy on our souls!

Friday, July 24, 2009


The starters pistol reverberates
in the canyon of athletic pursuit,
an arena graced with spectators
and the enthusiasm of thousands.
Staring, he surveys the scene
spread out before him, lengths
of ovular concentricity stretch,
in this pack of sinew and muscle,
a lone harrier stands, nervous and anxious,
running his own internal race without
obstacles or changes in grade.
The sound of cleats scraping upon gravel
keeps a solitary rhythm, pacing his
pulse and breathing, as he pushes from
the starter's blocks, rejoining life's marathon.
He runs this race with the passion
his heart provides; the vibrancy of
his every thought expressed in words
resurrected from his tired psyche.
The pistol echoes. A whistle blares.
Striding into the mass of humanity
holding his own until the opening
gapes, breaking him through to offer
the opportunity for the rest to
follow this man's lead. Sprinting for the line
needing only to finish to feel accomplished;
to feed whole again. These words are true
motivation and his power, driven as he strives
for poetic placation. Fellow runners,
poets all, cheer and encourage this man,
willing his "legs" to go through their
cycle of stretches and contractions.
The starters pistol echoes loudly
in the canyon of academic pursuit,
the arena of ideas graced with a myriad of muse,
and the electric enthusiasm of our
eternal souls best expressed.


We stand in opposition
across a chasm wide,
a length of rope between us,
our footing well in stride.
A flag to mark the center
stretched above the muck,
our stand-off's purely physical
and not so much on luck.
Our stance becomes more static,
the tether tightens too,
the winner sure will be the one
that doesn’t land in goo.
We both pull at the signal,
our muscles flex and strain,
this bold attempt to hold our own
is evident through pain,
you right foot starts to hydro plane
across the moistened grass,
but my purely cocky attitude
just put me on my ass.
So you continue pulling
while I just slip and flail,
sliding face first in the mud
through poor attempt, I fail.
This winner take all Tug O’ War
has placed me on my knee,
“One tug doesn’t prove a thing”, I beg,
“Let’s go two out of three”!

Wednesday, July 15, 2009


Half an hour, half an hour,
half an hour onward,
all in the broad way of lights
rode the four fab men:
'Forward, assume the stage!
A charge for admission Ed had said:
Into the broad way of lights
rode the four fab men.

'Forward, assume the stage!'
Was there a man dismay'd ?
not tho' the young ones knew
some one had wonder'd:
Theirs not to make with cry,
theirs not to reason why,
theirs but to scream and sigh,
into the broad way of lights
rode the four fab men.

Camera to right of them,
camera to left of them,
camera in front of them
close-upped and pictured;
storm'd at with twist and shout,
boldly they played and well,
into commercial break,
into the second take,
rode the four fab men.

Flash'd “Gretsch” and “Eppies” bare,
flash'd as they fill'd the air,
left-handed “Hofner”, the bassist there,
charging while an army watched
all the world wonder'd:
Plunged into the cinemascope,
right thro' the barrier they broke;
ladies and teeny-boppers both
reel'd from ring'd backbeat-stroke,
fluster'd & faint'd.
They ne’er look’d back, all
the four fab men.

Camera to right of them,
camera to left of them,
camera behind them,
capture'd and slihouette'd;
storm'd at with twist and shout,
while fan and screamer fell,
they that had played so well
sang thro' the second set,
back from commercial,
all that was left of them,
two more songs and history.

When will their glory fade?
O the wild new music played!
All the world wonder'd.
Honour the Mersey beat they made!
Honour the quartet that played,
noble Four Fab men!!

***Structured on "CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE" by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Tuesday, July 14, 2009


There's not a lot around that gets my goat,
just mostly when I'm driving in my car,
my driving skills do give me cause to gloat,
the other drivers fail to earn my star,
you'd think they all were homeward from a bar.
That's when they act like monsters in a cage
and fill the streets with terror from road rage.

Their antics push my buttons, I must say,
and gives concern to safety they neglect.
I guess it's just the price I have to pay,
I'll give them lots of room, but no respect.
Their attitude's a thing that I expect.
I pray to God I never reach that stage,
a victim of the anger called road rage.

In stressful times I tend to count to ten,
and hope the problem leaves before I'm done.
I feel it both from women and from men,
these treks on open roads aren't that much fun.
My instinct tells me "Go and get your gun".
I've learned quite young the way I should behave
and hold my tongue to keep me from this rave.

