Sunday, March 31, 2013

eat the head off the bunny first

our eggs


rain rippled puddle
off the porch steps, brown with dirt,
my hands, clean, creased
with memory's toil
tell a scar strewn story.

another easter

bunny, hopped up
on candy, my sons bounce
off the walls, gee thanks.

yet another (late addition)

hard boiled easter eggs
polka-dot the green grass in pieces
someone needs to clean the bat

after easter

found a dyed egg
hidden in the couch
three weeks ago
no longer festive,
truth a faint memory

Hope you have a great day! Happy Easter!

Woven Dreams

Friday, March 29, 2013

Poetics: Robin the Rich, of the Poor

put a man in tights &
      they turn him into a joke

 (it was the style once)
       thanks to Mel Brooks"

♪ we are men, men in tIghts,
       tIght tIghts ♪

he coughs, clears his throat
in his hand (high notes will do that) & watches 
a cop car rolls passed

          with high voices & purty mouths
well used by the higher ups,
in an attempt to discredit, a misdirection
of attention from the cause.
most don't know

the difference
between a communist & socialist,
or that capitalist is an economic sytem
not democracy, but we label it, give it a feeling,
twist it like Superman's battle
with sharp toothed Asian's
during WWII

'people are poor for a reason
& if they had ambition they'd be something,'
Nottingham's rhetoric---"

he turns & we walk down
the worn gravel path to the the first green house,
a few panes of glass broken

"vandals, don't know any better, broke in,
took some tools, our volunteers'll patch it up
best they can---soil's rich though this year
& these vegetable'll keep many
through the heat, but sometimes
i feel trapped inbetween"

& we
kneel, put our hands in the earth,
start separating what's for
human or animal

& what's good enough
to sell at their market, on the edge
of the Hood.

Over at dVerse Poets today, Mary has us placing a character from a story into a new situation, perhaps modern or a different history---while I chose Robin Hood, this is based on an actual person that runs a non-profit community garden inside our city. He has multiple old greenhouses and works predominantly on volunteers---join the fun, doors open at 3 pm EST.

Thursday, March 28, 2013

FormForAll: i should've tried writing a sonnet, i'd have been asleep faster

teacher mode
at night, monsters&infomercials roam
while the sane sleep, but i can't---not tonight
theories dance in APA format, tight
limbed among the mush of cerebral foam
like natives saronged, ugGHhh, i groan

& watch Vikings mete out justice, all fight
lost, given over to the one eye light,
as even my friends, the stars, have gone home

"how say ye?" "i kil't him, but for cause-
redhanded trying to rape my wife," but

it's not in court blood's shed @ knife point
revenge is oft sought without pause
to support our perceptions//i//cuT
(cut?) (shhh he's asleep) sorry to dis//a-point

Over at dVerse Poets today, Sam has us writing Miltonian Sonnets. Form being what it is...i had my fun with it, a bit, but think i got the rhyme scheme and even the syllabels right...we'll see. Sunday night, after writing grad school papers all weekend, i could not sleep, my brain mush but my body ready to go...anyway...Doors open at 3 pm EST. Have a go at it...whats the worst that can happen.

Wednesday, March 27, 2013

i'll have the usual

an old knuckle baller, he still wears the cap he wore in high school,
yellow&brown, embroidered LH, faded&nipped in time's toll---it
contrasts his grey temples, face full of whiskers, red rimmed eyes,
still wide, cheeks sagged, creased, work the salt off a peanut, teeth,
tongue shuck the shell & spit it in an ever increasing pile, like
bones at a chicken feast

one hand works the cover of a browned baseball, fingers flipping
around the leather&laces, through the repertoire of pitches he once
threw, the other works a pencil along a score card. he keeps
every hit, strike, ball, foul---every statistic of importance, a scratch,
scratch, scratch of lead, impression on paper, the game reflecting
in his cornea---spits another shell, works the ball, scratch, scratch

