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 http://dversepoets.com/ 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


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 http://dversepoets.com/

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

Maker Mark


Begging puppy, for

undying passionate urge,

inviting me in

is boiling until melting

but never melding into.


Moon, I wax and wane.

Sun, you rise and set me down

with sacrificial

veins full of unfulfilled light

pawing at the dark for change.


You offer too much

inviting me here to dine.

This life you’d die for,

I try to extinguish with

sunglasses and long clothing.


This sleep I wake for

is liquid brick, blender pulsed;

is conflagration,

a black death life can’t forget;

the pale life death cannot keep.

FLUID LIGHTER (next draft)


Odd, he.

Turned early, he.

Some go dark, some go better than.

Some go rage with fever;

heat go blister air head under

or breath burn, pulse flame.

Heartbeat blaze air

touch wrist,

touch chest, he.

Smolder turtle collar he

hydrate sky

with torch tongue one drink he

make wind free from wrinkle


arid, acrid, bitter,

cry lemons he

sulfuric acid pee.

Odd, he turn early.

Some turn later go glee,

some turn dark.

Some come and go, he

go and stay.

Far gone, he;

well slept, we.



I have only recently been exposed to speculative -sci-fi, fantasy, horror- poetry so I can’t say I have read a ton of it. I have read enough to know that there are some quality authors writing in the genre and plenty of good pieces to overshadow the horrifically bad ones (as with every other genre).

In my introduction to the wealth of speculative poetry (past and present), I saw a huge selection of haiku (affectionately called scifaiku). Now as much as I love brevity and minimalism, I couldn’t help the overwhelming sense that the haiku was just not long enough. That is when I was reacquainted with it’s long form, the form from which it originated, the tanka.¬† http://thewordshop.tripod.com/asian/Japan/tankadef.html

I have been sucked into the form and have started trying my hand at writing them, They Not After You, Yet being one of them, in the speculative genre. I’ve even begun a longer poem consisting of multiple stanzas, each being a tanka, that I will post soon.