One, two, I start the countdown as I go,
the guy besides me flips his cigarette.
Wondering just how much this jerk will show,
before this journey ends in my regret.
I should count faster, or I'll get upset
and lose my cool to end up in a heap,
I'll not fall prey to anger from this creep.

Three, four, five, the teen beside me's speeding,
see her weave in traffic with so much ease.
Speed limits for sure she is exceeding,
"Try slowing down you moron, if you please?
Her tail wind seems to kick up quite a breeze
and as her miles per hour are increased.
I pray to God nobody ends deceased.

Six, seven, eight, that guy is on his cell,
he is so darn distracted, there's no doubt,
his skills are on a one way road to hell,
"Please park along the road and talk", I shout.
Park he does, but then he starts to get out.
To look at him, this guy is surely pissed,
I drive away as phone-boy shakes his fist.

So I reach ten, my stomach starts to churn,
this counting didn't save me from this fire.
A rumble with a slow and steady burn,
this isn't the effect that I desire.
You caused this skid to conflagration's ire.
I turn the wheel hard, my car does pitch,
"You cut me off, you stupid son-of-a...

Monday, July 13, 2009

PUTTING OUT THE FIRE (The Poetic Pyromaniac)

A mind at rest.
Languishing in the excitement.
Thoughts still simmering, but coming to rest.

Monday, and your ember,
that had been sparked last Wednesday, has been
consumed in a wordy residue of ashen rhyme.

You feed on this;
the thrill of expressiveness
fills your vacated soul, needing to strike again.

You live for this.
It is your passion and desire;
your wanting and your requirement.

You stack your papers on your desk,
and douse your thoughts with the gasoline of possibilities,
ideas just waiting for an open flame.

Tuesday, you toss about random words,
limericks that refuse to ignite, Haiku in a hideous
veil of smoky indifference, a parched pantoum waiting that spark.

And Wednesday morning you wait in a nervous tremor,
hands at the ready to strike, poised to provide
perfect alignment of your now random words,

waiting for that incendiary prompt to light your blaze within,
that internal fire that all poets possess to perpetrate their poetry.
Your bonfire of beauty rises in long tendrils of unbridled thought.

You give your fire the oxygen it needs to propagate,
the breath of passionate purveyance longing to fuel your pyre,
poetic words of a warm and beautiful soul left to crackle incessantly.

For every Wednesday you scurry to put out your new fires
that were allowed to simmer all week, only to implode into the conflagration
that others with your “sickness” clamor to read and comment upon.

The ground swell of these combustible imaginations
conspire to fill the world with the kindling to inflame the
responsive sparks that their poetry provides.

There’s no stopping a Poetic Pyromaniac’s passionate pyre!

Thursday, July 9, 2009


The caress of your skin, soft and supple,
is laced with the fragrant faintness
of perfumed sweat. Fighting the resistance
buried beneath the cool midnight sands,
breezy summer winds waft from the lake
to peer down upon us, a voyeur of the
night. Our eyes lock briefly,
wishful for the opportunity,
to surrender all our qualms. My lips,
probe tenderly as if lost in lust,
and dip into the bottomless reservoir
of longing, awash in the throes of
our hot and rapid breath to greedily
imbibe the vintage of our desire.
Becoming inebriated with those spirits,
our clothes are dispatched salaciously
leaving no more hiding places to occupy
for the two gleaming and wanton figures.
Ravenous hunger devours this heated moment.
With flesh upon flesh, we lose ourselves
in this drawn-out tantric dance .
Kissing me, as your hunger is sated,
the gasp of that interrupted kiss reverberates,
I smooth the stray tendrils away
from your moistened forehead,
becoming entwined in your tresses.
This deliberate rhythm relinquishes,
capitulating to the urgent demand of passion.
You arch your body upward
as we discover ecstasy’s abode,
and with the strength of our conviction,
we are left panting and perspiring,
thrown into the depths of wanting again and again.
From the back of your throat I hear my name,
as we engage in the give and take of our erotic longing,
high on the passion of life. You tighten your grasp,
then released me, trying to offer control back to me.
The taste of your skin on my lips,
is the sweetest of nectar.
Your plea for mercy is not begged,
but is offered in compassionate supplication.
At that moment you evacuate the breath
from my labored lungs, and in doing so
you find a way to resuscitate me.
And my fingertips find themselves
wound in your hair, forcing us
to the precipice of bliss,
our rants to reverberate like
a victorious echo under the stars.
You accept the gravity of me,
as I collapse the space between us,
our fire still hot and burning;
glowing like an undying ember,
a welcomed illumination,
should we perchance dare to tread
to passion’s door once more.
The lake waters soothe, returning us
here from eternity, subdued awakenings
of long languishing lust.
Doused to relieve,
but never to be extinguished.