man on first, one out, pop, scratch, scratch, double play & it's
over, he folds the card in half, then quarters so it fits neat in
his back pocket, shuffles up the concrete steps between bleachers
to wherever he goes & whatever he does until tomorrow when
he'll be there, in his usual spot, spitting shells, hand running through
the memory of pitches & marking his card,
with one thing that makes sense

leaving me
to sit,
notebook in hand,
scratching away,
                       just the same

written for Poetry Jam
photo credit: By Midori (Own work) [GFDL (, CC-BY-SA-3.0 ( or CC-BY-SA-2.1-jp (], via Wikimedia Commons

Monday, March 25, 2013

OpenLinkNight: what Yahweh said to Jonah, as he did to me

freezing flower

strange for a Monday, so many out
but it snowed & roads, now passable
they're escaping,

catching their breathe, before the train
leaves on the day & it's back
to work tomorrow.

seems so close.

7 inches
of snow, pushed
into mounded mountains, round
lightpoles, it's pristine surface greying, cars
hokey-pokey, in & out,
across the parking lot

a river, wide & shallow
runs the asphalt downhill to peter
into collection mouths,
schlik, schlik, schlik,
each footstep sending a rooster
tail of wet off shoe toes

"do you see the bunny?
his face starts right there,"
points a finger, tiny
body bundled against the bite
in a blue coat, making her look twice
as big

"yes dear," mother
putting bags in the trunk, unable
to see, the ringlet haired little one
can only look---each direction
has validity


schlik, schlik, schlik
"don't miss
the buffalo on the one over there,"
i nod, she all teeth
turns excitedly,

"mom, what's a buffalo?"

the doors Shhhush open,
swallow me whole, before i hear
the answer, into the belly
of the whale,
              headed deep.

Over @ dVersePoets, it is OpenLinkNight - where poetry has a heart beat and so do the people, ha. write a poem or something resembling one, and come have some fun. Doors open at 3 pm EST.

Sunday, March 24, 2013

not how you treat a lady, but

photo by Alexandre Dulaunoy

wife warm in the womb
of blankets beside me, i try
reading, but can't

concentrate---a lady
bug crawls along the top
of the page, legs barely
visible under the hem
of her polka dot dress, 

stops, at the peak
and stares at me, like bud
on a tree, red & tight

anticipating the rush
of warmth as the sun
kisses open her flower

she trembles
as i bring my finger near

& flick her off, beyond
the soft pool of light

return to reading, &she
spreads her wings,
flying free into the night

both of us better
off for it

written for woven dreams

Saturday, March 23, 2013

Poetics: Poe Me

found advert

like Weekend at Bernies, only dug up
they prop him in a corner,
adorned in a ten gallon hat & shades

the future's so bright, you know

he only needs a cigarette
to hide the smell of his cadaver

'oh, poe
        you so

he only looks at me as if
'what the heck'
                  'help a brother out'

(---of his misery, maybe)

but says,
            'this is what happens,
                    we die to be famous,
                      then can't recognize
                          what they make us'

they take him to readings,
puppet mouthed, twist his words
as they do his meanings --- to fit
their own needings, 'Annabel Lee!
Annabel Lee!'

they chant, 'to be loved by me,
to be loved by me,'
he mutters.

'what's the matter, don't you feel Fortunato, Poe,
lost seeking Amantillado, you cask(et)
is opaque to give the world (a) view'

& he smirks,
when, asking for requests, the response
is a song, perhaps The Village People,
           or something like that.

Over at dVerse today, Claudia has us interacting with people throughout history...having conversations and well...have a bit of fun with it. Ha. Doors open at 3 PM EST.

Friday, March 22, 2013

55 - working on homework w/ my son & Wahunsunacawh

photo by R. A. Nonenmacher

hiStory's been rewritten

so many times
it's hard to tell

what's real

the great chief brought low
so soon after his daughter

their story sold to Disney
to capture the Color
of the Wind

we use magic marker

the assignment's rubric
calls for balance
between creativity & validity

(even so,
we don't mention
casinos or...)

a story in 55 words, for g-man.

