Old Fence

Old Fence, New Life: How to Upgrade that Ratty Fence | Man Made ...

Old Fence

Unseen, in the shadow
tucked between the tall picket
and the bramble tangled

with thorns and berries,
perhaps a beast,
a gnome napping

or a goblin crouched,
a trap to nab
the sparrow that weaves

between the twisted thistle
or just a stone,
waiting to crack its mouth,

and, after an age, sing.
I’d look and see,
but sight would slay them all.

I Don’t Possess a Patience for Poetry Today

Words. I can’t avoid them, even if I try.

Happy Sunday. Please, be happy and well.

Open blank page book, old literature, pocket watch and a inkwell ...

I Don’t Possess a Patience for Poetry Today

Its best words
skit and weave
among the grass blades
as quickly as mice,
the best moments of my time
pinched between their teeth
like pilfered kernels of corn.

My coffee’s still hot
and last night’s sleep
remains draped over my shoulders,
a heavy blanket of idleness.
My mind is empty,
a blank page, a quiet sky.
Why blotch it with thought?

Today, I’ll hide deep
in sloth’s shadow,
allowing every word
its folly and flight.

This House


Maybe your home needs some wings too.

Mechanical Wing Devices, Leonardo da Vinci, ca. 1485. From: Miller ...

This House

This house could use more angels.
Anything with wings, really–

a finch, a sparrow,
an owl, perched
on a stack of old books,
lost in contemplation,
pondering sunlight’s heft,
and the embroidery of shadow.,

Perhaps a jay,
as blue as sorrow,
will swift
from room to room,
while butterflies
disturb the air
above my head,
a cloud of spirit
and panic.

Vultures warm their wings,
spread as wide as fate,
set atop the chimney,
its red brick chiseled
by rain, stained by the ash

a dragon exhales
sleeping on the lawn,
melting the plastic flower pots,
we’ve placed too close
to its heart.

Freshly Baked Bread

This in one part memory and one part wish.

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Freshly Baked Bread

It’s still hot, like summer.
The butter has softened
and the milk,
you kept in the fridge,
kept it cold.
And the butter
will seep
into that warmth,
make it heavy.
We’ll sit under a tree.
Not a word. Both of us.
As quiet as shadow.
The bread, the butter, the milk…
There’ll be nothing worth saying, anyway.


And it case you’re interested, here’s a recipe.


Oh, Forsythia! Painting by Jae Schalekamp | Saatchi Art

I’m searching for some magic: a griffin’s feather, a minotaur’s bellow, a lilac’s perfume. Sadly, as the world peers from its window, isolated and quarantined, I peer from mine and no creature soars across the sky. No beast bawls from the shadows among the trees. Yet, just there, the forsythia, even in this unfortunate cold, clings to it yellow hue, those petals. soft and golden. There’s the magic. And it’s for me.

High Noon

It’s now 12:02 pm. That gives me an idea.

American West Legend Antique Six-shooter Revolver Gun And Vintage ...

High Noon

Gun wranglers wrangle, stand, with legs spread,
and holsters heavy, on dusty roads
that split quiet towns, saloon on the left,
sheriff to the right, gawking at other slingers,

waiting to draw, cock and shoot.
Someone’ll  die, but I reckon
that ain’t all that’s done. Them saloon folk
tip back their whiskeys,

twiddle them poker chips.
Prairie dogs perch on their hills,
yip at butterflies floatin’
from cactus to cactus

while, somewhere, rain falls
and a boy, crowned with a proper ten gallon,
stares out a window, cap guns nestled
in his palms, waiting for sun to shine

and mom to say get on out there
and find that dirty no good, horse theivin’ killer,
but do it quick like. Peanut butter and jelly…
it’ll be ready in just a pinch.

In the Beginning

Cats and stories. Not a bad combination.

Amazon.com: ZHENC 5D DIY Full Square Diamond Painting Cat Sleep on ...

In the Beginning

Anything can happen.
Perhaps a heaven.
Perhaps an earth,
but maybe a cat, just a cat
crouched between a regiment of books
and a coffee cup clustered
with pens and paintbrushes
on a book shelf’s reach.
A sleeping cat, dreaming,
milk and fish,
curled into itself
as a knot,
or a tangle of soft string.
Isn’t that enough?
That lump of warmth
near the books,
those stories
as simple as sleep,
as grand as earth,
as glorious as heaven.

I Thought, Maybe

The Basket of Apples by Paul Cézanne Reproduction | Painting ...

I’m slacking. Although I’ve been writing, my screenplay, I haven’t been writing poetry AND IT’S NATIONAL POETRY MONTH.

I’m ashamed.

But, there’s always today. So, here’s a poem. Separated and quarantined from just about everything and everyone, I wrote the following. Something simple.

Be well, all!!


I Thought, Maybe

I’d imagine you.
You’re sitting at a kitchen table
in a kitchen flooded
with morning.

There’s a basket on the table
filled with apples
as red as hearts.
They’re quiet, as apples tend to be,
but I want them to live,
so I imagine they’re watching you
read your book,
hoping you’ll read aloud,
just a few words, a sentence,
a soft voice,

but you stir your coffee,
swirl it, a mug of storms,
a maelstrom of sorts,

but the kitchen is warm
and there’s a poem on the page.
You begin to read,
your voice, it’s soft,
and the storm calms,
and the apples are happy,

and I smile.
It’s a better day.