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Much of what you fail to see exists as tangibly as stone or wood. Indeed dragons and fairies and all magic that thunks in your mythologies are as real as the ache that throbs in your heart and bones. You simply need to capture the notion that there are more ways than one to open your eyes.


This morning, the ground is wet. Rain has fallen. Drops still cling to the branches I see peering out a window as I sit in Sunday’s soft chair.

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I’m almost certain
the brown sparrows

where seed
has scattered beneath

the myrtle’s thin limbs
wait to snatch the warmth
this new sun has invested

in the subtlety
of each raindrop,

bright with heat,
clinging to the branches
above them.


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Can one write too much about dragons?



If the ink,
complacent in its well,
is stirred
by a proper quill
then swirled

into a poem
upon a parchment
as soft as breath
then pilfered
from that page

and splayed
atop the earth
where shadows
unfurl as blankets,
a dragon will leap

from that dark,
spread its wings,
as menacing as cold
and know the treasures
of dread and poetry.


I’ve been working on my social media presence: this blog, Twitter, Facebook, etc. Quite honestly, I don’t know what I’m doing, only that I’m trying. I plan on trying this and that, but if you have any pointers, please comment below!


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Butterflies flutter
as light –

jewel and colors –

when grey mornings
blanket the meadow
as snow.


It’s Queer, Yet True

This piece is totally and utterly sparked by today’s WordPress Daily Prompt: Egg.

Image result for robin's egg


It’s Queer, Yet True

When spring tingles
the blood of each tree
and the cold of crystal streams
begins to warm,

dragons creep from the shadows
that soften the hollows
between their mountain crags
and, like cats, slink beneath
the pine limbs,

scouring each branch
for a robin’s nest
that harbors a clutch of eggs
as blue as sky and hope
to scratch a touch of that paint,

with claw or fang,
so they might remember
what beauty is when their hearts
rage with poison and flame.

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A contemplation, an immersion of sorts…


Image result for watercolor apples
painted by Ellen Bondoc-Escueta



Five small apples –
gold and ruby,
colors bleed together
as a sunset bleeds
on the far hills,
burdened by night’s
dark heft.

Five apples,
in a white bowl,
shaded by a leaf
reaching from a stem,
a caring arm,
a father’s arm.

Five apples,
immortal, placid,
graced by a moment
severed from time –

I’m content.