Tuesday, July 7, 2009


“…you can’t always get what you want,
but, if you try sometimes, you get what you need.”
~ Rolling Stones

What is the worth of a well-turned phrase,
a line full of meter and rhyme?
How do you value a passage of prose,
a moment’s depiction in time?

What is the cost of a sentence or two
that rolls off the tongue so refined?
Is there a price to a word of advice
that sits in the back of your mind?

To live for today, there’s a price that we pay,
that is just “what the market will bear,”
we all set the value for our wants and needs
whether it’s fair or unfair.

We have some set notion of our own worth
commensurate to our dexterity,
and we sometimes feel slighted when the things that we write
get lost in our search for some clarity.

So, how is it as poets that we set the bar
to get the respect that we crave?
We beg and we plead for someone to just read
and accept in our minds that we’re “saved”.

But that phone seldom rings extolling the things
we offer the world, full of pride,
opportunity knocks rarely, we’re hanging on barely
and pent up our emotions inside.

So we just keep on writing while ideas are fighting
to be the next thought that inspires,
and use that spark to flame our muse,
to kindle our poetic fires.

We post our submissions with our kind permission
for those of our ilk to admire,
we bolster each other, poet sister and brother,
and encouragement is what stokes our pyre.

And so it is true this thing that we do
won’t always “pay” what we plead,
we will still plug away and pray for the day
and work hard to get just what we “need”.

Sunday, July 5, 2009


She stood in the shadows
and watched life go by,
her clothes all disheveled,
thread worn and dirty,
Left to her defenses
to struggle; survive,
abandoned by a world that
deemed her unworthy.
Who did she think she was anyway?
She was a child of God in her mind,
but that thought had escaped
her in down trodden times.
How could He have left
her here all alone? How could she
find her way back to her home?
She by no means was worthless,
this kid knew her stuff, but ability
alone was in fact not enough,
she hadn’t the drive to
be all that she could.
She hadn’t the faith to
believe that she would,
she just saw herself
as an extension of him,
he just kept her down, and
for some reason she let him,
only to find herself here in this place.
What to do, what to do,
how to vacate this space?
And as she sat there and
questioned her worth,
The clouds slowly parted and a light
filled her berth showing
the realm of true possibility,
a perfect venue for her ability,
and all she need do is
truly believe, that she had it all,
she had what she’d need
to rise from these shadows
and walk where life’s trod,
realizing that this gift from God,
this epiphany that her value
was priceless and her strength
was her faith and by that
she’d suffice. Yes, she IS
that child of God so assumed,
an un-nurtured blossom
that by Love’s light did bloom.
She found her life’s calling,
she knew what she’d need,
it was not based on her wanting;
her greed, it was based on the love
she had found for herself,
a worth more than gold,
a personal wealth and a vow
that she’d never be swept
from her berth, for she was a person
Of principle, value and worth.

Friday, July 3, 2009


Go to bed, you maniac,
you over-tired insomniac,

your bloodshot eyes are really red,
get off the couch and go to bed.

The sleep disorders you’ve acquired
mess with you when you get tired.

Nearly nodding as you sit
in your narcoleptic fit,

anytime and anywhere
you can sleep, you just don’t care,

but indeed, you start to nod.
For about five minutes, but it’s odd

when your disruptive sleep apnea,
takes the breath right out of ya.

In company, you are a bore,
then you nod to nap, and snore,

loud enough to wake the dead
and blast the pillows from your bed,

causing you to lie awake
as your RLS makes your legs quake.

Sleep is an elusive prize
when gravity affects your eyes

from wide awake, to fast asleep
you lay in an exhausted heap,

Praying for a solid night
to sleep until dawns early light.

But alas, you know the scene,
you won’t fall asleep to dream,

you’ll just start to toss and turn
and stay awake ‘til your eyes burn,

So go to bed, insomniac,
You over-tired maniac.

You don't believe in taking pills,
to subjugate your slumber ills.

No one’s worth you losing sleep,
close your eyes, try counting sheep.

Thursday, July 2, 2009


That’s right, Clarence! That’s right!
Living in the moment
instead of imagining what a life
would be like if it never happened.
The people we’ve influenced.
The people we’ve saved.
The people we’ve loved.
Being failures for lack of us.
Being lost for lack of us.
Being alone for lack of us.
For in the darkest times,
there is a light that shines;
a beacon that brightens your world
and illuminates your life.
That is the light of friendship,
the beacon of possibility.
A chance to “lasso the moon”
with the love and support of friends.
Friends who believe in you and
gather around you in your moment of doubt.
It’s that realization that makes you
know you’re alive. Makes you
shout “I want to live!”
Your revelation. Your epiphany.
Your “George Bailey” moment.
For nobody is worthless who has friends.
It’s a wonderful life!
That’s right!


