Book Ends

Books opened to earmarked Pages

Edged with fingerPrints, she pauses

to Linger over the Markings left

there partially Hidden In the margins

Cool composure Definable contexts

jumbled in the Quixotic reasons

as she puzzles Over the Venue of

Written materials trying to

Understand what any of it

should eXplain 

Blue Jeans

She wore the blue jeans today,
It was October, I hadn't the pants on her
since last May.
She just walked by jeans riding her hips
It was cold, naked to the waist, a sly smile
hugging her red lips.
She held her bare breasts
the sunlight through windows
warm on my chest
Ride me, I suddenly said, ride me
until the sun sets in the sky
until my lips crack and turn red
Love me, she whispered back
her knees tight in the denim
the line of her butt pressing the
fabric taut
my words in lust captured mid-murmur
my heart caught.

Murder of Crows

It's a Murder of Crows that gather on her grave

I come here often my soul to save, should she

return perhaps she will forgive my sins as I

continue to live. I met her in the fall of 69

I was young, she was fine. She stared at me,

her raven hair black as night, her eyes red ready 

to question her thin-lipped smile a gash across 

her pale skin, her nose shaped like a bleak beak

She whispered only should she speak.

The Congress of her behavior, the shattering of

her cries, a hundred black birds flying, a nursery

rhyme about a bitter pan of humble pie.

I  read her the verses quothing Poe dreary

forlorn, I held her cold hands in the cold snow

I sung the dirge full of contemptuous woe

I promised to leave her, I even tried to go.

I walked her casket out of the gray morn

I curse under my breath, I cursed the day she

was born. I held her throat in my old hands

I swore that I loved her, I pleaded her ghost

to understand, I took her to wife, I held her

closer still before she took her life.

Halloween, A Year later.

“Graveyard Girls” Kyle Thompson & Marissa Bolen

I did not stop writing Poetry.

I write it actively on Twitter than share it to my Facebook Page.

It's ironic to find my last published Poem here is from October 8th, 2018.

There were Three

Three Witches dance in the fields of the dead

beneath the Huntress Moon

Three Hags cackle with the midnight delight

over a cauldron of truth

filled with the virginal bits

of hapless youth

Three girls will rise up like banshees

singing their haunting tune

Once there were more

Once there had been four

but she had run off with a rope

up to the hanging tree

Now she swings in tune

with her sister's terrible croon

beneath the yellow auspices

of the Huntress Moon.

Song of the Wasteland

Tomorrow never came, the skies burned and churned and the world turned but tomorrow never came.
Time passed, but nothing remained, denuded building like dead trees populated the graveyards of cities, places that had forgotten their names.
The sun might rise and set, but tomorrow still hasn't happened yet.
I walk these wastes, I remember her name. I camp under the starless skies, dreaming of the invisible moon, perhaps the nuclear clouds will be gone soon. 
Each night I say my prayer, asking for her safe return, mumbled in bleak monotones, knowing that should she be dead, I will never know her bones. 
The graveyards of men are bleached calcium under the unforgiving sun that blasts through the persistent haze like a petulant God punishing everyone. 
The ghosts of the blameless dead howl in the arid winds, the pocked earth cries under the radiated rains, I cannot wish her alive in this world gone insane. 

We were all there...

Square of the Artists in Parisby ricardomassucatto

We were all there, at the cafe in Paris, on deck chairs
Drinking and laughing, Ginger dancing with Fred Astaire.
Toulouse painted Hookers as Queen Aretha sang,
Riley wrote lyrics, I sat next to her in the evening air.
Hemingway toasted us Bourbon, ignoring our faults
whilst Offerman sipped his aged double malt
Marlowe sang in time with Will a bawdy tune
Emily said that our deaths would come all too soon


We were all there, Americans and ex-pats in the movie
set in a timeless year, in the city of lights in France
daring to rebel, find the secrets of artists, romance
maps of adventure, mystery on sun painted streets,
Riley and I asleep on tie-dyed rainbow sheets.
The world an oyster of words, the rhythm of
Ice-T and Eminem ever staccato alliterated repeats
Byron lording over his odious melodies while
Browning mocks him, his grin framing her smile
fading in my head, soon I'm to bed, deluding denial.

We were all there, standing silhouettes in the Louvre
like Platonic shadows with nothing else to prove
Riley and Armin stepping into the groove.
Jackson paddling on the car, lawyers in love,
Mona Lisa singing Ava Maria from above
Amanda rolls the ivory belting out defiance
Rembrandt paints it black, Jagger to dance
Gaiman himself summoned Wednesday to bleed
while Anansi weaves, Pan on his wicked reeds
a sacrifice, the papers rifled, the ink stifled, King
does his standup routine, a Welsh whisper to
unnameable indescribable weird things said
to remind me it's all in my head,
soon I'm to bed, counting sheep to sleep.

Cezanne is in the Boat.
Riley and I holding hands
along the Seine
Stewart dances in the rain
Statues in the Or'Say Park
Rodin caught kissing Freda
after dark.

She took to a Traveling Man

Lord, she would have never done it 
if she hadn't got drunk.
Oak Ridge Boys on the radio.
singing gospel and tunes
some years back in June
Hotter than hell in Louisiana
summer in the Southland
Ice tea and shine, ice cubes
clink in my mason jar, granma
fussing on the low slung swing
afternoon shade as we stare out
across the glades.
The South as it will never be
I won't ever remember to ask
Barbara Sue to marry me.
She took to a traveling man
left us for some foreign land.
Come back home to my home
down in Dixie, where we are
outdated in our mediocrities
racial faults aren't purchased
but blood-bought, old folks that
modern times has forgot.
The colors are here for all to see
statues and gravestones and the
myths of our collective history.