This morning, I was rustled from sleep by a terrible backache. Once I was able to rise, I poured some coffee and wrote this poem.

Image result for rose still life


The shadows pressed
between rose petals
possess a silk
even softer,

than the bloom’s
crimson hue,
and should be siphoned

before noontime sun
scalds the dew
morning abandons
as she steps ore’ the grass,

siphoned and drank,
a coolness that will
ease the heart
of day’s heat and ache.


This Isn’t a Poem, Really

After a long day, but a good day, I failed to find the proper topic for a poem. What to do?

Image result for old writing desk still life
This Isn’t a Poem, Really

It’s more an idea
simple, soft,
a tattered sweater
tossed in the closet dark
where a cat
steps over
some old shoes
searching for a place
to nap.


I’m back!!! For the past few days, I’ve been able to post. Life had seized me, but, today, I’ve broken free. Thank you to those who visited in my absence. A special thank you to those who clicked the follow button and are now a part of the Ink/Hammer family. All are most welcome.

By the way, here in New Jersey, it’s snowing. I like…no, I love snow. You?

Image result for painting birds nest


The air displaced
by each falling shard
peels away

from the morning
as a ribbon,
cold’s clear silk

the birds snatch
to soften their nests.


This is a game I hope to make a tradition once my children have children and I am blessed with wrinkles, once I am called grandpa.

Oh, and a good Sunday morning to you.

Related image


Rising before
the sun peeks
above the East,
pilfer enough sugar
from mother’s cupboard
to fill a child’s hand
then slink into the darkness

where the grass is thick,
still cool with dew,
tossing that palm of sweetness
into the air
so, for a moment,
each crystal floats
as a star blinking

light and dreams,
and a symphony of sprites
will dart from morning’s dim
as laughter from a heart
that’s frowned too long,
snatching each shard
from the morning

calling the day to glow
and breathe.