They say that each of us has a price,
of that we can be sure,
quick to offer some advice
as if it were the cure.
And when we're feeling not ourselves
and mired in self-doubt,
think about the things you have,
and you'll have it figured out.
We truly have a value,
Every gal and guy,
which pays our way to live each day,
the best life cash can buy.
We're all somebody's someone,
we have so much to give,
we pay our "bill", and give our thrill,
we nurture and forgive.
In the scheme of God's grand puzzle
we are that "missing piece",
we fill the void up with our gift,
which gives us a new lease.
If you are a wiz with wood,
some baker breaking bread,
an alchemist with a heart of gold,
(which yesterday was lead)
A parent with an open ear
and a heart that matches that,
A friend indeed to a friend in need,
or the clean up guy at bat,
a writer with a way with words,
or Amish butter churner,
a teacher who devotes their time
to a struggling young learner,
we, all of us carry so much weight,
our value surely something,
and give it back to all humankind,
for no body is worth nothing.


Not a used to was,
more of an ain’t been yet.
The promise of potential
in a mysterious package.
You’ve given your heart and soul;
taken your lumps for the team.
All you wanted was a shot,
and this is how they repay you.
You’ve just been traded
for THAT guy.
What’s his name?
What’s his face?
Is he any good?
Who knows?
But he’ll be getting your spot
in a year or two.
You don’t deserve this.
There ain’t nobody worth
that player to be named later.
You’re more valuable than that.

Wednesday, July 1, 2009


‘A Warm Summer Night’ which seemed to last
‘All Summer Long’, gave us a chance for that much
‘Celebrated Summer’ for which we had hoped:

A ‘Cruel Summer’ which languished between
‘Dusk and Summer’ mornings, dew covered and misty.
The ‘Electric Music and the Summer People’ complimented each

day of that ‘Endless Summer’ which faded into
‘Endless Summer Nights’. My heart cried out,
‘Farewell My Summer Love’, as we prepared to part,

with each heart singing the ‘Feel Good Hit of The Summer’.
It ‘Feels Like Summer’ I commented,
With the ‘Girls In Their Summer Clothes’ and me

spending ‘Happy Summer Days’;
in this ‘Happy Summertime’.
‘Here Comes Summer’.

We were ready for some ‘Hot Fun In The Summertime’
with a ‘Hot Summer Day’ building up to climactic
‘Hot Summer Nights’.

This ‘Idiot Summer’ asked no questions because
‘In The Summertime’ there are few answers.
We basked in its brilliance until ‘Indian Summer’

knowing well that ‘It's Summertime’,
with the endless possibilities of ‘Lonely Summer Nights’
transcending into one ‘Long Hot Summer Night’

thanks to a bevy of beauties luxuriating on these ‘Long Summer Days’
‘Looking For the Summer’;
that ‘One Last Summer’,

to fulfill our ‘One Summer Dream’
in the promises we made on that ‘One Summer Night’
as we shared that last ‘Picnic In The Summertime’.

For even the ‘Rain In The Summertime’
made me glad I had my ‘Someone, Somewhere in Summertime’
beneath the ‘Starless Summer Sky’.

The realization came ‘Suddenly Last Summer’;
the gift of you that ‘Summer’ presented to me
and the transformation of it into a ‘Summer of Love’.

‘Summer (The First Time)’ was magnified by the intensity
of our inexperience, my ‘Summer Babe’ and I
making love in the temperate ‘Summer Breeze’.

‘Summer Breezin' we called it, but in reality we were
‘Summer Cannibals’, as we ate up all that it would serve to us.
These ‘Summer Day Reflections’ fill me with thoughts of that night.

During those ‘Summer Days’
we had our ‘Summer Fling’,
‘Summer Girls’ and I, the shy suitor,

off to spend a ‘Summer Holiday’,
(which had to be better than that ‘Summer in Siam’).
My ‘Summer In The City’ took this lump of clay

and made me man enough for my ‘Summer Lady’.
I was losing it in the ‘Summer Madness’ but hoping
to find myself as ‘Summer Moved On’.

Of my most revered ‘Summer Nights’,
the ‘Summer of '69’ topped the list,
for it was the ‘Summer of Love’.

