A mixture of poetry and a dash on occasion of other’s words I find appealing.

Arab Woman on a Swedish Train

Arab Woman on a Swedish Train

To Molly & Kyle & the warm spirit of Kayla


Her eyes drift open and close

as a silk veil in a desert breeze.

Outside, she sits with chilled cheek

pressed against icy glass.

bundled blonde blue eyes fill her world now.

She is tired and her eyelids are slowing the cold.

Her hair is black and skin olive

from generations of sun

and sand that reach out to warm blue seas.

Inside she is warm, inside the desert

the sand is warm,

the breeze caresses her skin

and her veils drift,

An ancient voice whispers into her ear

of the ways of the past,

the ways of the desert.

and she is warm.

The train lurches to a stop.

She awakes and can not

pull the cotton frilled scarf tight enough

to keep out bitter cold, bitter chill

of the concrete, of the blue eyes,

watching, waiting, scanning far-away aisles

for empty seats.

A man weary from his toil

thinks of faraway,

watches the last burning red of the sun


On finishing a cup of tea


On finishing a cup of tea

The humming bird is back,

amid fountain drops,

an silence framed,

behind this glass door.

It is warm already

Desert morning

and blue past my window.

My  room is chilled silent,

Except for the ticking of an ancient clock

just wound. Tick Tick

for a hundred years of filling ancient rooms

with Tick Tick.

All is OK and

I know you are alright.

Smile and hugs await

when I hear you rise from the cool sheets.

The humming bird is back

All I Have To Do Is Dream – Everly Brothers

Thoughts from an old song and a quiet coffee..
To be a teenage boy
in a small town,
Early summer warm fades with the sun.
A front porch
in a small town…
and then she walks by on the sidewalk below.
A breeze, new leaves softly rustle
a whiff of perfume as she passes
and a dream…

Untitled & Confused

It is not going well
the souffle is collasping
the path ahead is closing in
Overgrown with vines that can’t be cut away.
There is a galaxy of beauty
in the twinkle of a snowflake
A drape of velvet
over shoulders of fairies
who toast cheery mead
at long table, ripe with plenty.
As I pass
a hand reaches out toward me,
a fairies hand grasps a ciboria
lid lifted to reveal
two crossed spice leaves
and aureole from a single ripe berry
topped with a single sparkle of honey.
Ancient strings, faint sounds
drift cross still blue waters
I am sitting on a single rock
and patient wait for a passing ship.

Some days we forget

Independence Day
In a soggy ditch,
clenched flintlock and face
caked with mud, and a dream filled
With a farm and children and smell of baked pie,
He lay still, watching overhead with one eye
As proud gloss booted soldiers march,
sun red uniforms trimmed in black
march overhead, proudly down the center of a dirt road
eyes forward and the silence of thought
In a shell hole filled with wet and filth
A G.I. lies silent, dreaming of a Saturday night
And a pretty girl in pigtails and full pack of Lucky Strikes
While jack booted troops from a thousand miles away
grey and silence against a grey French country morn,
march overhead, eyes forward and the silence of thought
In oven sweat heat, pressed tight against an ancient stone wall,
A soldier weighted down by the supplies of war,
watches a scorpion scramble useless up a sand hill
and he listens for the silence of the men rushing past
strange men who have come from the hills
to kill him and his brothers.
Today is our day of Independence
A day someone has laid chilled in a ditch to end our suppression
A day some dirt stranger felt it was better to die
so others could be Jews or gypsies
or not live of fear of what they read or
what they uttered in a tiny coffee café.
Our own children bravely passed through every stone portal
Expecting the flash of unseen bomb,
of the piercing burn of a waiting bullet
Our children crossed half a world away
So those who would slaughter us, slaughter their own
could be punished and crushed,
by the rights and equalities
we hold so dear, so self-evident.
Whether they lay in a muddy ditch 225 years in the past
or bury deep in a shell hole pit of mud,
Each unnamed soul, men and women, young and old, brothers, sisters, fathers and daughters,
fought against those who would take away this day
This day of our Independence

Anticipation of Joy

To know true joy,
You must know sorrow.
I have had enough bad dreams,
To see joy breaking
Like a palette of color,
Like a sunrise

In a child’s eye.

-Eduardo Barbudo from Liberdad de Sueno Libre

Thoughts of a God that crucified His own Son.

I was inspired to pull out an older piece I had written awhile back when I was in a strange place.
Maybe I was channeling e. e cummings.
Maybe I was losing God.
Maybe I was coming off drugs.

Not sure, it was awhile ago.


Thoughtfully inspired bliss


Christmas spreading muddy joy (Psst, do you hear the
angels sing?)

I saw His son’s face
bleeding on a button

Did he really just forget?

A man loves to send his son away
to die.
Does he forget?

I have his son’s name written somewhere.

Check my spoon.
(Could you eat without a spoon or would you die like His son?)
(Psst. Look at him squirm…Why are those damn angels singing?)

I am repulsed by their joy.

A sponge reminds us, reminds me of the pain,
in vain,
for dopes
who molt STUPIDITY.

