Category Archives: Poetry



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.

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