And crediting the thunderous outbreak of ‘Summer Rain’,
our ‘Summer Romance’ blossomed in the guise
of the ‘Summer Side of Life’.

For even if there were such a thing as ‘Summer Snow’,
your influence on me was a security blanket, ‘Summer Soft’
and as warm as the ‘Summer Sun’.

I relished the days in the ‘Summer Sunshine’ of my youth.
Feeling the ‘Summer Wind’ blow my more abundant (then) hair
and helping to age me well, as if my life were ‘Summer Wine’.

Sometimes, an overcast ‘Summerday’ and
the declining warmth of the ‘Summerday Sands’
would be a harbinger bearing the message that ‘Summer's Almost Gone’.

So I sing a song for ‘Summertime’.
Be it ‘Summertime’ ballads, or ‘Summertime’ Rockers,
always steering clear of the ‘Summertime Blues’.

The memories of ‘Summertime USA’ caused my excitement,
making me, with raised fists in the air, chant ‘Summertime, Summertime’.
‘Summertime's Calling Me’ and I am at its beckon call.

The ‘Sunshine and Summertime’ sets the mood for
‘Sweet Summer Lovin', fond recollections of
‘That Summer’ in which we lost each other, to each other.

Forget ‘The Boys of Summer’; they were cheap imitations.
Just hitch your heart to ‘The First Day of Summer’ when we met,
And smell ‘The Green Leaves of Summer’, ever-present and alive.

Soon we will be brought to the brink of ‘The Last Days of Summer’,
and when we’re on ‘The Other Side of Summer’, we’ll hold dear
everything ‘The Summer’ had given us.

We’ll relive ‘The Things We Did Last Summer’ and know
we had 'A Summer Place' all our own.
Even though ‘This Ain't The Summer of Love’, we came close to it.

‘Those Lazy-Hazy-Crazy Days of Summer’ seasoned my youth.
I always asked myself, ‘What's Gonna Happen When Summer's Gone?’
But, I would just shrug, and sing ‘A Summer Song’.

Saturday, June 27, 2009


Tucked under my arm
a volume, a new edition
penned by a favored author.

A Summer Saturday
sanguine and serene,
sunshine abounding.

My lawn chair, half reclined,
cushioned and shaded,
beckoning an occupant.

Icy beverage,
splendid sweetness,
sweating condensation.

I sit supine
legs elevated
comfort seeking.

Ray-Ban's lowered,
sipping, slurping,
book poised and ready.

Summer sounds surround,
a lark's languid song,
leaves restlessly rustling.

Children's shouts
fade into the distance,
a bark of a lazy dog.

A motorcycle whines,
auto engines revving
to decibels most distracting.

Mowers and weed whackers,
a domestic dispute from
the neighboring yard.

And me, sitting in my silence
turning page after page
engrossed in published excellence.

Three chapters later
I finally notice the church bells
tolling the hour, God's doorbell.

Six O'clock and
a summer Sunday looms,
where more brilliance awaits.

I down my tea,
tucking my tome under the crook
of a bent elbow. One hell of a read!

Friday, June 26, 2009


I am flummoxed after
reading the "Police Blotter"
in the local info-rag about a guy
who lost his trunks diving at the public pool.
It reminded me of this recurring dream I have.
I'm the new guy standing on the nude beach,
fully clothed and with an accordion
strapped to my chest. The resident nudists
ask me to quit the damn polkas
and play something that really jumps.
I swallow my gum and my palms sweat profusely,
as I try to avoid staring longingly
at the blond with the beach ball.
Always an unsuccessful attempt.
Has that ever happened to you?
Uh, neither!
How embarrassing!

Thursday, June 25, 2009


An over-sized empty lot
across the street from
the old "homestead" cleared,
an over-growth of weeds and stones
raked and manicured by the neighborhood
groundskeepers, my brother, cousin and me,
A home plate fashioned out of
a scrap piece of plywood by my father.
We scavenged around and found
an actual base, worn, stuffed,
strapped and buckled, it was the Holy Grail;
it gave us gravitas.
It made this pathetic sandlot
Yankee Stadium, Ebbetts Fields
and Offermann* Stadium
all in one. A tattered old shoe
half buried in the outfield was
given prominence, resurrected as
third base. A boulder embedded
perfectly in line with home plate
became second, and it had come
to render many an errant slide
into a blood letting; dust yourself off
and limp to third. You stayed
in the game. Anything into
my grandfather's garden was foul
on the right, Roland Avenue was
foul on the left. Mr. Kwitek watched
every game, as much for the
baseball played, as the fact
that the back of his house was
home run territory. "That ball
is going, going, GOOD BYE MR. SPAULDING!
Hello Mr. Kwitek, we'll fix that window later."
We lived, breathed, and ate baseball.
From early morning, until
we called the game on account
of mosquito infestation,
it was baseball. If we build it,
they will come and play.
"He can't hit, he can't hit"
"Pitcher's got a rubber arm!"
Hello Mr. Kwitek!

