Saturday, April 30, 2011

Blood, Dog Crap and Tears (The end of a journey)

On the 30th day, the poet...

...places his pen by his notebook, well pleased

...throws his pen against the wall, piercing the drywall, in angst

rises from his desk and goes out for some fresh air

storms out, slamming the door behind him, swearing to never write another damn poem

sun sparkling in his eyes, he stoops, inhaling the sweet symphony to the senses of the spring tulip

immediately stepping in a steaming pile of dog crap, realising he forgot to put shoes on

spies a neighbor working his lawn, waves, smiles exchanged, he goes to ask him over for a drink later

curses the idiot neighbor and his dog of questionable parenthood, throwing a double single finger salute toward their house while exhausting his repertoire of colorful metaphors

a-mused by the warm thoughts of hospitality returns home to capture the emotion

still screaming, now realises he locked himself out of the house, retrieves a garden gnome from the other neighbors yard and throws it through the window, cutting his palm as he crawls through the gaping hole, trailing blood droplets behind him, interspersed with a lone line of brown footprints across the two month new carpet

sighs as he sits once more in the chair at his desk

collapses into the chair at his desk, burying his head in his hands, his tears matching hearts blood from the cut drip for drip as they mingle on the fresh page of his notebook

takes up his pen and beings to write furiously

finding nothing else, wipes the dog crap from his feet with the now soiled page

and thus a poem is born.

and thus a poem is born.

30 poems in 30 days is now complete as is Poetry Month. Thanks to those that joined me on the journey and especially to the team that wrote alongside me, Ami, Hedge, Tricia and Shay. Dropping back once more to 6 days a week and looking forward to writing a story or some other meaningless drivel, haha.

Friday, April 29, 2011

the old man's shadow

old man, street corner stander,
carries his shadow on his shoulder
don't ask me how he tamed it, perhaps
it came to claim it's due and he convinced
it they both needed to stick around
a bit longer---

his face is etched crevices
between the muddy water skin
that once washed their land,
before the white man claimed
dominance, hair tied back tangles
tucked under a feathered black hat
beneath which the marbles roll with
intention in their sockets---

each day he stands immobile
a rock to break the tides that
flow by, but today, today is different
as he opens his mouth and the bear
and the wolf speak in a wailing, even
hints of that old trickster coyote as
he throws his head back and begins
to dance slow circles, all arms
but the crow never flies---

until they come for him, still he
sings as they lower him, and tucking
him in the back, restoring peace once
more to the street, though from a
storefront coffee shop table, i watch
the shadow wing circles caw-caw
echo echoing  the lost friend before
disappearing into the sun---

Thursday, April 28, 2011

55 - 451 and climbing

i burn books
on cool mornings
to keep warm

flames lick the pages &
though the carcinogens
in the ink and your words
will probably kill me

i am pleased
the trees, folded
and bound to
your will and whim,
finally have their say

in smoke signals
climbing on the breeze
into the blue sky.

Tell a story in 55 words. Give it a try or just read moe, go see G-man.

Over at Friday Poetically today, we are having a bit of a Friday social, meeting new people, making new friends.

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

dashboard bobble head jesus

dashboard plastic Jesus,
bobble head always says yes,
when i ask and gets all wiggly when i
thunk him on the belly
but he's always there
every where i go &

sometimes i turn his head around
backwards just to see where i
got this car heading
when i'm looking
for direction

dashboard jesus save me
from these gas prices so we
can continue our road trip to
salvation, the home less on
Damascus Road wanna wash
my windows at the stop light
but don't bother asking for
a tip when they see my co-

plastic...oh yes, plastic Jesus
makes it easy to rinse off
with a water hose or standing
in the car wash if it ever gets dirty
my I dream of Jeannie faith
less the constraints

and i repent of covering you
up with my shirt when
we roll around in the back seat &
that you kinda faded in
the suns heat, but you will
always be

my plastic---corporate sponsored
by Teva, wear em' cause
i'ma believa---

I am pretty sure you won't get struck by lightning for leaving a comment on this rather tongue in cheek Imperfect Prose.