Thursday, March 21, 2013

MeetingTheBar: unBorn

photo by Petteri Sulonen

          (she is here)


pressing in

'we are going to be alright'



'how could you do this?'

'but,' (her)
'don't you know what you've done?'

'you're fourteen, for CHrist sakes"

'we are going to be alright'


'how will you support it,
you're just a freshman?'

      pressing in

'it's so cool, having a baby.
can i keep it for you, like, dress it up
& we can take it to the mall & like...'


'look, i don't want it,
do what you will just don't expect...'




'we are going to be alright'


'i am your mommy.'



Over at dVerse Poets today, Anna has us doing an exercise that took me on a rather surreal journey. We are to take on the persona of something, an object, or an other...and seeing multiple students around campus that are pregnant, at least one of which is pregnant---it's been haunting me for days to write something---so i tried to write as the unborn child....who really would not understand much other than what it could --pressure---tightness---stress---and disembodied voices w/ emotions only as loud and soft. i dunno if i pulled it off but....tune it at 3 PM EST. Maybe you can. Smiles.

Wednesday, March 20, 2013

commas & periods

photo by angeloangelo
grandmother fell again
last weekend,

for the third time
this year & now

head back, mouth open
she moans

as if ready to give up
but won't, not her independence
& in moments of lucidity
rises up from the bed

to let us
know she doesn't need a nurse
& won't eat when we try

i stir applesauce & study
our reflection in the window glass
blurred just enough

to where
we're not much
different, attune
to commas
& periods

head back, mouth open
she moans

as if ready to give up
but won't

written for Poetry Jam

My grandmother, who is in her 90s was the one that fell, her bones are starting to give way. Actually she fell for a fourth time last night, trying to go to the bathroom herself and not calling the nurse and might have broken her wrist now. She is very independent, against having assistance and its a sore topic in the extended family at this point between her wishes and what may be for her greater good. I dunno.

Monday, March 18, 2013

OpenLinkNight: who cares?

sticker on the asphalt

in the car
we're ar-
guing, if  'dying
to eat'
         is a metaphor

i am sure
              it isn't
but they are

(my wife
so we ask

my youngest son's
we find in a store

calls her daughter
asks Google

all, little
to no help
random strangers

just look at me

i mean,
who cares?

it's not as if
we are

tho some are
so i ask
Over @ dVerse Poets, it is OpenLinkNight...33 hours of wall to wall poetry from around the globe....and we are just waiting on you to come join us...write something and bring it with, or just drop in to read. See you at 3 pm EST

Sunday, March 17, 2013

sawing the washboard

photo by RevStan

it doesn't take much. a double tucked pillow or rolled up coat to cradle my head and i can make/do a bed most anywhere---all the years, sleeping outdoors under a cricket's criCKet

sharp blade grass tickles my bare arms, its pungent aroma, my nose. sun's re/turned, an ardourous lover, red on closed eyes, bright in their opening, world fading into being---first shadows, then trees, then people with mouthes & opinions.

"don't go too far."

no answer, but SHUffling feet of a tawny haired boy throwing himself to the whim of gravity down the hill to the playground. kids crawl like hungry ants at a picnic along its surface, down slides, up nets & ladders---command ships & fight dragons, yin, yip, snap, SqUeeky swings sway

conversation pop corns around cell phones & webpages, among benched parents, things

"you would not believe what..."

insert neighbor's name or a reasonable likeness, child's achievement, work speculation, project planning, home improvement or any other all talk, they've been starving to tell, until

"hey, get down. get down, right now."

