Reimagine the future
honor the past
Live in the moment
first ever last
Change the perspective
fences destroyed
Polar invectives
cursed to employ
The baby and bathwater
image du jour
Becoming the instant
your lens is secured
Honor the future
reimagine the past
Live beyond either
— your essence recast
(Dreamsleep: September, 2025)
I had a dream that felt so real,
Even awake, it felt surreal.
Sitting in my comfy chair,
Goosebumps rose as I sat there.
Reality hit—I caught my breath—
I almost tossed it out, a part of me to sudden death.
Tossed aside, cast away,
Taking life in stride, but losing my way.
Hurt, angry, feeling empty,
Overlooking life’s gifts—of which there are plenty.
Just so tired of the injustice,
Of tyranny, of turning away, and caustic
Jokes,
Hoax
Created by man in flesh and bone,
The high and mighty, perched on their throne.
Throwing the baby out with the bathwater,
Trying to survive each day, balancing on a teeter-totter.
Magma mater pinned to your lapel,
Casting all sins aside like a spell.
Reality sets in, and my eyes are wide open—
The tragedy of what could have been,
So grim.
The thing that I almost tossed out—
My soul, I shout!
Do poets always walk in the rain?
This poet once did
When she was but a kid.
The bathwater of summer drops
Cascading from suburban chimney tops,
Puddles on pavement
Begging for splashing,
A robin’s egg in the grass
All fractured and bashed-in.
The simple wonders
Of childhood
Are not so long gone.
Be mindful, you children
Don’t fail to hold on.
I want to write a song today from six feet under here.
Won’t paint to kill the dead saints but I want to make it clear
that I’ve been praying in the dark while lying in this grave,
and wishing the bathwater clean in hopes that it can save.
I hope to finally find the strength. I know I have to try,
but so far every effort yields the gist of one big lie.
That’s why I’m here, I’ve learned there is no X amount of words
that have the power to change despite how many I have heard.
But I know I’m the one who has to claw my up through
this dirt room I have called my home, it’s time for me to do
whatever it takes can’t you see, the end is at the door?
I want to rise and feel that I’m not broken anymore.
Cuz everything is changed by time, why should I die alone?
Why shouldn’t I break through this ground, rise up and make a home?
So I will write a song today as if I were a king,
then you will know, “I won’t let go” by every word I sing.
Casting Off The Bow Line
Goodbye
my unwed darling
I’m married
to this dream
Freedom
calling out to me
betrothal thus
redeemed
Bachelorhood
a Siren’s calling
Feted tween
the sails
Truant winds
to act upon
Legends
tell the tale
Setting off
this final time
Rudder
in my hand
Truth when hoisted
up the mast
Liberty
— commands
(Dreamsleep: February, 2024)
So Imbued
Crime without sanction
honor among thieves
Tomatoes tomattos
prudish obscene
Rules as their written
intention entwined
Good becomes bad
sight becomes blind
Credence engendered
by those so imbued
A prince or a pauper
depends on your view
The world in a tailspin
no two think the same
the baby the bathwater
— praising the blame
(The New Room: February, 2024)
Time Awaits
Not connected to
the dollar
Courted
never wed
Engaged to no one
but himself
Making
his own bed
All fame and fortune
lost to fate
Constancy
of mind
Whose future readers
time awaits
His legacy
— to find
(The New Room: February, 2024)
Oh bathwater waves
bubbles from a school of fish;
Calm after the storm.
Prisoner Of Language
Will time live eternal
or just its retelling
A prisoner of language
whose paradox mined
Dimension in contrast
ill-fated contrition
To look but not touch
—and hope they align
(Rosemont College: December, 2023)
Through A Vacuum
Biologically tethered
time is the demon
Your flesh and your blood
by nature defined
Each tic of the clock
your heart beats in cadence
Dogmatic in method
caught up in the brine
What if your consciousness
took a leap forward
Abandoning reference
erasing the lines
Polarity exits
its jail through a vacuum
Releasing reversing
—becoming sublime
(Rosemont College: December, 2023)
Starting Over
Dig up the foundation
requestion each premise
Wade through the bathwater
the baby must go
A leap when it’s quantum
still subject and object
Fly out of the portal
—rejecting what’s known
(Rosemont College: December, 2023)
A man loses his father
and adulthood begins
Bathwater draining
the baby within
A son who is sireless
new destiny’s child
Whose choice is to run
or to stand and beguile
Alone with his memories
one image sustains
The voice but a whisper
its spirit reclaimed
To carry the title
his lineage holds
A surname retendered
—new history untold
(The New Room: July, 2023)
The halved tomato
was freezer bagged and kept in the fridge too long
Breakfast is nothing without a tomato
but this melting fruit
is in a dream state. Not corrupted yet,
not rotten as we might explain rotten,
just spoiled, going soft, its skin shrinking.