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

One Shot: Eww! What did I step in?

this is not another poem
but a manifesto written
in red lipstick
on the morning after mirrors
of a nation that has forgotten
its identity in drunken debauchery
and the rush of get rich,

quick scams to join the
one percent, drawn on dry
erase boards for fast exits
slowly turning the tourniquet
cutting the flow of blood to
the innocent & amputating the
masses as gangrene populace

who then will you find to
cut your grass & wash your
Aston Martin at minimum

rage against the machine
that chews the bone to suck
the marrow of the weak, spewing
bullshit rhetoric in excess, exhaust
to choke the few trees left
that haven't been martyrs to the cause
of containing self-egrandizing

Tocqueville said,
"self-interest properly understood"
was our strength, but butchered
it has been, in two word
short attention

so while you sup on
caviar and crackers at state
dinners kissing the ass of those
you have indebted us to, think of me
for once, as I often think of you
when cleaning off the bottom
of my shoe.

sorry if this hurts your feelings,
i am still just waiting for
change i can believe in.

One Shot Wednesday ~ the place to play poetically, so bust a rhyme, or not and come join the party. We get started at 5 pm EST. Special thanks to Paul C for the inspiration this week. 

Voting is now open for the Poet Laureate of the Blogosphere, go drop a vote here.

Monday, April 25, 2011

when you wish upon a star...

why willows weep is a conundrum
to me, yet i sit beneath their
slouching limbs, where the
dragonflies flit and pirouette
in the sun's spotlight, crickets
chirrup cheers as the stage dims
obsidian, allowing the echoes
of stars to finally reach me
from some distant cosmos

reclined on my chest,  you
are/at peace, while i burn
in your heat & when you rise
once more to your rightful
place with a wink, remnants
of stardust remain, embedded
in the crease of my smile,
until next we meet.

Sunday, April 24, 2011

1SS - Here I Am

empty halls, walls built
to protect, not dissect
us from humanity, inhumanely
abandoned, out of sight, mind
sent wandering

mother, grand
each white hair
earned, here i still am
though am i

the only answer
comes from you

look at the pretty dogwood
out the window, alive and

yes, i am still too.

The pictures is by Greg Laychak and is the prompt for One Shoot Sunday. One poet who takes up the challenge will have their poem published in Greg's upcoming book.

Saturday, April 23, 2011

runaway circus

with rapt attention in our
mesmerized eyes, one of
three rings come alive, as
the fire eater takes flame
in his mouth, tongue to
tongue, swallowing &
smiles as it burns down
inside in the pause for effect
as we hold our breath

blows it back onto the torch
as the crowd erupts, cheering
waving glo sticks & hollering

forgotten the fire eater lay
dormant in the silent recesses of
my mind, find-ing his flicker
to fan when i sit to ponder
wishing i too could swallow
this hollow flame, but i blew
it too, only different & perhaps
i should run away, join the circus.

though, i'd fit better with
the clowns, cause these
words are my tears, n' tween
my ears Pagliaci & Smokey
play the tune in the grey matter room
and i can't get that stupid
song to stop, all i hear is

the tears of a clown
da, da, da, bada ba ba ba ba

and now, ina aftermath n'
the ash of a bad patch o life
really it ain't no pass/fail
class, turn the frown upside
down, n'  right side up
the crown, clown don't let it
slip right passed you, fool,
hum the tune.

da, da, da, bada ba ba ba ba
da, da, da, bada ba ba ba ba

Friday, April 22, 2011

Friday Poetically: I am no Shel Silverstein

Over at Friday Poetically, I challenged our readers to write a poem using words from Shel Silverstein's "One Inch Tall." Here is my humble offering:

if our love dreams
only in whispers,
school me to
here the sound
so i dance
true to you.

Then my inner immature teen took over and wrote:

i eat delicious yellow beans,
moon schools, some
worms dance, whisper
magic treats, today
love me asleep
before you go.

Then i got emo and wrote:

i dance in cold teardrop rain
love was only a dream
worms mined in my sleep

It's Friday, what can I say...I try not to take myself too seriously. Hope everyone has a great weekend!

