I never measure the coffee just pour from bag into filter last act before bed steeling myself for the day ahead aroma from the bag soothing as warm milk who needs essential oils when you have necessity grounds Morning finds me staggering bed to bathroom…

Hour Twenty – Text Prompt: Write a poem about a routine or ritual that is part of your life. It can be something like making coffee every morning, or something like attending religious services once a week.   Dugga Dugga   Not sure how or…

I swim. At least thrice a week sink myself into the pool and forget why I exist. I swim into and against the flow. I dive so deep your hand has to find mine and pluck me out.  

Hour Nineteen 3:45 Dizdain Form Will you hold my hand as time passes on, or will you let go and lead me to fall? Will you remain with me in breaking dawn, or will you balk and lead me to nightfall? Will you love above…

Hour Eighteen 3993 Sun-stroked gardens season stained carpets of variegated color- the clean scent of greenery and herbs a pleasant arousal to the senses. The Chickweeds gather in droves clucking away with banter cleaving to the Cleavers until Evening Primrose. Goats Rue the interruption while…

Hour Nineteen – Text prompt Write a poem describing your surroundings as inarticulately as possible but maintaining just a tiny bit of the truth.   Of Scottish Summers If you live in Glasgow and look out of the window, You’d see all that is to…

Surrounded, I am, by flotsam of my life eclectic collection of memory-inducing trinkets and treasures fishing lures hanging from driftwood vintage, autographed transistor radio antique wooden crate shelves cassette tape deck I used for my first radio interviews Dad’s old Scotttie-dog letter holder, and a…

sultry, hot the unmade bed where I have lain this night each poem a story of you. imagined and real unreal surreal true. the sun burns, a fierce white heat that emits no light.  

In the gathering room we gather for everything even though it might seem crowded sometimes and it gets too warm in the summer afternoon because of the windows that point to the south although I could put up awnings or blinds but then why have…

Listen to a story ’bout a man named Black Tim Villines a big man living as a hermit in the hills above Bullfrog Hollow in the days when one black man in the county was one too many. In the only surviving picture of him,…