good luck with that---a grey bug, all angles & legs, makes its way along fault lines in the bark, up a tree (click, click, click) & i tear a lone strand of grass, place it between my lips, to taste life on my tongue & lower myself flat once more. giggles & glee & bird song, sweet chorus (trill-de-DEEP, trill-de-DEEP)---

it's doesn't take much& i am


a little music for woven dreams

Friday, March 15, 2013

Poetics: yeah kermit, i agree (a duet with a muppet)

photo by kevygee

A judge today put a stop to soda oppression
in the state of New York ~ Star Wars:
Clone Wars was cancelled ~ in gun shops
they are running short of amm0~

& in Green news,
174 manatee are dead from red tide
off the coast of Florida this year alone & before
you jump on pollution, It's a natural born
killer, like Woody Harrelson, not the boats
that treat them like speed bumps, but
keep rocking the Tshirts

Green Earth

like pop art, while you produce 4.6 pounds
(birthing half a baby daily) of trash per diem
burn or bury it, so we don't see it, increase
the chance of ground water contamination

i mean, at least wearing Green
                                             you won't
get pinched
                 by St. Pat's disciples

i ate my Lucky Charms this morning
how's that
                     for conservation?

  ♪ and green can be cool and friendly like
and green can be big like an ocean
or important like a mountain....'s not easy being green ♪

yeah kermit,
                  i agree
it's not easy
                 being green

Over @ dVerse Poets, Karin has us getting all 'green' today....take that as you will...or a multitude of ways...smiles. Doors open at 3 pm EST.

Thursday, March 14, 2013

FormForAll: Over too soon & fingers sticky

Over too soon & fingers sticky

Coke fizz
ticKles my nose/
lips, PBJ lunch a-
lone with memories of last night.
bell rings

Over at dVerse Poets, Tony has us writing American Cinquains. A very constraining form of syllables and stresses...i might have come close on this one...hyphen,  just for Tony...smiles. Doors open at 3 pm EST.

After posting had another come to me. Funny how that happens when you stop thinking about it. 

here, not there

dirt road
dust rise / brown clouds
still a ways off, i suck
water from a pebble; quiet

Wednesday, March 13, 2013

choosing dance partners

bathroom tile

he's not right,

in the back of the line
at the coffee shop---keeps
making random comments
in a voice akin to the offspring

of beavis or butthead
& the archetypal devil

(but they're funny)
& his wide eyes move
like a beehive kicked
by barefoot children

wears all black, hears music
the rest are oblivious to
& rocks, looks like a hangover
from a weekend long bender

puts plenty of sugar in his cup,
then walks out---i wish

he'd stayed---so we could talk,
he reminds me of someone
i haven't met yet.

written for Poetry Jam where I am taking latitude in the dance theme, to incorporate the dance of life. I mean most of you know already I have 6 college credits in dance, including ballet, so...

Tuesday, March 12, 2013

OpenLinkNight: meeting minutes at the pole dancers union

photo by Fuzzy Gerdes

it's a small death, each gyration of these hips,
another buck finds its way in the strand of my g
your finger lingering in the low country
like customs checking passport stamps
reading pheromones in the glisten

all you want is the vision, one bite of this apple
could open a whole universe, damn the curse
it's not your Eden, anyway, and tomorrow

you'll kiss your spouse in a way they've forgotten
& if you're lucky---they won't ask, just wonder
what's gotten into you & never know

the evidence left across the crime scene
of my body, holes burned by a glance,
fingerprints, full whorls & a small chunk
of your kids college fund, call it---hush money

i call it a salary, considering i am just your
employee & though i've never once removed
my clothes, you have when i bend low or---
yeah, i saw you & not that

you'd ask but this is how i feel,
sliding round the pole in the heat of the lights
as if you
            cared to,
                          or at all.

Over at dVerse Poets, it's OpenLinkNight, one big poetic party where we paint the walls with poetry...we have a spot just for you as write something mildly poetic and come join us...doors open at 3 pm EST.