* Offermann Stadium was the Buffalo Equivalent, home of the Bisons and the great "Luscious" Luke Easter.

Monday, June 22, 2009


Abbott: Well Costello, I'm going to New York with you. You know Bucky Harris, the Yankee's manager, gave me a job as coach for as long as you're on the team.
Costello: Look Abbott, if you're the coach, you must know all the players.
Abbott: I certainly do.
Costello: Well you know I've never met the guys. So you'll have to tell me their names, and then I'll know who's playing on the team.
Abbott: Oh, I'll tell you their names, but you know it seems to me they give these ball players now-a-days very peculiar names.
Costello: You mean funny names?
Abbott: Strange names, pet Dizzy Dean...
Costello: His brother Daffy.
Abbott: Daffy Dean...
Costello: And their French cousin.
Abbott: French?
Costello: Goofè.
Abbott: Goofè Dean. Well, let's see, we have on the bags, Who's on first, What's on second, I Don't Know is on third...
Costello: That's what I want to find out.
Abbott: I say Who's on first, What's on second, I Don't Know's on third.
Costello: Are you the manager?
Abbott: Yes.
Costello: You gonna be the coach too?
Abbott: Yes.
Costello: And you don't know the fellows' names?
Abbott: Well I should.
Costello: Well then who's on first?
Abbott: Yes.
Costello: I mean the fellow's name.
Abbott: Who.
Costello: The guy on first.
Abbott: Who.
Costello: The first baseman.
Abbott: Who.
Costello: The guy playing...
Abbott: Who is on first!
Costello: I'm asking YOU who's on first.
Abbott: That's the man's name.
Costello: That's who's name?
Abbott: Yes.
Costello: Well go ahead and tell me.
Abbott: That's it.
Costello: That's who?
Abbott: Yes.
Costello: Look, you gotta first baseman?
Abbott: Certainly.
Costello: Who's playing first?
Abbott: That's right.
Costello: When you pay off the first baseman every month, who gets the money?
Abbott: Every dollar of it.
Costello: All I'm trying to find out is the fellow's name on first base.
Abbott: Who.
Costello: The guy that gets...
Abbott: That's it.
Costello: Who gets the money...
Abbott: He does, every dollar. Sometimes his wife comes down and collects it.
Costello: Whose wife?
Abbott: Yes.
Abbott: What's wrong with that?
Costello: Look, all I wanna know is when you sign up the first baseman, how does he ign his name?
Abbott: Who.
Costello: The guy.
Abbott: Who.
Costello: How does he sign...
Abbott: That's how he signs it.
Costello: Who?
Abbott: Yes.
Costello: All I'm trying to find out is what's the guy's name on first base.
Abbott: No. What is on second base.
Costello: I'm not asking you who's on second.
Abbott: Who's on first.
Costello: One base at a time!
Abbott: Well, don't change the players around.
Costello: I'm not changing nobody!
Abbott: Take it easy, buddy.
Costello: I'm only asking you, who's the guy on first base?
Abbott: That's right.
Costello: Ok.
Abbott: All right.
Costello: What's the guy's name on first base?
Abbott: No. What is on second.
Costello: I'm not asking you who's on second.
Abbott: Who's on first.
Costello: I don't know.
Abbott: He's on third, we're not talking about him.
Costello: Now how did I get on third base?
Abbott: Why you mentioned his name.
Costello: If I mentioned the third baseman's name, who did I say is playing third?
Abbott: No. Who's playing first.
Costello: What's on first?
Abbott: What's on second.
Costello: I don't know.
Abbott: He's on third.
Costello: There I go, back on third again!
Costello: Would you just stay on third base and don't go off it.