Thursday, April 21, 2011

55 - Spring Break

bees buzz along lips
of unfrocked flowers

the neighbors mower
growls, nearly drowning

the crack of ball & bat
howling through the

these are signs
of spring

as is the used condom
in the culvert by the

back road, busted,
weeping another
high school beauty's

come end of spring

Tell a story in 55 words. Give it s try or just read more, go see g-man.

Over at Friday Poetically, we are playing with a Shel Silverstein poem.

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

haystacks & hurricanes

hell hath no fury
as rolling stones, the open
mouth of empty tomb,
there is no room
for status quo inside this hurricane

epidermis, cellophane,
love wins, but only if you
let it begin, Baskin Robbins got 32
flavors but you never know
til you savor, mama made
you wash your hands, but
who'd drink of a cup
unclean within, again

hell hath no fury
as rolling stones, the open
mouth of empty tomb,
there is no room
for status quo inside this hurricane

fingers clenched, window pain
no child left out in the rain
water's parted, party started,
unworthy only in the figments
of your imagination, pigments
drained, stains removed, lover
healer, savior, victor, no matter
who, what, where you been

hell hath no fury
as rolling stones, the open
mouth of empty tomb,
there is no room
for status quo inside this hurricane

haystack's needle lost then
found, hearts re-beat & chains
unbound in grace today
& tomorrows a head on
collision with hope


hell hath no fury
as rolling stones, the open
mouth of empty tomb,
there is no room
for status quo inside this hurricane

written for Imperfect Prose

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

One Shot: Bully, Ho!

ask me why a boy would bring
and assault rifle to school
and i'll tell you, not to be cool
like billy the kidd said, as emilio estavez,
"i'll make you famous", thats BS
nor as much respect, as dignity
stolen from me with the intimate kiss
of the piss covered tile floor
stretching wall to stall in the
boys bathroom o'tha school hall,
staring up at the shoes
of the knuckles that fist raped my face
leaving a patchwork bruise

how many times you got to
have your ass handed to you
before a stitch and two
band aids wont do fool

n' at sixteen, i drop a twenty
on the trunk of a car
ina parking lot of montgomery wards
for a cold, post mortem switch blade,
night gleaming blacker'n ace of spade
and he throws in some brass
to wrap my fist, just strike hard and fast
make the first one count and dont miss,
the knife to operate, eviscerate n' evict
he who strikes strife in my life,
yeah i'm talking bout you

how many times you got to
have your ass handed to you
before a stitch and two
band aids wont do fool

as i visualize planting a flag
in the hill of you, so they see
who the bitch is in this relationship
i may be small, not look like as smooth,
don't need numbers to paint by,
sprain my brain just trying to give a rhyme glue
or snatch a pigskin as good as you
but the target now got something
in his pocket too and it's
addressed to you...WOO!

it's over now, the crowd gatherin' round
to hear their lion growl
for today i rewrite history,
embracing my new destiny,
pen thick, strong and thirsty
for a long pull at your neck,
but instead i hold n' take it,
having the means and motive but
just not the stomach,
weak enough to call my own bluff
busted, cartilage crunch,
laid out like the buffet at the
KFC for lunch

how many times you got to
have your ass handed to you
before a stitch and two
band aids wont do fool

but ted, yeah he finally had enough
his exacto going ginsu
drawing the line in the sand of you
from hair line to lip,
and they sent him up,
labeling him psychotic,
but how many of us weren't neurotic
there in the pride lions den
and me not feeling bad may be sin,
but then again bully your mom wins
throwin her clout,
wit the words of her mouth
excusin' the truth,
exoneratin' all you ever did without proof

i grow up as you shut up
talk to the hand, man i no
longer take shit from you
and dont know where the
switchblade went, but that
brass still sits in the bottom
on my art kit, occasionally
winking and as i write n they
rewind me to remind me
how much time i wasted listenin
n receivin' it from you.

Welcome to One Shot Wednesday, if you have never poetically played with us, write a poem, come join us, just follow the link it all begins at 5 pm EST.