Like a thousand birds,
strung out,

spaced on a wire.
(Pssst, I have been spaced on a wire.)

Shitting on the statue of fleshy cold marble,
“The Boy who Died in Vain.”

Maybe not in vain.
Maybe in Detroit.
(A city dreams do not even venture to go.)

somewhere even hummingbirds sleep

When I should have been writing about a street corner.


The number dwindle
The clock ages almost cross 12
And the radio talks about a bell jar.

The desert is still and warm,
somewhere even hummingbirds sleep.

Your eyes blur
when you think about travel
and if you let it all get away,
somehow you woke up and you had let it get away.

Treasure the warm moments you have remaining,
and try to remember a time, an undertow
a slight fear.

As the room empties, the parties thin
and a slight fear that your words will stay in place
until next time

(whenever that is)

Blurred eyes, a desert waits in the distance
and a Night Ride when you had somewhere to go

Waiting in Parallel

Just some mornings

For no reason, Prisms and glass shards

You just feel screaming inside.

Between screams,                                                    Shiny Black Porcelain Doves

little voices, little puzzled voices.

Some mornings, not even if bright, not even if foggy damp

Can’t run far enough away                                     Shelves cluttered by the Past

from everyone.                                                                   Misty dews cover all risk

Like in dreams suite, you run and run and run

Never being able to run far enough away from everyone.

You still hear the voices, you still feel the screams.

I crawled headfirst into a box.                             Statues, painted children unseen

was trapped. Unable to breath

boiled in panic, coffin dark.                              Yet serene fragrant drifts in pastels

I worked my way deep into a jagged tunnel.

Unable to move my arms.                                           breezes smooth. Gentle breath


I must have screamed and I woke gasping for air.

We waited on your rainbow pills

to grasp hold our dreams.



Surrounded by smiles,                                                                    Every thing still

surrounded by knowing how it will be.

Just some mornings                                                          Trees woven nest barren,

or no reason,

You just feel screaming inside.                                                           no movement.

You live in terror, fear, so long

you insult dreams.                                                           Treacherous Felines, silent

Cackle at loss

You miss no one and not even sure                         Fathers taste fear,anger ages

how to cackle.                                                          Evil beauty Queens draw glances

Can’t run far enough away from everyone

And yet still hear the screaming.                                                          Sun etches all

Worrying each day, staring each day                            fading even desert flowers

Wondering each day if you are done

The words stopped coming and you are not done.

Ladle what remains in a ancient pottery jar                Whatever made it squirm

Sealing tight with wax, just to begin again.


Pauses to gain control

Chisel stones glazed

Gem Ruby eyes,

an Emperor’s egg golden

glare glazed to hungry victim


We Wait

                                           and slumber returns peace

In a Land where even Assassins dance

Some mornings even grilled sweet yams and maple

Remind me of Paris mornings and bridges over silent waters

To return, to stand wrapped snug warm in my leathersfbpiv 011

Alone at the point.

She told me I have to leave it all behind

Focus on my Buddha and leave it all behind.

Leave all behind, the things

Shiny detritus gathered along the road

flashsparkle that snagged my eye

chiseling deep grooves into recollections.

Carved into a sandy beach, a canyon, a soul divide

Gathered now, spread dreamdusty on dusty shelves.

And just go to a snowy hillside where I ate my first valiums,

Or stumblelatedrunk in Soho,

down dark stairs to watch them dance mad

Wrapped in music that scared me.

And I think of every thing Lemon Drop Jacqui muttered

On quiet nights filled with static and her voice and static again.

(even that letting go hurts to think about…where will it go?)

She taught me to let go before I make my first step.

To Paris, to somewhere.107911_f520

To finding my own personal Buddha before I leave.


Time and waves pass.

A smile.

What seems a quiet place

Metal buzzes deep in your head

even now, the light flashes

When your eyes close.

Some days, a happy place,

All the houses up the hill freshly painted

sand is bright, brushed breeze smooth.

Parrots line the gutter.

Even in this land, the Assassins dance.

It is as you wish

Until you share with an absinthe stranger

that even images of pretty girls skin

wrapped in gossamer silks, wind-blown

in sand caked curves,

Suspended in warm clear pools of water

makes you sad somehow.

And you beg a generous friend to not share and he screams back in love


I decide where I send love.abby

You can’t refuse. You can’t say no.

‘… even if your love makes you happy warm’,

You still cringe inside, just a cringe, just the tiniest tear seeps from inside

When images on the screen,

showshare a pressed cheek with new love.

Or two sit smiling in a tree branch.

All proclaim the beauty of love

And the tiny tear comes, colored tinge with sadness

And you move on.

Some parrots fly away,

leave the grey vacant hard angle of a concrete gutter.

You know when the last one flies away, you are done

And you walk black heavy coated down streets brown with swirling leaves

And it is done.

And maybe in the morning it will be a room without shadows

Sun brights in every corner…shadows flee unwanted.

Air all fresh ginger and bananas098

That take me to a hillside of the Wye and I stare down at an ancient abbey,

wondering if their prayers were answered.