slow and deliberate, with calculated steps, the cat advances, silently stalking, the intruding mouse who will not live to regret the visit

Your name means mountain ebony, a certain Bauhinia, common to coastal California, but I call you moody. You own my front yard, dominate passages and pathways, burgeoning weight of verdure or leafy reaches for spider’s webby catch to neighboring anchors–rose bush branch or parked car…

Broken hearted, lavender sky, drips amethyst tears on her unstirred lake; calm eyes, cold breath, unquivered lips, a breast that love would soon forsake. Blood-drenched waters, viscous spread, lachrymose in lilac his half-sobbed sighs, a heliotrope horizon which for her has bled, that which trickled…

You are the fire I, the earth Erupt within me

MOSSY DEATH There’s a cemetery few have seen; it hides its dead, in the forest. No visitors allowed. Reads the sign.   Apparently when death arrived, no one cared. Piled on top of one another, some do lie, for eternity.   Death cars, you heard me…

Great Expectations The yearning for green things, growing things, fruits and flowers, begins in the deep and dark of winter. Savvy garden magazines know this, tease and taunt in gorgeous, full color photo spreads, the perfection I can expect for our yard if I buy,…

Nature can be beautiful, when the mosquitos will let you be, Lawns do look beautiful, if not filled with weeds, Gardens give us fresh vegetables, just weed them every day, Fresh eggs are great, just expensive to feed them chickens to lay.   Mowing the…

With eyes almost closing, but sleep is a stranger Energy levels running low enthusiasm fading out in the distance prompts un -inspiring or maybe it’s my fatigue talking I can’t seem to tell the difference… I wish to close my eyes and sleep for the…

Sleep is near that’s all I know,  cause my body tells me so. It won’t be long til time for bed, and there I will lay my little head. I will dream of sweet things while I’m asleep, I’ll dream of snow cones, but not…

Dear Charles Bukowski, You are my favorite drunk, poetic bastard You gambled with women and I heard your breath reeked of cigarettes and whiskey I am writing to you, you see Mr. Bukowski I used to write poetry to get into girls pants I settled…