Monday, April 18, 2011

fireflies in our eyes

we gather, young and old,
at a roadside park, to play in the dirt
amid the Sunday evening
laughter like we once
did as kids

a ball, some bases, friends,
and some just yet to be met & made, all
answering the siren song of spring & the smell
of hot dogs on the grill,

we play kick ball
so fierce, we miss tagging
the young ones & cheer louder
based on the amount of white
in your hair, until the sun goes down or
we're tired & wander
on home &

tomorrow no
one will remember the score
to the game, or who missed
a catch or even who
was the hero, if there was
just one,

& we may be a little tight
in the leg from using muscles
we haven't in a while
but we'll smile
cause we played
like we once did as kids

and look forward to doing
it again.

This is my ticket on the poetry bus  this week.

Sunday, April 17, 2011

160/1SS - Cell Block Six

i am the sun
copulation of all
my Yesterdays

which try to contain
me but i refuse
to only see Today during
weekly visitation

watching my Tomorrows
grow up in pictures

What can you say in 160 characters? Say then go tell Monkey. The photo is by James Rainsford as part of One Shoot Sunday.

Friday, April 15, 2011

living in the (parent) hood

i dream in sepia,

sitting in a lawn chair,
grass a scrub patches quilt
my feet cool in a
blow up water hose
filled pool, you
between them, only
you are me in a diaper
and i am you

it is so hot i don't want
to move, each day this
week a month itself, age
being a relative thing
these days & i keep
pulling at my legs
wanting to play

so i splash with my feet
while i titter and coo
and turn a slow smile
now understanding you.

I awoke to a pleasant surprise today, Claudia, Tasha and Glynn had nominated me for the Poet Laureate of the blog world, here, i am humbled and honored. You gave me big smiles this morning.

Thursday, April 14, 2011

55 - whispers of eternity

cans with wet
color lips &

heaven's essence,
on canvas,
i try to
calling it you

your feathers tickle
enfolding me

my lips can no
longer contain the
hymns they are holding

you sigh thunder
& rabbits on distant hills
stop mid-hop to
smell the air

spilt paint

Tell a story in 55 words. Give it a try or just read more, go see g-man.

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Perhaps if we jailed all the cats...

the first field trip i remember
was my second year of school
when one stop was the local
butcher shop.

we all filed in to listen
to the apron-ed man
as he demonstrated cutting things
down to size, with big shiny blades,
but the highlight was
when he plopped a phallic
looking muscle on the counter.

i think someone even said it, sending
us into a giggling twitter, kids only
know how to tell the truth until
shushed enough

he though declared it the tongue
of a calf and asked if anyone wanted
some and so the few and brave took
slices to nibble, while others cringed
and faux vomited

years later, in high school
we all acquired a taste, especially
when consumed in open faced
lockers and back seats, fine
young cannibals, we became

until, in adulthood, we learned
to swallow our own when we
see something that makes us
uncomfortable, which

in truth, tastes just like baloney.

Imperfect Prose

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

One Shot: Skipping Stones, Chained around Your Ankles

We'd sling stones hoping for a
kiss kiss kiss skip across
the surface but some were worth less
zing~plop, the water swallowing
them up, slipping down to
the bottom

& growing up around water
i never really thought about drowning,
until the day i was clowning around
with one of my parents friends
in the deep end and caught him with my
foot on his way up after a dive and he
held me under to teach me a lesson,
and see the fear in my eyes?

but that day, as my lungs
ached for air, whistling screams
of each cilia, fingers grasping
for purchase as my world
faded to blackness...this is
the moment i understood...watching
someone i knew and trusted, doing
what he thought best for me,
hold me under, then i knew
exactly what it felt like...

to be in your first year of high school
and know how to catch a football (well
kinda) but look at a page of words and
not make sense of them, passed on because,
no one knows what to do with you and if
they accept your diagnosis they have to
allocate money for an aide out of an
already cut the budget where teachers
have to pay for pencils so kids can
fill in the bubbles on the standardized
tests that determine if their school gets
to stay open, or they get to keep their
job, out of their barely above welfare wages,

leaving this boy stolen from
feeling dumb, stupid, and
worth less like that damn rock
on the bottom of the lake
silently choked out by
the ones that are supposed
to care for him, but all they are
concerned with is skipping rocks
across the surface.

