“What kind of beast would turn its life into words?” Adrienne Rich

That would be me–that would be you–lover of words and brevity. Sometimes words emerge like a dark dirge of emotional sludge; sometimes we overflow with empathy that can’t be contained in prose. For me, poetry has always been about what we don’t know we know we know… A few of my published poems follow. Comments are welcome. ‘Poet’ onwards and check out my book report Accidental Magic to learn how to frost, seuss, and monet your words ….

These are from my Dark Dirge Chapbook:

Funeral Friends

A sadistic shard                                   
   of saccharin sentimentality                                          
   lay lost                                 
On my plebian pillow                                                
   with grasshopper gobs                                    
   of saliva.                                        
Funeral train time;                                             
marooned and maligned                                    
               this serrated night.

Preparing to Go

It’s just us, old pal, so late—

That dawn, clearing her throat, slowly ignites the sky;

And with her ample snuffer of waking dreams and light,

Puts out tomcat night.

Drawn to the mystery am I, the care

Darkness takes to set its stage, though her audience sleeps,

With curtains drawn, delicate doors locked, breath’s sweet

The props remain —

Empty brandy glass, coffee dregs, stubble of the unawake

An opened book, silent halls, damp smells the dark designs;

Clearly now, I hear time’s neon ebbs and swells.

By sight, by sound, we measure what belongs

Count the whirls, sighs, drips, drops

Of this vigil, this insomniastic watch

I load a spoon of cocoa into the pot,

Add sugar, cream, vanilla—and a double shot.

Cup lifted to lip, with fingertips spread

Drumming the landscape, heavy of head,

These eyes blink slow and salute—

You, fading, waning moon.

Good morn, old pal, I know, I know;

It’s time I too begin to prepare to go.

Witches Bottle

Here lies buried as contrived

An expired childhood, measuring

When I said no, when

The belt drew blood, and

The dog did not revive.


Before the child was forever gone

Into a green bottle I conveyed:

A plastic barrette, wad of gum,

Scab of skin, soiled drawers

Lock of hair, copper penny, a rabies tag

A clod of earth, a match unlit.

Into the darkened earth it went

My marks, my life, my little death.

Under the oak tree

Marked with an X.

More to come–from sap silly Here We Go Gathering Nuts in time for February’s stupid cupid…and Could Have Been a Country Lyric Chapbook that’s just waiting for someone to add the melody and music to go with…