Abbott: All right, what do you want to know?
Costello: Now who's playing third base?
Abbott: Why do you insist on putting Who on third base?
Costello: What am I putting on third.
Abbott: No. What is on second.
Costello: You don't want who on second?
Abbott: Who is on first.
Costello: I don't know.
Abbott & Costello Together:Third base!
Costello: Look, you gotta outfield?
Abbott: Sure.
Costello: The left fielder's name?
Abbott: Why.
Costello: I just thought I'd ask you.
Abbott: Well, I just thought I'd tell ya.
Costello: Then tell me who's playing left field.
Abbott: Who's playing first.
Costello: I'm not... stay out of the infield! I want to know what's the guy's name in left field?
Abbott: No, What is on second.
Costello: I'm not asking you who's on second.
Abbott: Who's on first!
Costello: I don't know.
Abbott & Costello Together: Third base!
Costello: The left fielder's name?
Abbott: Why.
Costello: Because!
Abbott: Oh, he's centerfield.
Costello: Look, You gotta pitcher on this team?
Abbott: Sure.
Costello: The pitcher's name?
Abbott: Tomorrow.
Costello: You don't want to tell me today?
Abbott: I'm telling you now.
Costello: Then go ahead.
Abbott: Tomorrow!
Costello: What time?
Abbott: What time what?
Costello: What time tomorrow are you gonna tell me who's pitching?
Abbott: Now listen. Who is not pitching.
Costello: I'll break your arm, you say who's on first! I want to know what's the pither's name?
Abbott: What's on second.
Costello: I don't know.
Abbott & Costello Together: Third base!
Costello: Gotta a catcher?
Abbott: Certainly.
Costello: The catcher's name?
Abbott: Today.
Costello: Today, and tomorrow's pitching.
Abbott: Now you've got it.
Costello: All we got is a couple of days on the team.
Costello: You know I'm a catcher too.
Abbott: So they tell me.
Costello: I get behind the plate to do some fancy catching, Tomorrow's pitching on my team and a heavy hitter gets up. Now the heavy hitter bunts the ball. When he bunts the ball, me, being a good catcher, I'm gonna throw the guy out at first base. So I pick up the ball and throw it to who?
Abbott: Now that's the first thing you've said right.
Costello: I don't even know what I'm talking about!
Abbott: That's all you have to do.
Costello: Is to throw the ball to first base.
Abbott: Yes!
Costello: Now who's got it?
Abbott: Naturally.
Costello: Look, if I throw the ball to first base, somebody's gotta get it. Now who has it?
Abbott: Naturally.
Costello: Who?
Abbott: Naturally.
Costello: Naturally?
Abbott: Naturally.
Costello: So I pick up the ball and I throw it to Naturally.
Abbott: No you don't, you throw the ball to Who.
Costello: Naturally.
Abbott: That's different.
Costello: That's what I said.
Abbott: You're not saying it...
Costello: I throw the ball to Naturally.
Abbott: You throw it to Who.
Costello: Naturally.
Abbott: That's it.
Costello: That's what I said!
Abbott: You ask me.
Costello: I throw the ball to who?
Abbott: Naturally.
Costello: Now you ask me.
Abbott: You throw the ball to Who?
Costello: Naturally.
Abbott: That's it.
Costello: Same as you! Same as YOU! I throw the ball to who. Whoever it is drops the ball and the guy runs to second. Who picks up the ball and throws it to What. What throws it to I Don't Know. I Don't Know throws it back to Tomorrow, Triple play. Another guy gets up and hits a long fly ball to Because. Why? I don't know! He's on third and I don't give a darn!
Abbott: What?
Costello: I said I don't give a darn!
Abbott: Oh, that's our shortstop.

