Another Time

Traditionally, more people seem to appreciate posts in which I share a short poem, poems generally bridging the gap between this world and some other place of magic. Therefore…

Image result for a book of gnomes

Another Time

The hare that darted
into the shadows
tangled in the briars
was started by a gnome
that climbed

from a chipmunk hole
near the new fence,
its wood still white as light,
and although I was sad
to see the rabbit fly

so abruptly,
having forgotten
the gnome’s wit,
I confirmed to speak
with the hare another time.


Now there’s a bit of silliness.


In just a few hours, a powerful winter storm will swallow my pocket of the world, the wooded highlands of New Jersey. All are abuzz: get the milk, the eggs, the bread. Although I need to get some coffee ( a life essential), I look to the storm’s enchantment, which, you may not realize, lives in the space that separates each flake of falling snow. Allow me to explain.

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If you snatch some time,
rip your eyes away
from the waltz
of each descending spec of snow,

keening your sight
against the air
that cushions the space
between the gentle plummet

of winter’s fair
and, if luck prevails,
you may spy January’s sprite,
on dazzled wing,

slicking each frozen shard
with a child’s dream,
a sterling glimmer
of play and laughter and song.

In this Rain

It’s raining here in Vernon, New Jersey, a cold, gray rain. And who doesn’t like ogres?

Image result for ogres

In this Rain 

Even the ogre,
his heart as wild as havoc,
as stout as stone,

cowers under the oak limbs,
praying kindly sprites
might lift

a forest shadow
from the dank earth,
drape it over his shoulders.

The air is cold.
Old bones
clack and shiver.

A Wish

If you could enter a fairytale, would you alter its unraveling or simply let it unfold as it has time and time again?

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A Wish

Yes, today, to wrap myself in shadow,
as a shivering child might sink
within a blanket’s cocoon,
to stand as still as lost memories,

a stone beside a forest path,
as an ogre might,
where wolves creep
sniffing for that scent,

a bouquet of innocence,
small ones draped in red cloaks
hefting baskets laden with jams
and warm breads,

to touch an old tale,
to watch that ink drip
from a wrinkled page and delightfully
taint the forest’s floor.

This Muffin (Revision)

Two of my most faithful followers stumbled a bit as they read my last post, suggesting to me that revisions needed to be made. Said revisions are posted here.

Thank you, ladies!! I appreciate your time and eye.

Image result for three bears painting

This Muffin

This muffin,
laced with lines of sugar
as sweet as a child’s smile,
if forsaken, on a picnic, in the pit
of a sleeping elm’s shade,

will crumble,
between the ivory
of hungry fangs,
bruins that will quit
their porridge for such a treat,

the lost crumbs gathered
by a colony of light,
greedy sprites,
on crystal wings,
humming harmonies

to the music
of their own flight.

A Proper Book

National Poetry Month – Day 2

This one, I believe, well follows the poem I posted yesterday.

Dream a bit today. See what you can see. Wonder. Find what you can find.

Image result for old open books

A Proper Book

A proper book, if you knock
on its cover as you would the door
to a friendly house, will hum
like a hive. Its pages will swell

with life and all that ink
will find its place.
Goblins will crowd their caves,
peer from that darkness,

yellow eyes clustered as grapes.
Heroes, with polished swords,
will stand on a forest’s edge,
hearts storming as thunder,

prepared to confront death,
beat it back into shadow.
Witches will stir their bubbling pots
and sprites will harvest sunlight

resting as raindrops on the leaves
of an old oak who remembers
how all stories began,
once upon a time.

Last Night’s Snack

This piece was written over the course of two days. It began last night and found its end this morning. Hopefully, the mundae is spiced with a bit of magic. Take a look. What do you think? Ever find your self in a moment, a trivial moment, a moment that, to you, is heavy with importace, an importance that deserves note.

Last Night’s Snack
The scent of bread
and old books,
fresh coffee grounds
kept in a dented can

on a shelf
lined with strips
of paper colored
with purple flowers.

Dust floats in sunlight
beaming through the window
as if heaven existed
just outside,

dust floating as stars float,
as planets and angels
through a galaxy
that only endures

as I now stand quietly
in the kitchen,
the white tile stained
with two splotches

of ketchup,
cursted now,
as dry blood might crust,
my blood, if last night,

I had clashed with dragons
rather than made a sandwhich.