Monday, March 11, 2013

55- monday morning moment

photo by tobyotter

out the door,
on the porch
i am

in a stare down
with a cardinal

each other up

boards creak
as i rock, ball
to ball

& there's no smoke

'no pope, no pope'

'ya got that right,'
i share back, us

each other's air

narcissus jonquillas
yellow heads
lifted high,
             drink sun

55 words for g-man.

Sunday, March 10, 2013

perhaps she mistook me for Lady Gaga (at the Comicon)

blurred in the mirror

"nice Catwoman outfit,"
she turns, fluid
as only skin tight leather
allows & looks

at the old man,
like a letch---as if
she'd get with that, he
blushes & looks

at me for relief
but she's gone, through the door
lost amid all the others---

Black Widow, a group of Stormtroopers,
Captain Underpants (is a girl?), Mario
&, &, &

perusing comic books,
toys from before she was born&

"sorry man, she's one of my

he laughs, "if looks could kill...
she thought i..."

"i'll clear it up,"
later, find her talking it up
with Batman & his spandex friends

"hey that was me..."
she laughs, says

"i like your costume too,"

& in the moment, wish
i was wearing one but
am content, mine won't
come off---i was born
like this

Went to Comicon yesterday with Logan and ran into a few students while we were there...for the record we did not dress up, but many people did...and in the students defense, she had never seen me with my hair 'up'...haha...while my son made us listen to Taylor Swift the whole way, it was Lady Gaga that I thought of.

for Gretchen who asked us to write of a song...@ dVerse Poets

Friday, March 8, 2013

Poetics: zooTV

photo by Ivan Mlinaric

on the bars that divide us
amidst a field of pitted steel, raised
letters read---Monkey Enclosure
(which doesn't sound PC) but we

stand, feet tired of touring 
      as a crowd mills about, thiSnThat,

one lays, half in/half out 
       a little plyboard house, dead
       to all that surrounds,
       asleep (i think
       check the chest

two others take turns picking nits
       nibbled as snacks &
       sCHuff sighs @ each touch

in a dance,
       not quite courtship 
       but communal, none the same

'it's sweet," my wife says

it is & isn't
        lost in the aromatics,
        it stinks

what is deemed nutritious
slimy on the cage floor, left 
in black plastic bins, over night

their eyes though
show the road, a world away, taken
to this point.

a day dress/ed girl skips past,
trailing a blue&greenEarth balloon
on a string,

a bright polka dot, against the sky,
obscured by clouds, most cirrus

Over at dVerse Poets, I am co-hosting Poetics today with the wonderful Gretchen Leary. For my part of the prompt, we are writing Mad Lib poems...have someone give you 2 nouns, 3 verbs, 3 adjectives and 2 random words, then write a poem using them. Mine were given to me by my 8 and 10 year olds...stink, sigh, monkey, slimy, aromatic, sweet, dance, touch, house, road.

For her part, Gretchen has us writing to music...and while I did not, I usually do, so the title is homage to one of my favorite bands...U2...and the zooTV tour they did a few years back.

Thursday, March 7, 2013

MeetingTheBar: the whole tooth


the whole tooth is---

a graffiti campaign to...well i am not sure,
state an opinion, or peel the onion,
but that will give you bad breath, they're

painted on power boxes, a metaphor itself,
with one large tooth & in the middle, words
usually, but the newest has the silhouette
face of an indian - like sitting bull

on the same street, down town feeder,
Richard walks, balancing bottles & balls
on his head like a woman with a water pot
returning from the river, though his is reversed
on the way to the James, where he'll meet
morning rush hour with a flourish, flip whatever
he finds up to land and stand on his head
as he dances beneath

i met him at the soup kitchen, once,
he didn't want to talk about the show, just eat,
it takes a lot out of a man, "those quarters
ain't cheap & streets don't care who walks,
rides or cycles, they'll chew you up
'less you treat them like a lover"

like the indian, i wonder what reservation
they'll find for him at extraction---the whole tooth
they keep trying to wash away,  keeps popping up
on power boxes, bad onion breath
you can't brush away, i

eye the mirror, then ahead & between cars
the morning sun plays in the trees,
dappling the street, light // dark,
dark // light---& i love them both
the same.

