The Attic

happenstance (d)ripped steadily
until the core became
harder than the shell &
tears were just a by-product
of Going Through The Motions

the soft spot where
You used to reside
has long since
faded into nothingness
& hung its hat
next to wishful thinking.


Not A Christmas Poem

your smile stays hidden
behind a thousand snakes;
scales glistening in the spotlight
you force yourSelf to stand in —
so tall and manly (as you put it)

I still remember the color of your soul
& how warm it felt to the touch
when it was yet within my reach
not all that long ago

your eyes are filled with hope
when my fingers brush the last shred of dignity
off your starched collar 
& I realize
this is not a christmas poem.


From Ashes

do not bow to the voice of a broken heart
when you sway on the branches of willow’s siren song,
but follow the call of hope beyond today
and be a Phoenix, once more.

Hide & Seek

for better or worse you sound
like glass, crunching
beneath the strained heels of Atlas.
I didn’t witness you wrap around yourself
in intricate layers,
but I can still see the faint ember glow
beneath the smoke-stained stories
you forged, unmistakably.

Ghost Town

will i find you
there ~
where sparrows swallow
milky, filtered twilight;
where curtains sway
in lonely brother’s mournful breath?

will i find you
kneeling ~
chipped nails scratching
dignity’s former grave
into dust-covered floor boards
yet again?

& we wander
between coffee cups and autumn homes
to whatever end.


9 Dali oil painting - Archaeological Reminiscence of Millet's Angelus

in the flapping lives of vulnerability
lies the secret to unwanted treasure.
forges belch mediocrity & shackled minds
hammer Gods to plated earth ~

it is the twisted path of the ancient
we see crumbling at our feet;
and forth we go
to nominate oblivion
as our shepherd.

is that all there is?

artwork: Salvador Dalí’s “Archeological Reminiscence of Millet’s Angelus”

Reflection/Dear Self

Dear Self,

last night your tiny voice
played catch with moonbeams,
and in an instant of clarity,
your words rang true.

for too long i have buried you
under the stench of make-believe,
and waxen smiles, painted lipstick-red,
fastened lies to the surface.

it was the mirror of the moon
that thrust this bladed truth through prison’s flesh,
and feeble, makeshift lies flaked off my callused mind
to leave me bare & bathed in light.

i am sorry i failed you
for so long.
it is time for change.


Mary over at dVerse invites us to write an ‘epistolary poem’ for Poetics today – I wrote a letter-poem to myself. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect, thank you, Mary.
As I am going through some major changes in my life, I do not know how often I will be able to write over the next couple of weeks – time will tell. It will be quite a journey on my end, so bear with me…
I would like to say thank you to my wonderful readers and fellow poets… you never cease to amaze me.
See you soon!

The Fray

sympathy speared, crude pike
springs from the hearts of men on branded days
apathy-garnished spike
screams Red, before the strike

lives mourned by hollow wail
souls, torn from flesh, escape on raven’s wings
shed hope turns cold, turns pale
and staggers, doomed to fail

in depths of blood and bile
the heart of One stands true, stands brave and proud
bound in a life, so vile
bound for life, with bitter smile

“Once more into the fray
Into the last good fight I’ll ever know 
Live and die on this day
Live and die on this day.”
The last four lines were taken from the movie ‘The Grey‘ – thank you, Tracy, for reminding me – these words have been on my mind ever since I read them on your blog again.


erase the moon
shed darkness ‘pon this rotting flesh
erase the moon
send vulture’s wings; take leave — ’cause soon
this famished soul will turn to ash
and still this heart – too bold, too rash
erase the moon

embrace the moon
shed light upon this sullen soul
embrace the moon
come, listen to her silver tune
to cleanse this heart of dust and coal —
your wounded spirit shall be whole
embrace the moon

… two Rondelets – written for dVerse’s ‘Form for All‘-Prompt… thank you so much for the introduction, Tony… this was a real brain teaser – such fun!

This Town

“It will be long ere the marshes resume,
I will be long ere the earliest bird:
So close the windows and not hear the wind,
But see all wind-stirred.”
— Robert Frost, Now Close The Windows

This town, a ghost
Haunting; absent shadows
They lie, uncovered
And weigh heavy on
Mankind’s woven tomb
Absent soil or mourners,
Absent loving words;
No flowers left to bloom ~
It will be long ere the marshes resume

This town, an echo
Driven into stone
By callused hearts,
As if it were flesh;
And mortar tears
Veil the cries of the Unheard,
Now frozen,
Bury words in darkest night;
Brand dreams of summer days absurd ~
I will be long ere the earliest bird

This town, a song
Of long forgotten days;
Of courage, worn away
By rain’s steady trick (trick?) trick-le;
Dancers’ feet now heavy, weighed with years of mud,
Ancient tunes, hollow; stripped and skinned,
Taunt drowning minds
With adjunct notes,
Leave consciousness thinned ~
So close the windows and not hear the wind

This town, a paradigm;
Indifference taped to every door,
Nailed to every soul that roams the streets.
The crosses we bear
Tower high above our heads,
Leave meaning absent word;
So we squint;
Cover eyes with shades of mirth,
Hold on to fraying dreams, now blurred ~
But (at day’s end) see all wind-stirred.

Samuel Peralta over at dVerse has us experimenting with the Glosa, a form of poetry of the late 14th century. It starts out with the Cabeza, four lines I borrowed from the marvellous Robert Frost, which provide the ending lines for the following four stanzas.  This is my contribution to Samuel’s great challenge.
Grab a drink and join us at the bar!

I Have Longed To…Fight This Li(f)e

I have longed to move away
the faded doormat declares ‘home’
From the hissing of the spent lie
at the foot of this haunted house
And the old terrors’ continual cry
where we close our eyes, salute tradition
Growing more terrible as the day
(and endure, only to wither)
Goes over the hill into the deep sea;
as time grows long and parched;
I have longed to move away
where our shells dwell and hearts take flight
From the repetition of salutes,
to the tunes of a ruinous, stagnant past
For there are ghosts in the air
nailed to the doors; totems of yore
And ghostly echoes on paper,
sealed with bloody kisses, entombed
And the thunder of calls and notes.
to bury prospects forever.

I have longed to move away but am afraid;
here we vegetate; naked eye and callused feet
Some life, yet unspent, might explode
ancestor’s footsteps well-stocked with glowing embers
Out of the old lie burning on the ground,
where the blatant chains weigh us down
And, crackling into the air, leave me half-blind.
we hold the torch till days turn to dust.
Neither by night’s ancient fear,
how shall we roam free
The parting of hat from hair,
if trapped by shame,
Pursed lips at the receiver,
if held by a name –
Shall I fall to death’s feather.
if our graves are dug before we live?
By these I would not care to die,
claim tomorrow, repel the bonds
Half convention and half lie.
and find your Own, far beyond the ruins.

I tackled a marvellous piece written by my favorite poet… Mr. Dylan Thomas’I Have Longed To Move Away“. May he forgive me.

A Moment

a moment

a breath

and you.

shrug off
the guilt-stained shroud,
patched with fraying morals

to dance
to the silver-coated hymn

to dance
among the fearless and the free

to dance
for the spark in you

and turn it to flame.