The yellow -green pulp and juice
is still viable, The spongy pips still intact
though now it looks ill as it it had drank bathwater.
It is dying the way all fruit dies
from the center and core.
Some people die like that also;
healthy on the outside,
smiling in a golden ray of health,
yet within
there innards are turning
into the sludge of decay.
I'm hungry, and I don't care if the tomato
is a member of the Deadly Night Shade family,
or that its acidic and gives me heartburn,
fried eggs and toast demand at least half a tomato,
and who knows
maybe I will enter its dream world
soon enough anyway.
If we can’t agree on fifty-one percent
of what affects us both
we’re doomed
Like the baby and the bathwater
our future lost
in critical disdain
All politics of division
a self-imposed, self-righteous
Armageddon
The brotherhood of humanity
sacrificed
—on its dying altar of shame
(Tribute To Anthony Hopkins: July, 2022)
another day is almost done
scented bubbles - an anticipation
warm water calls her by her name:
a relaxing "mom time" accommodation
with exhalation, hands gently grasping
a book binding worn to smooth
eyes lusting for a deep escape
each written word meant to soothe
her heart covertly coveting,
for a short time, an empty abode
her favorite novel only just begun
short self-care arrangement is bestowed
time ticks its fast advancement
bathwater wrinkles, besetting
children caterwauling with woes of needs
each knock - a sound on nerves - upsetting
husband now calling through the door
she's pleading for a moments peace:
"One more page," she responds to all
hoping for the complaints to cease
~ I am a Conservative
Here is who I am
and what I stand for ~
C onserving what is worth preserving
O pen to changing what's not working
N ot willing to throw out the baby with the bathwater
S teadfast when those around me are scurrying
E nabling my children and relatives to succeed
R eligious in the ecumenical sense of the word
V itally interested in my community's welfare
A larmed by the rise in incivility in public discourse
T ender-hearted and giving to the stranger, the widow, the orphan
I nterested in politics, but not obsessed with it
V oracious reader of classical fiction and non-fiction
E nduring privation graciously, with faith and trust in God
The survivor
The pandemic has taken its toll, the survivors have fled to the woods
the town is full of mice, rats have decided to stay in their sewers
and sea-gulls get fat.
The mice use the zebra crossing and should a car come along
the driver will stop; he is trained to do this.
He-the driver- drives into town where runs out of petrol, sits there
and watches as the sea drain away like bathwater down a plug hole.
He needs insulin and walks home; it is a long walk.
At home, he gets his medicine and fry some bacon and bake a potato
in the micro-oven.
He wonders about his doctor whether she made it into the woods,
collect berries, good for the heart and slimming too.
He sits on the terrace and looks at the sea that is no longer there but
full of dead fish the will stinks for days.
He then switches on the TV and watches endless re-run of himself.
Suicide,
the death of the self
Consciousness martyred
—bathwater damned
(Dreamsleep: February, 2020)
My village was dusty and burning
Everyone was screaming and running
I stood dumb in the chaos, my eyes rolling
Tried to listen out for mother’s calling
The noise of death was the only sound
My pants wetted, a boot pinned me to the ground
My hands numb but clasped behind my head
I started to feel my life fade
I felt all my senses sucked up by the sand
Apart from the smell of fear all around
A deep voice was barking menacingly
I was temporarily oblivious of the captivity
A prayer was too loud in my mind
Asking God to tell mother to leave me behind
To protect my unborn sister and head for the hills
Hell had come to take my childhood against my will
The pacing monster woofed foreign orders
I almost shouted to mother not to fetch the bathwater
Turn your back on your son and head to the border
Run mother, run, I am now a child soldier
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