Yo! It's One Shot Wednesday. Time to cut the poetic wax and spin it for the blogoverse. What have you got to say? Write a poem, come join us. I will be hosting tonight, 5 PM there. Smiles.

And if you are a storyteller, yet not necessarily poetic, we are having a fun writing experiment over at One Stop right now until the doors open for OSW.

Monday, April 11, 2011

natural selections

watching tv
surfing channels
we land on

national geographic
or something graphic

"are they?"

"oh yeah"

they do their thing
and the male disengages
rolling on his back
tongue lolling

the female sneers
then locks jaws
on his neck

his thrashing
becomes twitches
then stillness
and she licks him
once before
walking away

taking the remote
from my numb fingers
she thumbs the
power button

"ready for bed?"

i rub the side on my neck
weighing briefly my

"why not?"

bugs crackle
against a neighbor's zapper
as i turn the lights

morituri te salutant

Sunday, April 10, 2011

1SS - I pray for Terrorists

She is the neighborhood terrorist
all smiles in a pretty dress
going door to door to spread
cheer & whatever gossip she
picks up on her route

did you know...

can you believe...

why, i heard...

her word balloons line the cul-de-sacs
like landmines & she leaves
hand grenades for kids to
play catch with, so full
of hot air and righteousness
she just floats along on her sortie

Lord bless their souls is always her
opening salvo as she drops bunker
busters to root out those nasty sinners,
weeds among the garden of Eden, it's
all the Lord's work you know

of course she also votes Republican,
like a good Christian, cause save the
babies but leave my assault rifles alone
makes perfect sense against the sixth

brings brussel sprouts
to the Sunday potluck and hides the
black label when the preacher stops
by to gather the intel on his flock

Lord, bless their souls.

The image is courtesy of Lauren who is being featured at One Shoot Sunday today.

Saturday, April 9, 2011

AD in the HD to the ASP

i am a crooked line
in a stitched straight
laced world, tied with
a bow, just to keep
the shoes on, though
i take mine off any
chance i get

slipped through
the cracks of my diag-
nosis, did you see my
cat, oh you wanted
something, what were
we talking about

i get confused when
you tell me too much
and no i wont look at
you, stOP talking, STOP
TALKING! throw
myself on the ground
bang my head on
the wall

it feels
it feels

good to know
whats coming and wearing
my red shirt on Tuesdays,
Wednesday is blue
and chicken nuggets,
but today

sorry i was counting
cars, they tell me things
like how the day will be
by the number, odds are
good, evens are not
but trucks don't

chances are you won't
understand me, make fun
of me, think less of me,
try to contain me, ex-
plain me, but never
see me

i am a crooked line
in a stitched straight laced
world but i don't remember
where i left my shoes.

I have never been on the Poetry bus before, so give me grace if i jack it up. Just a bit about a boy, one of my friends, I work with.

Friday, April 8, 2011

Ugolino's guests at the Tea Party

Treason, Treason!
Ugolino calls your name from
the home he has made among
his level of hell, supping on the
entrails of his sons, our politicians
bipartisan buffet of our own solider
sons families in their ineptitude
to make decisions

anger & anguish
turn your face in a grimace
as you twist the tourniquet, cut off
the flow of life giving blood to
that which you've thrown at
your whim into wars on foreign shores
or labeled non essential

Ugolino sets a place at the table
and waits, knowing he will see you
soon, as well as us, fool enough
to vote you in.

Over at Friday Poetically today, I am sharing pictures of a piece I saw at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, while in NYC, and giving you a chance to respond to it. Come join the fun.

Thursday, April 7, 2011

55 - hot & fresh

bronze skin slick
i watch you dance
float wet & turn,
naked, my eyes stuck
mouth damp press
fingerprints in window
glass beside those
of other guys & even
ladies who come
for the chance to
take you between
their lips....mmm...
doughnuts, but
i call you Krispy Kreme
cause we on a
first name basis.

Tell a story in 55 words. Give it a shot or just read more, go see G-man.

Sorry, if you are a Dunkin Doughnuts fan, they just don't at KK you get to watch them being made through the window...all about the build up as they roll fresh off the, ok I am just being silly today.

