A rosebud on my mindThe empty snow globe quakesMe back to future’s pastWhere the core of thought shakesThe bloodied red tide looseFrom the ocean that achesFor a cleansing of poresAnd the purging of snakes … Read more. Order today at Amazon and help support independent …
Read MoreOld and in the Way
Yes, Jerry Garcia, I know, I knowBut you must admitIt’s a good lineOne that bears repeating and re-use Maybe it’s just in the twilightThat one understandsThat there’s no last gleamingThat was gone long ago It takes age to realizeThat no one wants oldBecause as Jerry …
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St. Nicholas and the Tanks
A poem from On Driftwood and Oblivion Children’s smiles spread to the menWho presented joyAfter a long nightmare’s sleepTo the girls and boys. Tanks, raged as a floodAcross the snow-covered fieldsNow stained with their blood. This is a Seguidilla based on a true event that …
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Also available – Reminiscences of My Dead-end Street: A Lyrical Journey
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Winter’s Edge
Sometimes the thoughts of wanting to be dead
Come to me when the tribulations of the day
Are better left unsaid
Like the flakes of snow silently floating
As if they never want to kiss the ground
The dogged memories of yesterday’s failures
Pace a slow creep, as if molded by the clay
Of tomorrow’s scriptures
Like the unwanted knowledge of death
From those closest to you among the drifts
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Sand
The wind has removed itself from our presence
But the sand still lingers, as an obstinate thick fog
Permeating everything it touches
Including my long returning thoughts
More galling, my deepest protected memories
Riding, like Bedouins coming out of the desert
Not seen for an endlessly hopeless time
Once so organized and stored
Now moving again, ever relentless
As grains of sand stinging my leathered face
Each of those grains a dirty nightmare
Of the horse drawn sullied history
Coming out of this tin shack dive bar planet
As if Gertrude Bell herself came home
Drawing boundaries to forever haunt this place
Castles enter and slip away once more
In dreams of ghost riders, swords drawn
Erasing history’s EtchoSketched footprints
Left by kings and queens of purple sage
Tumbling moral virtues into Damascus
Silence breaks the quiet of the sunrise
Spreading like winged camels across Wadi Rum
I saw Mr. Lawrence among the dust strewn bodies
But the magnificent seven would not stand
They slipped away, as time momentarily halted
Disappearing through the Ottoman’s looking glass
Toiling away in the universe’s inner sanctum
As the final notes of Jericho’s horns fade to black
Searching endlessly for the meaning of it all
Only to re-emerge on the broken streets of Babylon
And the sand lingers still
Read MoreCurve of the Wave
The curve of the wave clutches my soul
Barreling down a moonless black hole
Then, as if desperate to console
The surf relents, in a quiet roll
Back out to sea, yet angry to return
I know surely, for whom the bells toll
Winds Across Pamlico
A new Poem from On Driftwood and Oblivion
A haunted wind through his ship’s hull ground
Brownstone horses in the sand danced ‘round
Wisdom worn footprints sought, never found
In the shadowed moon, her thoughts were bound
As the tidal clad laughter crept alone
Silence swept across Pamlico Sound
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High Lonesome Again
A Hir A Thoddaid The valve pumped cold red, on through the boreAs screaming neurons opened the coreI reached the knob of life’s closing doorStone silence, as my soul hit the floorExhale, breath abandoned lungs mattered notIdle chatter breeze, lonesome no more The new collection …
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