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