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

one less than three you

one less than three you
an algebraic equation
to determine the feelings
that reside inside the
veins pulsing rhythm, in
attempts to contain, dissect,
and deconstruct into minute
understandable symbols
supernovas erupting from
black holes, and souls
measured in grams, the
existing distance between
us, phi, written by divine
hand, sectio divina, but pi
is square man, no way
round it, distill to its
essence, greater than
one less than three you

i text it:    1 <3 U

and await your reply...

 imperfect prose

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

one stop: this is not haiku

(lower case~lower caste)
truth is a commodity,
afforded to few, too few,
who refine it into food
suitable for the masses,

packaged in plastic pop
top containers, like apple sauce,
it slides down, with out thought,
or need to chew

& lies in wait along
grocery store check out
aisles for those gullible
enough pull the wings
off dragonflies so they
can experience true

once consumed, please recycle the container at least

ancient wisdom blows
on the wind, for those
that listen, but to the rest
its flatulence, they
used to sniff, but
now barely notice,
walking in unison,
together yet alone.
love is the wind,
the wind is &

life is not a personal pronoun, its a verb.

observe & beware the
shadow puppets you cast
under the sun, they
walk around after the
lights go out and
spread your Message,
on eight legs, each
one a deadly sin, &
the extra for the next
one we think up.

we are good at that,
then cover them in
make up.

if we took our skin off
at the door and hung it
in the hall coat closet,
would you still stop at
the mirror and smile at
yourself every time
you walk in?

the interior is often lost to the pressure.

during breakfast, these things
play havoc on my synapses,
luckily I am eating Captain Crunch
so the noise of my masticating
drowns them enough to
capture this for you.

the berries make the milk taste yummy.

this is not a haiku.

Hey every body, its one shot wednesday and that means its time to write something poetic. The doors open at 5 pm. Won't you come join us. Smiles.

submitted to the 10DOM writing competition.

Monday, April 4, 2011


Lucy Spoke Diamond dust when we met
on a one night blind date set up by my college
room mate, promising a roadtrip out of kansas
with every heel click once she

slipped, tongue pressed, passed my lips
on the back of 25 cents, dropping me in the
mail slot, ending up in the dead letter room in
the post office on the dark side of the moon
stamped postage due, and

unable to hitch a ride, i followed street sign
popsicles melting in a purple haze picasso
paintings to an intersection seeking direction
from a time concious rabbit and his girl Alice

eat this, drink that, whisper the cheshire cats
leaving you dance paranoia's razor, slippery slope
of no hope tomorrows, lies hidden behind
Mona Lisa smiles, but get out of jail free is

just a card in Monopoly, cause what they fail
to tell you, fine print on the label, is escape
lasts minutes then you right back in it, only
deeper & soon enough you'll need it again

she'll intro you to friends...and again...and again...

"Hey Lucy, you got some esplainin to do!"
Rickie Ricardo yelling, but she's off selling
herself to another brother just as jacked up
as you, yeah reality sucks at times, but

its hard to rewind the tape once it spools
and only fools fall in love with and few
live to tell it, but i did and i gotta say,
she's a promise unkept and that ain't cool---

Saturday, April 2, 2011

160/1SS - getting the picture

click wrr

capture a moment
but don't miss it

click wrr

what good are
memories never experienced

click wrr

color fades in photos neglected
don't let me

click wrr

What can you say in 160 characters? Say it, then tell Monkey.

The picture is by India Hobson, who is featured today as part of One Shoot Sunday at One Stop Poetry.

Friday, April 1, 2011

In-sp(i)ring, Tu lips

in BARE feet
i walk the length
of your
tu lips

grass lush, paths cut
along holy ground

i tip toe
through your
tu lips

bowing reverent, or irr--,
carving covenant poems
on each inhalation

exhaling arias adoration
unleashed i skip, spinning,
swoop swing, fervor fanned
frenzy building, to the brink
where the world melts gutteral
gurgling water down the sink
drain into a kaleidiscope of
single sylables and strobe
light heart beat

cause nothing says
spring like
tu lips.