Category Archives: Poetry

Dead to you

My lungs breathe cold earth
I am Still
Beneath the roots and moist soil
I am dead
for now
At least
To you
Buried by your words
And cold hate
I am chilled
Under the weight of the clay
White and unmoving
And to you
That way I will stay

Banana republic

To the streets

In mob and crowd

To the streets

In angry throng

Let chants and pounding din

Lead the crowds

To pull them down

Tyrants and thieves

Those that lead us

Steal elections then deceive us

Fires lit in the people

In the streets

Let them see us

Let them hear us

Let them fear us



To the streets


Soon the country will cry as I do
And their tears will fall like rain
But they won’t dance in dry dust
To feed the thirsty green
They will fall on bloodied streets
And on freshly filled in graves
Rivulets to rivers
Growing in the rage
‘Til torrents flood and bridges fall
And all is washed away

Pack the court

Rack the slide

And drop the round

Here it comes

It’s going down

Voting day

Every way

From the rooftops

And In the streets

Pack the courts

Then run like rats

Pack the courts

No going back

“Let me be clear”

He declared

“Nothing is off the table

For next year”

You have said it

You have said it

*Fuck you Chuck Schumer

May you swing for your treachery

The dead don’t hear you

The dead don’t hear you

While they lay in the grave

Their parts done

‘Til the end of days

Sometimes you call

And sometimes you cry

But the dead don’t hear you

No matter how hard you try

They’re dead and gone

So let them go

Cold and and bone

In the dark down below



I have become the hard earth

Uncaring of toil

Clay without thought

Cold and unforgiving

To drown the roots

Clog the shovel

Dry and become stone

To hammer and chisel

Earth, Earth

I have become



And now it’s here

In rippling current

Spread in waves and moving torrent

Soft wind spreading

Slowly moving







Of disaster

Breeding swollen fruits of death

By the bushel

By the basket







Writer’s Block, Flow, and Some Views on ‘the Muse ...

I have since been accused
Of stealing words from my muse
Thoughts and strains
Not my own
Rhythm and rhyme
Verse and poem
Stolen from the purse of a muse?
I am speechless

Crazy man Jack

Bark at the moon and bite at the sky
Moon and fire lighting your eyes
Wild at heart
Wild in body
Clothed in smoke
On the fourth of July
Concussions booming
Powder burning
Sparks flying
A dogs hearts yearning
Chasing rockets, dragons and Lions
Brown muscled beast
Born to baying
Work ‘Til dawn
Then lay down yawning
And dream the dream
Of the hunting dog tired

In Flanders Fields

By John McCrea

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Child of a lesser God

He was betrayed
In the end
By the Gods of his youth
His prophecy
By the only deities he knew
The infant’s almighty
The Gods of small children
Hanging like
The mobile of life
Over them
It is all they born to
Bruised fists floated
Like angry storm clouds
Over Seas of battered emotions
Sweet red lips
Buttered with coated lies
And Whispered
Into the wind
And in the end
He was left all alone
And on his own cross
Was forsaken
By his God

Warm bread

Oh, bread of mine
So enticing
Warm yeast rising
Brown crust darkening
Tender white
And steaming hot
From the oven
Comes my desire
Waves of heat
Barely seen
Yet Still waving
Pouring off of
Fresh cut slices
There you sit
My soft warm pleasure
Hot and waiting for my butter

Fast ride

I’m riding the line
Smokin’ rubber
Squealing tires
120 in the middle of the night
As fast as I can go
Into dark curves
Seen only
By the double yellow line
I can smell the engine burning
But I can’t slow it down
And no fire
But I’m ridin’ the line
With no where else to go
In the middle of the night

A roadside memorial

She couldn’t touch him
Not for one moment
Dead not on the cross
But at the crossroads
Crucified on the splintered tree
Metal and grief
And he was buried in an empty coffin
Like a beer can
And his mother
The only one who really cared
Never even got to see him

I’ll capture thy my Timothy

He cast himself against the rocks
And the waves and the cold
Ground him into sand
Yet still
As a man
He tried to stand
But the surf
The power and the fury
Of the earth
Pounded him
And pounded him
Until he could no longer stand
And slowly
Wave by wave
He was taken out to sea

Poker night

Echoes from the past

Bounced off of dim, tobacco stained walls

Make their way

Into my room

Poker chips and laughter

Clinking and choking

Just as happy

As the room full of family

It chases the darkening night

And childhood fear

Like whispering smoke

It’s breathed from the dragons ’round the table

Downing whiskey and stories


Not knowing

But singing sweet lullabies

In the dark

Singing down the hallway

Sweet goodnight

Clara Bell

She was a child when she left

But when she returned

The man she used to know was gone

He had grown old

His bones thin

His belly fat

He still laughed

But the light in his eyes

Had grown dim

But still

She laughed along with him

And smiled at him

And pretended

That they were both

Still young

Late night music

My pen is my saxophone

Played loud and lonely

In the night

Tunes of sorrow and joy

Running like honey

Singing sweet songs

Brass and breath

Heart beat and pen

Leaving languishing notes

Trailing in the dark still of night

Cold toast

Cold toast and salted ham
Just sitting in the sun
Warm skin
And hot coffee
Bringing in the day
Soft boiled eggs,
Breakfast honey
Suckled like morning dew
Brown beast,
Muscled madness
Laying at my feet
Just waiting
For breakfast in the sun

The drunken pen (Version 1)

Why do you lie

While I sleep?

Telling things

That I should keep

Oh, Drunken pen

Trailing ink

Telling stories while I drink

Where are you

When I wake?

Gone, gone

But the ink

Just the ink

On paper traced

nothing left

But stories, Stories,

To be told

In the dark

Never, ever to be shown

in the light of day

But drunken pen

Why do you,

Yet sober stay

So far and  far away?