autumn shakes threadbare
spent leaves loosen from brown stems
each clings to the bough
waiting for the tug of wind
to show buds in leaf axils
one leaf lies pressed flat
between pages seldom turned
kept from rain and light
its veins mirror buried roots
grounding what the leaf recalls
wine darkens the glass
one mouthful remains untouched
thirst catches its shine
sweetness ripens when restrained
the tongue leaves a taste behind
on dust-silver shelves
each book keeps its well-thumbed leaves
spines remember hands
binding what the years recall
in their dog-eared aftermath
names fade from old cards
ink gives way to the humdrum
old contacts grow pale
what I leave for others' eyes
means nothing to their kind ghosts
leaf settles on leaf
each layer hides another
last in, first recalled
gathered from one's only life
their weight growing underneath
neither dusk nor dawn
can deceive me about leaves
I shed, keep, forgo
forget, give away, hold back—
each leaves something of a life
__________________________
With all the bravado of its president Trump, America is increasingly getting exposed as a paper tiger in the world today.
______________________
O ye paper tiger,
Dare me not with your sham roar,
I know your horoscope in full--
From which tree pulp you’re made,
By which mill, to what grade,
Why me, all the forest knows this,
You were made from old papers,
From dog-eared books recycled,
Your yellow shade bares all that aloud,
The dull stripes your family root shows,
Brag not nor wag your tail,
Keep it tucked to your hind,
False bravado no one’s esteem wins,
Go deep in wild forest
To know what it means to be a true tiger
And what, just a paper tiger.
Anyone can twist your tail, ride on you,
Stop that goat-like mien, it only reveals you.
Should ye still for a fight spoil,
I will, to burry you deep in soil
To give you a rare chance
To grow as fresh green tree in a wood,
In woods dark and deep, true tigers flourish,
Not a recycled pale tiger like you.
___________________________
Happenings |16.07.2026 | forest/wood, tiger, satire, USA, free verse
My name is Captain Thomas Blake
William’s company commander
I am very sorry for the loss of your son
at the hands of a sniper
I did not get to know him as he was assigned
to my company only a week ago
I have enclosed his personal effects:
1. a sepia toned picture of a young woman holding a
baby boy with Mom and Me in black marker scrawled on the back
2. an envelope with the name Susie written in feminine hand on
the front containing a love letter from her
3. a well gnawed penicil and tattered notebook-
your son was an excellent poet
4. one dog eared Gideon New Testament
5. the Scot Terrier token from Monopoly
wrapped in a zip lock bag
It is with deepest regret we can only return these enclosed
items and not your living son.
With humble regards
Capt. Thomas Blake
Co. A
1st Battalion
504th Inf. Reg
82nd Airborne Div.
It has been a rough week.
Monday was dog-eared and dozing.
The world ended on Tuesday -
so not a great start.
Wednesday, not surprisingly,
did not know how to break the news.
The planet carried on being essentially global
while millions of people seemingly not to care
that they were no longer there.
There were many afterlife tragedies,
rumors of leaky unsustainable beliefs,
suicides were tried but to no avail.
Everywhere there were catastrophic failures
of restroom facilities.
Thursday dissolved quietly
unwilling to confirm or deny its existence.
Those still able to crawl to work
did so in their dreaming skulls.
Friday absentmindedly tried to begin again
then remembered.
The few who thought it might only be
a cosmic PowerGrid blip
were assured by ghostly astrophysicist
that the world would return
and apologized for all the fuss.
However, as happened,
the weekend really was the END.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At dawn, your fingers
still trace the curve of my spine
like they're reading braille~
each scar, each shift in the landscape,
a sentence you know by heart.
You laugh when I steal the blanket,
when my knees find the hollows
behind yours, an old map
drawn without compass or reason.
Our fights are old books now,
their spines cracked open
to the same dog-eared pages~
we know the lines by heart,
but recite them softer these days.
We are two trees grown
into each other’s bark,
gnarled and weathered-together,
no longer remembering
which rings belong to whom.
Some loves are built like this~
not with grand gestures,
but with the quiet tyranny
of your coffee cup left warming
on my nightstand,
the way you hum off-key
in the shower, still, after all these years,
and I pretend not to hear it,
and you pretend not to know.
Forty-three autumns,
and your hands smell like sawdust
and onions, and I wouldn’t trade
our slow unraveling for anything~
not even the taut, bright thread
we once were.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
December,
whispers melting fast~
promises scribbled on receipts,
dog-eared hope curled in midnight’s fist,
unread.
Tonight sick Santa had to take off,
he has a bad case of whooping cough.
The reindeers are acting weird,
all are hungry and dog-eared.
Home for a hot bowl of beef stroganoff.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Aisle-strayed, the spine-scuff welcomes:
this scent, pine pulp and glue ghosts,
settles dust-flurried lungs.
Fingers graze jackets—crackled vellum,
fresh gloss bleeding promise.