****Who's on First by Abbott and Costello

Thursday, June 18, 2009


Many a tale, tall or small,
walk the finest line,
whether blasts about the past
or romances sublime.

The verity of epic lore
suspicious in its nature,
would dazzle all who took the fall
to buy this nomenclature.

Prehistoric cavemen from
one million BC, (no less),
would run like hell, the tales tell,
from Tyrannosaurus Rex.

With arms outstretched the fishermen
from back in early days,
told their stories of the glory
of the one that got away.

And macho guys with made up eyes,
unbuttoned down to there,
would sadly brag ‘bout Babes they’ve bagged
to unbelieving stares.

The fairer sex is not immune
from giving long descriptions
about a guy’s sense of impotence
and little blue prescriptions.

We learn in childhood naiveté,
that enhancing things we’d say,
made the games seem so much better
and much more fun to play.

On summer nights we took delight
in counting endless stars,
we’d guesstimate a million,
but there were so much more by far.

We’d contemplate with broken hearts,
amidst broke-hearted pleas,
and we’re consoled when we are told,
“There’s a million fish in the sea”.

I’m not quite near completion,
of this drawn out explanation,
but if I told you once, I told you nine hundred ninety nine thousand, nine hundred ninety nine times,
I hate exaggeration!


put through the
Fibonacci math
grows by leaps and bounds quite nicely.
one million, three hundred forty six thousand, something.
It's sort of a "banker's dozen",
only much better.
That's a whole
lot of

Wednesday, June 17, 2009


A three year self-imposed
exile was all that stood between
pigheaded me and my stubborn father.
The circumstances of my departure were childish
and at forty seven years of age, most regrettable.

Here's my dad, my namesake,
languishing in a personal hell
that was part an act of God and
part of his own doing. A self-destructive
myopia through the smokiness of a brown bottle.

His alcoholism
went further than the
debilitating headache he
would suffer through the next
morning, as if nothing ever happened.

It eroded his self-esteem,
it presented his liver with a fine
cirrhosis, the ravages of addiction that
tormented my mother and put we six in the line
of fire, force to choose between the two, always,

defaulting to the defense
and aid of a mother who was in a
steady retreat to oblivion herself,
due to HBP, far too many cigarettes, and
just enough of my father's bullshit to keep her.

The toll on the family
is always the after thought,
never the rule. For entering the
gates of hell, he had left the portal
open for a sister, a brother and myself

to enter unencumbered.
Sobriety came as a blessing
to me, a matter of course for my
brother, and an ongoing battle for my
sweet sister. It was just survival for Dad.

For his cirrhosis
presented the opportunity
for a ravenous cancer to devour
all he had left. It foisted upon him
a sobering clarity to the damages done.

Not just to himself,
but to the children who
remained to care for him in
his last dying months. It was
what prompted my return. Looking

into the eyes of my father,
my mentor and hero, my teacher
and my friend, all past indiscretions
found their forgiveness, not in a tearful
plea or a heartfelt soul search, it came in

just that look.
no words spoken, no
apologies given/accepted,
an understanding, nothing more.
A inward smile and a quite nod. We,

my father and I,
made our peace; buried
our personal hatchets and
gave his tired and consuming
guilt nowhere else to hang its hat.

That prescient moment
between stubborn father and
pigheaded son made us feel like a
million dollars. But for his short time
remaining, it was worth ten times as much.

Tuesday, June 16, 2009


The freshest face
sporting a smile,
revealing the sense of style.
Unknown, unflaunted.
Undaunted to take the world
by storm, a heart so warm
it is self-inspiring.
Never tiring of the point of view
that fills each sentence
and paragraph of this Paige.
Newly discovered, yet unexplored,
sweet as melin could be,
with a respectfully kind word
shrouded in the exuberance of youth;
Exposed in the wantonness of womanhood.
Learning, yearning for the muse
to strike her, releasing
the passion and emotion
that lies dormant within,
where do I begin on this Paige?
From her awkward civility,
to her recent ability to verbalize
the beauty she espouses; that is Paige!
She, the heroine in the book of life
in which each page is filled with Paige.
This Paige is never blank,
always searching for the right words
to express all that lies sheltered deeply
in her heart and soul. In control,
fragile and breakable,
never mistakable that she
will dazzle the world.
This woman/girl
stepping out of her shackles
and into the sunshine
of another new day.
This poetic Paige, fully grown…
…with a style all her own!

“A STYLE ALL HER OWN” – Ladies Home Journal


mentally snowbound in this solitary room of one,
lost inside and searching, longing
for relief from the throes of an internal winter
that has been foisted upon this heart.

the cold goes through me, chilling me,
the ice that has formed on my soul
hampers my emotions, killing me
with a slow and painful reality.

for years these chill blains
have rattled my bones and left me
wanting for a chance to defrost myself
to find a heart still beating.

this frostbite is relentless.
tearing me apart with every moment passing.
in its apathy
I find myself cold and alone.

cold and alone, until thoughts of an ember bright
illuminates my being and cautiously finds the soul
left slumbering, shivering,
yearning for the spark to burn uncontrolled.

this warmth penetrates me,
gradually soothing me and finding
a willing and wanting heart that can feel again,
heating me with a fire that smolders.

I sense your flame in my familiar hearth,
opened wide with arms embracing,
and glowing incredibly, tendrils of flame
the color of your warmth; the color of you.

this fire consumes my heart
completely and deliberately, seeking the connection
to be shared for a lifetime,
and kept lit by the oxygen of a single breath. Ours.

the ice is releasing me from its grip
as the fire that is you, replaces its hold
with a warm and loving caress,
and easing my mind to think loving thoughts only.

this yearning searches for a fire that
will kindle a fire of my own
and spark another wave of brilliance.
looks like I’m just warming up.