My first real green recollection of
Spring was toddling across
fresh-cut grass, a bee was buzzing
round bright yellow peonies,
wavering in a breeze
in the may sun.


I’m a young boy, fishing
with father, middle May,
on muddy-brown river bank,
gray-blue catfish are thrashing,
mouths agape, silvery dragonflies
dart amongst cattails, gleaming
rust-colored worms squirm
in a can, I gaze, as dad,
impales one on a hook.


Five miles I walked that May,
all of nineteen, to an Army recruiter
disgusted with life, wild-eyed,
red-faced angry, wanting more.
An orange Robin in a tree
greeted me, returning home,
mom, pale-rose blushed, knew
where I had been.


I see it, a fresh-cut lawn, roses pining,
May, bowing to June, my brow
deeply furrowed, liver spots on backs
of my hands, sipping ice-tea,
counting syllables on fingers,
coaxing my muse to give an
old man, a poetic break.

In Our Golden Years








In our golden years we shall sing aloud,
spiting aches and pains we will have no fears,
we will carry on crying happy tears;
in our own world we will float on a cloud.

In our golden years we will show them all,
we will showcase romance on new frontiers,
crooning away like two old balladeers;
though silvered with age I will yet enthrall.

In our golden years our love will not wane,
we will venture on like wild cavaliers
till the sun goes down and the moon appears;
dancing away we will ignore the pain.

And if the light in my eyes disappears,
I’ll still whisper sweet nothings in your ears.



After February’s scowl and before April’s beckoning,
tight in my own skin and salivating, I snatch
bits and pieces of winter’s curse
to iron over and repackage

a cinema most bizarre, a telling of secrets
I bow to muse and what else haunts and howls
at my id, from dark wings
or, is it indigestion?

Bones creak, my lips are cracked
from mutterings, oh how I envy
the truly mad geniuses
who make it work

it’s the same tripe cooked
in a different pot, a pinch of this
a dash of that and it’s called
a feast

but I have yet to reach the singing crowd
that would herald my words
and write them on
their smiling children’s faces

oh, March you are a screaming harpy,
as well, a muddled clown that mimes simple woes
to a laughing audience and when you reach
your ticking end
I will clap to warmer mornings
and flowing thoughts
that will raise a
goose bump or two.

The Iceberg Theory

We are all the results of sweat
moans and carnal canticles whispered
or screamed

we are carried with anguish and
measured sighs, as miracles stitched together
in amniotic silence

then comes reckoning of reality
the ripping apart of solitude and we are
pulled into the fray

full-on we march as if chided by
impatient fate
a brash cigar smoking drill Sargent
screaming obscenities, “move your god-damned ass
or you’ll amount to nothing!”

Then we stumble and wallow like hogs in that pit
called love, stinking of it, covered
we lay in the sun
until the miasmic mire
dries and cracks

life is an abusive uncle who drank too much a
stark-raving mad school teacher that
could not impress their
paternal warden

and then comes heartache with the vengeance of
a bad Tijuana taco chased with stale beer
making your guts grumble
and your ass burn

I have found another lover, a sneering playful vixen who
whispers in my ear the dirty thoughts that
no sailor ever dreamt, the sage
dictions of bards drunk
on absinthe

she is my muse, and I love her
like an opium addict
clinching a pipe.

In Fields of Glory I Have Fought

I have spilled blood of Philistines,
Laid waste their camps to smithereens,
God’s divine fury I have brought!
In fields of glory I have fought.

For King and country I have clashed,
With war hammer, heads I have smashed!
I well recall the, Celtic knot,
In fields of glory I have fought.

As Templar, I have righted wrongs,
With brothers, sang loud conquest songs!
As freedom-fighting juggernaut,
In fields of glory I have fought.

I often dream of ancient frays,
Of banners waving in the haze,
The cannon’s roar and rifle shot,
In fields of glory I have fought.

Snorting and Grunting

Sniffing my armpits like a Bohemian
I may have mystery stains on my bathrobe
that hasn’t been washed
in a month

for sure, there are traces of tawny port
and black coffee certainly

without a care, sometimes
I put-on my cleanest sullied shirt
after carefully sniffing
of course

dirty dishes stack up, crusty, as high
as the laundry, pretty much
neck and neck

what the heck, there’s
better things to do
I think

I have used a paper towel or two
to wipe my ass, I admit
this sounds crass, I have pissed
and missed the toilet
with less than dead-eye aim
in the dark, drunker than
Cooter Brown.

Beseech the Muse to Let Ink Flow!

In tarnished dream many do bide,
On crackled ground their spirit’s dried,
With mind they struggle in a row,
Beseech the muse to let ink flow!

In dithered state their minds are fraught,
Try as they will it’s all for naught
For souls are retching in a throe,
Beseech the muse to let ink flow!

In dark closet knelt on your knees,
The bards of old you must appease
And beg with fervor they bestow,
Beseech the muse to let ink flow!

For should they grant you Clio’s gift
And carry you o’er the vast rift,
To golden fertile fields you’ll go.
Beseech the muse to let ink flow!

In Veneration

Mother, was the real deal
a boiled-down with dross removed
saint, who always
smelled of Pine Sol and
food fried

she often sighed

she liked crooning Doris Day songs
with clack and clatter of dishes;
she was a diva

to us, she was an angel
without wings, someone who
soothed our scrapes and occasional

we didn’t know how to
ease hers, but I think our tears
helped some.

I often have visions of her sitting at
the kitchen table, leaning on calloused elbows
with hands folded

Oh, Great Healer of Hearts, Please Guide My Pen

A soulful tickling of piano keys
resounds in my mind as I meditate,
Monet waves his brush at bothersome bees
as the words appear and do animate.

And a starry night is where I oft land
as visions of, Poe and Shelly drift-by,
for Elysian Fields is where I do stand,
mesmerized again by a brush-swirled sky.

I also have stood on vast surreal plains,
where bizarre creatures with long legs did stride,
where holy men sang in solemn refrains
with Dante himself, as my spirit guide.

Oh, great healer of hearts, please guide my pen,
as I end my prayer with wishful, amen.

Nuestra luna: Our Moon

Our moon is rising, my love
the loons on the lake
are crying
but I shall not, no
because you asked me, begging
with tears
to simply smile
to live

you loved my smile

but I am halved and tarnished
as a peach left
in sun, shriveled with
pit of my heart

our moon is high
with, cricket symphony
the loons are entwined, nightingales
are serenading, the Valencia roses
kissed by dew, glisten
as I shudder with
a smile, fighting

Zarathustra Choked and Rolled in His Grave

The heavens flashed and the earth it did shake
as winged beneficent beings appeared,
their countenance shown brighter than the sun
as they blew trumpets announcing The Lord.“Oh, people of earth your judgment is nigh!
For the time of reckoning has arrived,
your recompense will be justly given
and His faithful pure of heart He will take!”

As cinders ascending from a great fire,
in a flash the justified souls were gone,
the earth was enveloped by a black cloud
as blood-red moon cast a macabre glow.

There was gnashing of teeth preceding war,
which ravaged the earth like great locust plague
and as great unseen gates of Hell swung wide,
from the darkest of dark the horrors leapt.

Hieronymus Bosch had no such nightmare
and nor did Dante conceive of such woe,
for chaos did reign as day became night,
as cries of the wicked made demons laugh.

“Oh, sorrow of sorrows comfort we’ve not?
For we cannot die, and death is but dream.”

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 bugs
that commanded stares from
wishful young minds.

We didn’t mind circumnavigating
my father’s beer can gauntlet some mornings, knowing
our apron clad savior with Doris Day
countenance, was waiting for us
in the kitchen.