Enter April

you begin with a fools greeting a rabbit rabbit kind of day the first of many showering ones but spring peeks through mossy fingers bulbs push through damp soil pansy faces stare at you tulip lips poised to kiss sky and clouds two days more, enter birthdays: dad, son-in-law, son and son’s girlfriend then anniversaries celebrated, mourned or glossed over, logs covered in lichen remembering, paining, gladdening days tumble past, thunder storms wind, rain and stuttering sunlight high holy days, palms and crosses Saturdays and Sundays, feasts and fasts passover and passed over, noted or ignored sacred and mundane - (tax day ?!) to mark the middle, April ides, more rain, cold, heat virtual this and distance that, stay inside!  still - days full with riotous glorious blooms four twenty - if you know it, smoke it or don’t, be a dope, take a hit and pass it on onward, greener, warmer stretched out earthy days, garden mornings hot and lazy, cool mist, hazy when will you exit, will i exit you? a doozy of a month, this April seems as long as a year - why? there’s a pandemic, don’t you know - and it’s not done yet...

Bubbling Words

The doorbell, FaceBook and
playing games
on my phone
all reasons not to write
but bubbling words
rise up and jump the cursor
forward - each word a blip
on my soul radar
each phrase a cardiogram
reading out heart rhythms
embedded in writing from my
erupting creativity
do you squash it, that juicy
bug that rides the blips?
do you nurture it,
catch it in a jar, to
pour it out on empty page?
do you love these words?
feed that bug, follow heart
speak into the void
with a tap of keys
or scratch of my pen.
Then, only then,
will bubbling words
die down like Old Faithful,
Then rise once more

Sweeter Than Honey?

honey-1006972_1920 2Do not like honey
Vanilla-dripping sweetness
The rushing high
Of too much sugar
Candy coated platitudes
Wrapped in colored icing
So pretty to the palate
For me so trite and nauseating
Choose instead the raw
The bitter brew
Naked coffee grounds
Biting edge of
Canker sore
Salt in wound
No upturned mouth
Just grimace and gulp
Devour the fatty lies
And spewed-out vitriol
Or drown in
Deepest dark depression
Choked down Oolong tea
Black pepper, pungent
Sprinkled on every feast
Drab gray, greasy, oily
Cold gravy, rancid writings
Or words that rip
Scald the throat
Like acid bile
Pucker mouths
Suck out tart juice
And leave behind
The shriveled rind
Now dry as dust;
These jagged scribbles
Like shards of glass
Swallowed whole
They shriek
A howl of famine
Or feast of meaning
They are the ones
I can read, consume
Digest and sometimes
Regurgitate into new phrases
To fill the empty void
Inside each aching gut

My Lips

My lips are not kissable
Not pursed and ready
They form a thin line
Boundary from takers
My cheek is not proffered
Turned away, visage downward
Gazing, or like some
Piebald, that shied away from
Unwanted affection
No doey-eyed gaze
No yes from clothes
Or makeup,
My being is not for you
I am gatekeeper of
Those now trembling lips
I turn the head away
Choose to dress my way
And all for
Nought, if you decide
Your wishes are more
Valid than mine



pexels-photo-678248.pngseems I’ve been
unwound, pocket watch slowed
down, seconds lasting longer than
seconds should ever last
I hear ticking, slower
matching lub-dub heart
And blood sluggish
Flowing through tired veins
Blockaded arteries

Minutes passing
Grandmother clock
Refusing to chime…
Running out of time
The setting screw
Locked up tight

Can’t turn it anymore
The watch has lost it’s
Burnish and
The clock can’t be
Time, used to have so much
It passed quickly by
Hours just like seconds
Days could fly

Now I’m lagging
Torpid, morbid
I’ve lost my chime
Out of time
Waiting for
The very last

Arms Akimbo

She is awondering, akimbo arms angled,
head cocked to hear breezes like
bird dog whistling – attuned to wind whipping up
she is proud standing, eyes askance she ogles
what is it – a cloud – a storm coming over her
roll and boom of thunder,
crash and smash, arriving fierce
Wind bows her to her knees
but no fear here, no matter
all that water sheeting headlong
doesn’t quash her bravado – up she rises
dancing in muddy puddles
splashed up to skinny knees
and as it rumbles distant
she shakes off storm, unbent and
proud, unquashed she –
akimbo arms snaked into self embrace,
eyes full of grace, enduring after all

White Out


The words can barely skim the page
They dance, snowflakes spinning
Flurries of phrases, tossed by breezes
Pile into drifts of manuscripts
Soon blizzard is blowing
Ice crystals burning skin
Lost, wandering in white out
Each word spoken, whipped away
From frozen lips, barely speaking
Sound torn by gale forces
Tumbling thoughts never cease
But are buried in deepest white
Frosted, forlorn sentences
Having written them,
I take up the white out
And erase them all


I am a freed prisoner from my own negative
As I run I doff my black and white
Shackles fall from my feet, making them light
Cuffs slip from wrists that wave, released

From bonds I can almost float
Skim the earth, barely touching, glide
Through air that rings freedom’s bells
Hear them chiming future possibility

Shake a hint of doubt, regret and uncertainty
My feet find the path despite all these,
Leading a way toward refuge, to
Salvation promised me from long ago

There I rest, imbibe that
Chilled wine of no inhibition
Become drunk on freedom of speech
Blurt out reality that isn’t welcome

My hand unbound can take up pen
Use it like a chain-gang hammer
To sledge out pain and release
Once-fettered joy that radiates

Out from loosened heart-strings
Hands draw the bow and fire
Arrows of once-tied remorse
To kill that negative for good

I am a freed prisoner
I can fly

Owl Calling


I hear it calling and ask
Why – what is the haunting
Cry and from whence it comes?
How can something so melancholy
Bespeak of love?
To whit, to woo –
Where do they roost,
What tree in which forrest
Echoes with longing or desire
Like a tender wing, held out
Against cold night?
Who chooses this dark hour,
When all is still and chill,
To cry for loneliness to be
Relieved, heartache soothed?
Is it him who calls to her
Or her to him ?
Who, who is sadly perched
High above on bough
Bereft, forlorn and hoping
Against hope, for some