Turkey Day!

Turkey Day! My few last days to spend with my sweet babe
My little girl has all grown up, and married now.

Those days we spend, as I listen to her sweet voice
and sit with her and him for movie nights and wine.

And cook together full gourmet fare of quality divine,
with wine, of course, and cheese and things

to keep us full before we eat. Oh, turkey’s done!
So perfect brined, and all the classic acoutrement.

Each paired with wine at the perfect time,
we dine, and dine, and dine some more.

Black Friday be damned! We care not to jam
ourselves into a frenzied spree.

Instead, we wake up peacefully
with eagerness to be just us together in harmony.

Wild Turkeys

Chortling birds, amused by my sleepy morns
chatter and clatter past my window

to the trees where roosts the hens and chicks
of buzzards, turkeys, eagles and hawks.

Turkeys are the funniest things
with Toms that strut and puff like kings,

Tail feathers spread and beards abloom
gobbling for a quick boom boom,

say “look at me! Big as a tree!
Fine tail feathers, my pedigree!”

Amused, I see the hens ignore their mating calls
to jump beyond for worms just past the wall.

Pet Fish of the River Umpqua

Here fishy, fishy! Come here, fishy…
That’s right. Over here, babycakes!
Aw, so sweet, and slimy,
curled up against my leg.

Pretty little fishy…
want to be my dinner?

Jack Rabbit

Jack Rabbit swept up in my snare!
Who knew they spoke
and reasoned with such flair?

In ancient British words he said
“Dear lady, can we not be friends?
We eat only a bit of the cabbage head.”

“Oh, my gosh! I hear you speak!”
“Why, yes, of course, m’sweet.
We kiglioffum are just meek.

We wander twixt the mage phinkepit lore,”
Struggling to escape my net,
his weeping eyes met mine as to implore.

“Please let me go, I eat not much,
we leave a bit for you to munch upon.”
Too late, my garden razed four-flush.

“I’ll take you to my magic place,
remove this web! Remove it please!”
It turned to gauze, and did erase.

“Be gone, you fool! I’m done with you.
Take you to the Gugenmaze, I will!”
And with that word, away we flew

where heat began the day in crowded halls.
Where am I now, oh Jack of Rabbits?
“Asleep between the tiniest of walls.”


Saltines! The only crackers ever anywhere in the 1960s,
when women wore skirts and children didn’t matter.
Well, at least I didn’t matter – or so I was told. (ouch!)

Saltines with squares of American cheese!
And then came Velveeta… that liquid gold
when mixed with Ro-tel tomatoes created movie night.

Oh, saltines! You, with homemade chili on a frozen night!
Impossible to replace the bland, salty balance
against jalapenos, beef, and beans.

Saltines! A step beyond water crackers that do nothing
for a piece of cheese, with a few exceptions,
like a nice aged brie, or Manchego from La Mancha.

So, diet be damned! Saltines are always on hand!

Smoky Quartz

Jagged beauties! The art of earth and stars made real!
Molten crust breathed into sandy caves cools with infinite adagio.

Slow and silent. Motionless, if you please, deep beneath the roots
of fungi, trees, and dinosaurs, molecules align like soldiers on a quest
for perfection. Aligned in time, bound by space and movement unseen.

Beautiful smoke of the earth holding fire, occult and primordial,
the greatest of antiquities to admire in our brief flash of life.

Smoke of creation, carbon pure, breath of life radiates from your points.
Electrons fly, and back again in timeless synchronicity.

Yet, you are still and poised, reflecting sunlight through smooth facets
of jagged beauty! The art of earth and stars made real!

Beautiful smoke of the earth holding fire, occult and primordial
I have witnessed from that place without age, glimpsed as you grew
into pointing this way and that, rainbows from a pure world of love alone,

Hear the whispers of your astral guides – their destinies, like ours
hurtling through space wrapped in time’s back and forth agenda.two crystals and a glass snail

On the Same Side of Barbed Wire

I wait below
on this wire of missing you
on the same side of barbed wire.

You love her.
I know very well you do
Look deep down the stem to see.

To love two,
and only be with one.

On the same side of barbed wire,
Missing me.

Two red flowers, one like one below

Changing My Mind

Dear Joy,

I love you, too. I always have.
From the moment I saw you.

Remember? I stared. I couldn’t play anymore.
I couldn’t think. “I just had to tell you that.”

Who was this woman standing in the crowd?
I walked away frozen in time.

She stayed. My wife. Wannabe wife.
She chose me, and I couldn’t escape.

Like you, I could not escape the control.

We are old, and I can’t write
Poetic letters projecting pain.

I am sorry you felt that way.
I am sorry you were hurt.
I am sorry your mountain of baggage
from birth kept us apart.

We are one in the afterlife.
I am the one you love.

Yours eternally,

Her Husband

Yes, that was an interesting poetic prompt. Write a letter to yourself at 3 am when your muse is the right guy who came along at exactly the wrong time. Then again, exactly the right time in so many ways. He was the catalyst, and now he is my muse. So, really, what would he say – realistically? Let’s try this again.


Thank you for not contacting me. I appreciate that you have left me alone, though it does bother me a little that you still think you love me. I mean, come on… that’s scary. So, I’d appreciate it even more if you would at least TRY to move forward. Find someone else, please. You’re a beautiful, talented woman. What are you doing alone pining over me? Please move on, sweet Joy. You were good. It was just bad timing. It’s just not what I needed at that time, so no offense. I never meant to hurt you. I didn’t want to hurt you. I mean that. I don’t want to lead you on. Please move on.


Her Husband

Then… I’d be tempted to write back, acknowledging that I was hung up on him periodically over the past 3 decades. I laugh at myself in retrospect. So silly of me to remain hopeful. But I did for far too long.

No, I wouldn’t write back. I’d write poetry, but I wouldn’t write back. Why poetry? Because I’m a poet. Because I love words. Because I explore emotions. Because I am experiencing being human.

Then… oh, then… my creative mind would go into all sorts of movie plots. Scenes I’d play for the screen, which never make it to the page as good as they were in my mind.

And finally… I’d go to bed because I have a job. Like right now. The end.

May Mother be a Celebration

“No one reads hardback anymore,” he said,
sunflower glasses perched on a perfect nose.

“Beats knitting,” I replied, his beach bag brimming
with yarn and cheddar cheese crackers.

“Clearing my mother’s space,”
sadness. A splash of mud.
“Just finishing.”

Wine glasses.
A mile of thick threads

at last;
the pull of pavement
buckling pull of lust.

Nail broken on oak headboards,
my satchel by the door.

No one reads hardback anymore.

No. Never.


She was a twinkle in Grandfather’s eye
my lovely, precious mother

Objectified. An icon. Not human.

But she was my mother!

She would be 96 this year
were it not for erections
and selections of commodities
like me.

She was my MOTHER!

My mother, my mother, my mother
the one who brought me
from the timeless layer
of infinity.

Let me ask, then…

Let me ask of you
who on high took her
took her, took her, took her
for having me.

Let me ask, then…

Do your children need
their mother, the gun bearer?
Do they want her?
Their mother, mother fucker?

Let me ask, again…

Do their babies need her children?
Grandchildren yours, who
above it all should be below?
Below, below, below.

Bored rubes!

You’ve nothing better to do
than maim and command.
Not a relevant thought
to rub between brain cells.

Ah, to steal and do nothing!

Put on a show to lie
about my mother.

Fuck you.

And fuck the hags you rode in on.