Thursday, December 5, 2019

Thank you to Mark Antony Rossi of Ariel Chart for publishing my poem today.

A Bluebird Sadly Flown (A Tribute To a Pop Muse)

A Bluebird Sadly Flown

(A Tribute To A Pop Muse)


Born into a cage.

A bird wearing a feathered veil,

Never pursuing tranquility.

A rolling stone of a woman,

sculptured in art and tailspins.

Publicly body untamed,

A Privately tortured mind,

A break, a collapse,

At times,

Her Cracks displayed to all,

Coming unglued.

All her bluebirds finally came to roost.

Such a shame she never learned

how to land.

Wednesday, December 4, 2019

Thank you to Mark Antony Rossi at Ariel Chart for publishing this poem in the December issue.

A Parade for An Idol

A Parade for An Idol

Beautiful in his time,

seductive then as now.

His beat we will follow.

His words our motto.

We’ll stay in the parade,

carry his balloons.

Sunday, December 1, 2019

I am surprised and honored to have been chosen as Author of the Month for the Setu Bilingual Journal on December 1, 2019.
Thank you so very much.

Here is one of the four poems featured:

Spectrum Of Mood

Light switch
Happy bright
Pale cold sunset
Behind a curtain of lies

Heavy mind
Hatred’s backbite
Deepest, darkest night
Chant the sun to rise

Mocking sunbeams
Wasted dreams
Writers’ blasphemes
Frozen poets’ screams

Keats is dead
No longer read
Quills’ feathers’ spread
Inky blackness bled

Quiver of the balance
Ramped up talents
Meet mood’s challenge
Drunk from hope’s chalice

Light switch

Happy bright…..

My mother taught me to judge others by the content of their character, just like the Good Reverend.
This is an actual photo of me with my baby doll.

This is a Good Thing

The little white Texas toddler
Bathes her black baby doll
With her mother's help.
She changes the baby’s clothes
By herself,
Bestowing kisses and hugs
On the doll, a gift,
And her mother says
Is a good thing.

The young white six-year-old
Plays with the black girl,
Her same age,
Sharing her toys,
Knowing the other 
Has few,
And her mother says
Is a good thing.

The 13-year-old white girl
And her mother wait,
Standing behind the black man,
Getting a drink
From the same common water fountain,
And her mother says
Is a good thing.

The 18-year-old white college girl
Gets a summer phone call
From her black friend
And classmate, Patsy,
During vacation.
They talk for a long time
With frequent giggles.
Patsy is smart, beautiful
And so very funny,
And her mother says
Is a good thing.

Fifty years on,
I still have the photo.
Of these events,
I still have my memories of them.
And I say

Is a good thing.

Saturday, November 30, 2019

Thank you to Marzia Dezzi and the Editorial Staff at Otherwise Engaged: A Literary and Arts Journal for publishing my two poems in their winter issue.

Winter Warriors

I have examined the night sky.
Seen appear the moon, stars, and meteors.
During winter’s freeze,
Orion, lost in Crete, stands tall,
his belt tight, against his waist,
hosting the seven sisters , glowing, - Pleiades, bright.
And to the North we view Perseus, 
holding Medusa’s head.
Taurus, the heavenly bull shines out.

Winter’s warriors,
guarding the sky,
large and luminous.
keeping individual watch within their own stars;
giant hunter, the solid horned one, and the helmed
slayer of myths.
Gathering strength, Earth’s dauntless protectors, 

working as a stellar team.

The Temple At Twilight

The temple at twilight,
soft the evening presses in.
No squeeze, just gentle pressure.
The susurration of the fountain
heard with open ears.
The shimmer of light
from candles’ glow,
seen with open eyes.
That soft embrace felt,
with an open heart,
as a hug given tenderly

by all the angels you can name.
Thank you to Editors Stacia Lynn Reynolds and Nilavro Nill Shoovro of Our Poetry Archive (OPA) for publishing my three poems in the December Issue.

Ada’s Shoes

Ada learned when young
to feel the music of love.
She memorized, when a child,
the sequences and patterns of steps toward forgiveness.
She discovered, as a teen, the connections
made between dancing and dreaming.
She became very adept at both.

She knows how to dance the moment
with angels as partners.
Dancing her own dance
as tap or two-step.
Sharing her dance
as waltz or tango.
Learning the dance of another,
the sways, the paces,
the turns and bends.

She keeps her dance floor large.
No narrow vision, no narrow-mindedness.
She keeps her dance card full
of lots of friends,
and a smile for everyone.

These shoes,
never to be filled by another,
unless one follows the exact path
she followed, to obtain
the best of what the cosmos has to offer.


Stand right in the middle.
Too much to the left,
Too much to the right,
And they’ll walk past you.
They’ll never hear your words.
You’re unseen.
Uncomfortable drama.

The Lateness Of The Hour

Had I known what to seek as a child,
I would have learned
an extraordinary amount
so much earlier.

I would have applied it
all throughout my life.
Many opportunities passed
to use that knowledge.
But I am not the only one
to fail to harness human thought.

Heed my words as I explain where I went wrong.

We search to find
only those who understand us,
instead of seeking comprehension
of all other things.

If my legacy is told at all,
I wish for it to be thus.

Saturday, November 23, 2019

Thanks to John Patrick Robbins for posting my poem in The Dope Fiend Daily.


Abating sentries of rev’noors,
these now impeccable brewers
offer steep drink within lawful lines.
They’re no longer part of a sinning legion.

Once clandestine lodging of glass bottles,
hidden under haystacks, 
and behind hollow brick facades.

Chosen by disobedient revelers,
with a glib indecency,
and a whacked fetish for drink.

The history of moonshine reflected
in poorly remembered scenarios,
in suppressed neighborhoods,
along some preferred mazes
of streets and alleyways.

A nauseous whirlwind
of heavy boozers weaving their way home.

And wives with no resolute sleep,
offer a dramatic welcoming back home.
Their ramshackle boom,
loudness in the living room.
In a lunar instant,
a starlight grenade he offers in response.

And landlords cite an embarrassing dread,
as families face a rancorous displacement,
and bags of empty vessels are left behind.

Kentucky stills now in the open,

Pray no more families become broken.