Shelves stand like weathered priests
holding confessionals of ink.
One flayed paperback, dog-eared
at page sixty-three's small triumph—
proof someone else needed saving.
Here, grief grows papercuts;
hope wears library stamps.
Every warped cover a hatch
lifting into borrowed light.
a practiced smile on her face
a mother’s oenomel breath puffs wind under gossamer wings
reminiscent of the translucent wings of green lacewings—
mistaken for a pest, but beneficial—
to strike out and explore a thorny world
resisting the siren call of spring’s scent
turning their heads with songs of love
emerging personalities
unravel the cocoon spun in love
as naiveté fragmentises into bluster
a mother unobtrusively dries tears
desiring a moral code of empathy towards all
the sweet fragrance of pride
a tantalising selection between
intrinsic values and
natural curiosity—
concomitant heartbeat tempos to dog-eared sheet music of ambition
culminating in Life’s crescendo
natural selection, be damned
as recalcitrant offspring echoes eons of mitochondrial resilience
I still see my mother
sitting at the kitchen table
copying out her favorite recipes
from the Women’s Weekly magazine.
With pen in hand,
she’d carefully write the recipe,
word for word in her notebook.
There are hundreds that
she collected over the decades.
That notebook, with its dog-eared pages,
crusty stains and side notes,
is now in my hands.
The thing is, I don’t cook—
my other half is the chef in our family.
Now and then, he’ll ask me for
Mom’s notebook to try one of her
secret recipes, although he likes to add
his own twist to it—
it needs a bit of spice, he says.
But nobody beats Mom’s cooking!
Self Analysis
Miracle man
1/31/2025
I’m like an old book that sits on a shelf,
Dog eared pages reveal things about myself.
my pages are yellowed and worn from my years,
some chapters introduce laughter, some tears.
But just like the book, time’s taken its toll,
life, like the book, has accomplished its goal?
Today few care what either has to say,
you may rest yourself, on some shelf one day.
A cigarette
A dog-eared, tattered book
Worn as me
And the tired clock
Tick
Tick
Tick
Time unyielding
The hand on my shoulder
Recognition
Comfort
My old friend
And I’m dragged home
My sadistic lover
A brief war
A loss
Always a loss
And the tired clock
Always tired
Tick
Tick
Tick
Euridice, Euridice
daughter of mortals, sworn to divine;
the bell tolls, the bell rings
“I’m sorry, I miss you”
Orpheus turns; Euridice.
the unmade sheets, dog-eared pages
stacked, dishes scattered in the sink
sunlight splashes
I close my eyes
I see the ghost of where you’ve been
how long has it been
since the summer of your smile,
the spring of your voice.
twenty years waiting, your Penelope;
a shroud unwoven by time
tick, tick, tick. the clock continually ticks.
it drags me by the hands,
grabs me by the heart.
every grain falling through the hourglass,
a lifetime I once spent with you.
every word I never said,
a pomegranate never split;
I called your name too late.
Melpomene, my very own muse,
hear the swan song of my heart
three words we never got to say
i love you i love you i love you
i turn to you to confess
(don’t look don’t look don’t look)
and there you are. you’re gone.
we were two sides of the same fate,
half of each other; star-crossed, but
snip. your shears split the weave and.
Fates themselves can’t force supernovas
to align / when they’ve already long died
Unstain
As I reach for fresh paper
In the hopes to start over
I dog-eared that chapter
Yellowed in time
Seeped in tea
Sepia to the tee
You stained me
Like old photographs
From distant memory
You can’t stain without sanding
I can’t stay withstanding
Waiting in line
If I don’t stand down
You sand me down
I’m stripped, then sealed
Am I oak or ash
Did you even ask?
If I want to be finished
How many coats will you cover me?
Before you could no longer see
What I used to be
Strip the grain
You cannot stain over stain
My skin light
Rubbed raw
But you’re overstaying
Your welcome
You’re welcome!
I've asked you to stop
And yet you strip me
Of my colors
With even strokes
You wipe away what’s left
You didn’t leave a trace
Of the woman that I used to be
How many times will you coat me?
How many quotes till you let me be.
"The Stain Crusaders"
Plath left the pages long ago
and Bacharach’s Blue-on-Blue
is an ineffectual softer numb-shade-of-Blue
dear green green Anthropocene
this much is true
with all the I love you’s
the wandering crusaders
are far far removed
sitting atop their soap boxes
sudsing up all the rooms
the silent stains in the poetic
are hard to remove
Ajax came coding unseen
like anticeptic borax
scrubbing out the irrelevance
dear green green Anthropocene
Shakespeare was never here
just a codex with a recipe
we seldom heed
most never read
the page book marked
dog-eared
maybe tomorrow
for the forget:
“My words fly up,
my thoughts remain below:
Words without thoughts
never to heaven go.”
Candide Diderot. ‘24
“We know what we are, but know not what we may be.”
“There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
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