Over at dVerse Poets, Pamela is guesting for Victoria for MeetingTheBar and wants us to write on our home, our city, our town, where we are from---get writing...doors open at 3 pm EST.

Wednesday, March 6, 2013

Locked up, in the prism of Spring

photo by mistycabal

when you play the game
you risk

why you play the game

that's why
spring is so special

the first game,
the dirt, the grass,
pine tar, leather

a hot dog

among a hundred

all those young guys
with dreams

to make the show
& then

that know they won't,
that this one

might be the last
& are just happy
to be

playing the game.

written for Poetry Jam

Monday, March 4, 2013

OpenLinkNight: Figaro! Figaro! Fi-ga-RO! or so the fat lady sang

photo by Sweaty187

Galileo & i sit, legs over the edge
of my medulla studying empty space
seeking centricism

"is it helio-, geo- or ego?"

he's obviously been talking to Freud
who's in the corner with little Jack Horner
discussing things we put our thumbs in

G.G. adjusts his telescope,
bigger than mine, but vision is not determined
by the size of your instrument

"did you get the NFL tickets?"
he asks in a way that suggests deeper meaning
i am sure there is

in the clash of men to score & display
outlandish victory dances through end zones
as long as we pay to see it, why question
the Bengals led the league in arrests last year
now there is a stat

Rome never died, we just relive it
in present tense & truth matters little
ask Galilea's inquisition

"Nic! Nic! Nic! (nah) Nic! Nic! Nic!"
he mumbles & i never know if he means
Copernicus or Tesla, the latter
makes more sense

"Ooo look a shooting star!"
i point at what is obviously a neuron,
which he reminds me is not polite
(pointing or thoughts?) all that matters
is what is
in the center, it seems

& mentioning Tootsie Pops
at this point is probably not
a good idea

so we sit
enjoying each others gravity
and the view off the edge
where my marbles rolled
& were lost.

It's OpenLinkNight @ dVerse Poets...time to pull the pin on poetry and blow it up for a bit...among friends...write something....come join us. Doors open tomorrow at 3 pm EST.

Returned to work today, but still not feeling that great. Fever returned tonight as well, so I'll be around as I can.

Sunday, March 3, 2013

we all gather at the river

photo by Florian

Removing the last plate from the cupboard,
to dress the table for dinner, i find a fly---

or what's left, a dry carcass on its back,
feet reaching heavenward humbly

what pulled him behind a door
too heavy for him to flee?

adventuresome spirit?

how long did it take,
drawing ever weaker?

how long has he waited
to be found?

taking the empty shell by the wing,
i toss it in the trash

he needs
it no more

Through the weave of screen
on the other side of the window glass
buds hang like earrings
on tree limbs

& the first purple flowers
of the Spring
raise their heads
from the grass

so some
can call them
a weed.

for my friend Geraldine. the weave of all life in the river.

Friday, March 1, 2013

Poetics: 0.1% annual species loss is not too bad

photo by paul nine-o

On I-64, in Illinois, we pass a thick barrel
tractor trailer truck, stenciled on it's side

             "Milky Way"

& a small, barely legible sticker underneath

           'Inedibles Only"

like a big rolling fortune cookie waiting to crack

torn tires, a pizza box, 1000 butts
of cigarettes & an old coke can convene
on a square foot of roadside before a field
of brown dead corn----filibust myths

black clouds roll from his smoke stack
as he gives it gas & on we go-----on we go

Over at dVerse Poets today, Fred has us writing micro-poetry---12 lines are less---so put it in the compactor and make it small, it is Saturday after all...smiles. Doors open at 3 pm EST.