Category: Poetry

Richer Than the Ants

The anguish in mother’s eyes still haunts me. It was a miracle, her making food stretch so far. We were a humming brood; her smile hid more than we’ll ever know. Childhood was a whirlwind of hand-me-downs, government cheese, bread, powdered milk and whispered ridicule from chubbier faces, wearing brighter colors, that never appreciated tire swings hung from trees or a jar of lightning … Read More Richer Than the Ants

A Whisper in The Womb

I first heard it as a whisper in the womb the spirit that followed Creator’s voice at greater than the speed of light when, He spoke the universe into existence. There is no sheltering sky, no magical parlance, no tubular bells, groaning chants or ringing bowls that will save us, just His voice, soft as spring’s yawn. I caught it as a child midst … Read More A Whisper in The Womb

I Warn You, Tarry Not Here, Friend

I once sank into fitful sleep And into shadowed realm did creep, Perhaps it was the absinthe blend. I warn you, tarry not here, friend. From darkness there came hiss and moans, Macabre sound of breaking bones, To a foul place I did descend. I warn you, tarry not here, friend. I felt the tendrilled touch of wraith! Who ruled this land of pain … Read More I Warn You, Tarry Not Here, Friend

And the Radio Played On

In my nail-bitten teen years I was the proverbial fly tangled in many a web I know I ground several layers of enamel from my teeth, which tastes of; heart’s iron and soul’s amalgam those rainy Saturday nights mocked me, waiting, trying to picture wantonness in her eyes in any lover’s eyes my mother used to shake her head at me slowly not in … Read More And the Radio Played On

A Perceived Prison

Veiled, though sunlight pervades to dance in eking, dusted paisley patterns some withdraw, in anguish like a vampire they cringe there is a drought within their soul, is a stretch of desert road nearly erased depression can be four walls with cloth shutters that might as well be granite ramparts

Card Tricks

The dearth of joy is; black as licorice drool, spittoon gloom a bastard spirit retching in burnt shadows, stop-motion dancing, macabre flailing failing, the curdled, wrung soul crawls like a stone across crackled ground, prostrate before obscure magicians, peering-up with one eye at the Devil’s sleight-of-hand.

A Drunken Old German Who Liked to Sing Songs

Grandpa liked his Pall-Mall straights ripped in half, stuck one half in his shirt pocket, smoked the other down to a roach, with leather- tough fingers a second-generation German from Minnesota, transplanted to Iowa had a house painting business, barked orders at hired help, then left them unsupervised most of the day while he drank at the tavern he always came back smelling of … Read More A Drunken Old German Who Liked to Sing Songs


Wine of muses bleeds from my veins, past dry palate to intoxicate my soul lest I spasm in grief atop diamond sarsens I’ve been at the shores of Heaven where seraphim tilt winsome heads captivated I have crawled in Hell’s wasteland on bloodied hands and knees, silent, biting my lip till warm, copper taste sickened I am a sower of cryptic messages filtered through … Read More Oracle

To Till and reap: a writer’s dilemma

Fallowness must taunt as withered wraiths scratch at your door hungrily moaning as blown dust slips through cracks until prayer for light and restorative rain pervades, figuratively hands must get dirty as surreal seeds are sown from grittiness of character, somewhere beneath calloused fingers, ragged cuticles suffuse an ancient chelation.

Presentiment: I once saw myself very old

I stared out of a half-steamed window watching ravens swoop and dart through chimney smoke, at play, tag it must have been as gangly winter shadows crept across wind-hardened snow the eaves whistled, icicles were bent into translucent catawampus claws my left thumb trembled, right index finger as well, as I repositioned hands on the armrests of my wheelchair and sighed. A grainy, rather … Read More Presentiment: I once saw myself very old

Death Is Not the Worst

It’s one hundred twenty degrees in the mind of a lunatic, no shade, no occasional breeze, only beads of sweat pouring down foreheads, stinging mind’s-eye, I hear yelling in the night; detritus words launched at God. Panhandled change is counted, over and over at the bus stop, rapid-fire blinks too numerous to count must stir-up mini vortexes in another dimension, a meth mother huddled … Read More Death Is Not the Worst

Sacred Lotus

  Virgin soft flesh splayed on a translucent jade pond your sage wisdom roars