Staying In





pale shade

cradled by shadow offspring

of mother dark (ginger-spiced dark

chocolate drizzled over two pints of

bourbon and vanilla bean iced dream),

we would scare death out of oatmeal villagers

wary of salt and sugar.

Better we serve each other private bowls

or be charged with indecency (flashing our

live graffiti near too many

of their dead slate walls).

Instead, we’ll fling invisible color bombs

all over their curtains, blinds, and ceiling fans;

leaving behind hue stained sheets

and towels strewn about their

previously unloved bedrooms and showers.

And we’ll sign our names across the

smoke cloud cover of this gray horizon

with the burning ends of candied cigarettes

in shapes and languages only we

can see and understand.

Some art can’t be shared in the same air

blowing storms of guilt and shame

with terrible eyes and tongues of watchful judgment

behind lying gates of pearly whites.

I’d rather weather the kissed wind

carrying parcels wrapped and delivered by name.

Let us stay here in this cellar

where we can age without incident and

throw mirror discs at the blizzards and cold fronts

we won’t feel beneath this blanket

of heart-shaped privacy.

Haven’t been on in a while but have kept up with the amazing poetry.
You should too.


dverselogoCharles Bukowski said “The secret is in the line.”

Period. That was his recipe for powerful writing.

After watching Madagascar 3 last weekend, I would add “The secret is in having fun with what you’re doing and in enjoying the journey”

In the movie, this charming bunch of animals buys a circus, actually only as a “tool” to make their way from Europe, where they stranded back to New York.

At one point they even discover that they could’ve bought a plane instead of this circus that was quite run down and didn’t look at all promising.

The turn came when they started having fun, when they re-kindled passion and thought about new ways to surprise and enthuse the audience.

In the end, back in NYC, they suddenly realized that they had changed too much to ever fit into their old lives again.

And speaking of exciting journeys, together with…

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I Like To Play


Rhythm is

building block; is Lincoln Log/Lego not

limited by size or shape.

I am child.

Rhythm is

Jenga, stacked and played;

is climbing and toppling, clown

atop clown atop unicycle.

I am tickled.

Rhythm is

transport beam; is crew of

Enterprise, molecules dispersed

and scattered, collected and recombined,

landing- whole- in new location.

I am ever amazed.

Rhythm is

candy. I am Halloween

(giving freely) and

standing at the door

eager to receive.


Thanks to Ami Mattison for the prompt. Visit and join in on the most happening of happenings (seriously, do it).

Roommate Plus One

This was written from the haughty, almost elitist, side of my personality (which has a fake British accent) sort of tongue-in-cheek.

They came with noise:

the chatter and laughter of those

who are very pleased with themselves,

and they were very tickled

(like freshly bathed toddlers

ten minutes from bed time)

thought more so with themselves

than with each other,

strumming and singing

made up songs with silly lyrics

crescendoing with the under-the-table one-upmanship

of ‘friendly’ competition.

They continued their musical wrestling match;

intent upon destroying the beauty that once was

the fragrant flowerbed of silence

I had so lovingly planted

and tended to.

I paid then no mind,

recognizing the hunger of poverty and addiction

and fearing they would violently devour

the entire span of my attention

with the voracity of newly hatched


leaving little of it left for the very personal

self-lathering I had planned for

later (while luxuriating in a bath of the

lovingly labored over silence mentioned earlier).

I did, however, offer up

a smile

as I tuned into my inner crescendoing trolley

of thought (it had started out as a train but

was abruptly derailed, and subsequently overturned,

by the inconsiderate sonic equivalent of a grade school

orchestra on helium and sugar

on the morning after a week of binge drinking in Vegas,

having found yourself in bed next to a stripper

two days before your wedding… but I digress).

So, smiling,

I turned inward

and continued to read.

One who is truly pleased

with ones’ self

can contently be so


Remembering Coloring Books


I needed paper, scratch paper to use as markers in a book full of writing exercises I wanted to copy down later. So, I grabbed a page from my son’s old Power Ranger coloring book. As I started tearing it into small pieces I felt a few twangs of guilt. Stop it, I thought to myself, that book is two and a half years old and he was never into coloring, no matter how much I encouraged it. Come to think of it, none of my friend’s kids, nor my niece and nephew, were ever coloring book enthusiasts either.

As kids, my sisters and I would spend hours with crayons, markers, and eventually colored pencils. We would go through entire books, page after page, until we found the one picture that needed us to color it right then and there. It would have had just the right shapes for that moment and, most importantly, it would have been screaming a need for specific set of colors between its perfectly spaced black lines. My son’s generation just does not relate to that sort of need. For us, it was a chance to bring life to a world still testing its legs after closing the door on black and white dreams. We were born with dials for  tint, color, and contrast (three more than our grandparents’ drab world of bright/dark) but we needed more control of our visions. Just as our children (born in a time of pixels and bytes) for whom the world has color aplenty. The need for them is to control how it moves to make it go places we could never have traced, much less colored.

Broken Tattoo

Come visit the most happening pub with the absolute best drinks and food for thought.


Your name,

sewn with needle and ink

on pages of my thin skin,

brings to the surface

the tears my heart has cried

over the distance between

your eyes and my need to

be in front of them.

You wipe them away,

not recognizing their design,

never guessing they were

shed/bled for you.

I silently mark through your name,

tear the pages from my chest,

and stuff them

into poems.



The table stares with its newness

glaring like sun in a crowd of eyes.

I turn away from the jagged circle danced

by its harem of chairs; an orbit fraught with

collisions and a tangling of feet.

Declining the invitation to join a hard party

I, instead,

court a single, soft, leather armchair

and sink into her.

She accepts my weight like legs

of an old flame



Please take the time to visit my friends at

I am sure you’ll have a good time. I do.


Thamks to Karin Gustafson and dVerse for the ‘Undercurrents’ prompt. This is my first response to one. Thank you to the online poetry community as a whole for making me feel so welcome and inspiring me to continue writing.


she asked me in

asked me to stay


her skin was soap and fresh flowers

her cup was life’s soil and rain

I knelt before her

drank of her fountain

and tasted Earth’s death and resurrection


she asked me in

asked me to stay


I tested the water

she pushed at my caution until

I pulled at my trunks and


I splashed until I was spent and

we both went to sleep

wet beneath thin clouds of contentment

I had never swam as hard

nor as fast

before her


she never asked

I didn’t stay