Fruit like green oranges,
Small leaf-shedding thorny tree,
And sticky wood pulp.
No one eats Osage.
No one tastes these hedge apples.
The thorns make barbed wire.
Three, four, or six
Which one will fix
And even the eastern final score
Making sure
New York will advance
In the best of seven dance
No longer the higher seed
Knicks now need
To win away
For anyone to say
Bring on the west
Who they select as the best
Spurs or Thunder
Visitors no longer wonder
Were they going to blunder
Fumble
Turn humble
Tumble
Then crumble
Instead
‘They stole a win,’ skyscraper islanders said
Message sent
Time spent
Giving the impression
A ‘how did they do that’ confession
About simple mistakes messing
Quite a lesson
Playoffs are here
And so is the post-game cheer
Get near
Toast with beer
We are almost here
Champion is going to be crowned
Creating celebration all over their NBA town
Beyond the Wire
another day in country
we shuffled out beyond the wire
our platoon’s mission
search and destroy
the air was hot and humid
like a sauna with no relief
the jungle closed in on us
wrapping us in a green cloak
blocking out the sun
Johnson, on point, was
out in front probing
for the enemy
hoping the day
would end peacefully
we spread out
lessoning our chances
of becoming an easy target
our heavy packs weighed on us
as we humped twenty klicks
without a break
our jungle fatigues
failed to wick sweat away
from our bodies leaving
us feeling as though
a monsoon had soaked us
we reached the village
and began searching each hootch carefully
ripping up flooring looking
for the hidden enemy
when we had finished searching
we pulled our Zippos from
our pockets and lit
the dry straw that served as
the roof on each one
and watched as each one roared up
in flames like a Roman candle on July 4
our lieutenant signaled for us to
take a break and we sat among
the debris some smoking
cigarettes others smoking reefer
our day was a success
no one was
going home in a body bag
. isn't easy.
Two of mine mated.
The one with turquoise, metal, and varrious stones
and colors, and metal;
one with every letter
in the alphabet.
Free verse is fun,
when you know what you want to saw,
and you experience something fun,
meaningful, or humorous
that you want to share.
My husband will be home in ten
minutes with white wine.
He is tired of all my poems.
I will keep this one short.
Poverty doesn't suck.
A serious life does.
Don't stay indoors this spring.
Pull the petals off a branch
and run home with a fistful
of life.
©
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The wire rims~
thin as a whisper,
holding the weight of every page he turned,
every clockface he squinted at before dawn.
Now they sit,
empty orbits on my desk.
I lift them,
and the world bends~
not as he saw it,
but as I imagine he did:
The morning newsprint smudging into prayer,
the stubborn lawnmower that refused to start,
my childhood face,
always slightly out of focus,
as if love itself were a thing
that needed adjusting.
I wear them like a ghost.
The bridge rests light,
almost apologetic,
as if they knew
they were never meant to be mine.
Through Pop’s lenses,
the light is softer,
the edges kinder.
The coffee stains on the counter
look like continents he never visited.
The crossword puzzle~
half-finished,
pen dropped mid-clue~
becomes a map of all the words
he didn’t have time to say.
I take them off.
The room sharpens
into my own life again,
but for a moment,
I swear,
the air smelled like his aftershave,
and the light was gold,
the way it is
just before it fades.
he never thinks fore he talks
but on rope, head high, he walks
there's nary a fear in mind
a stronger base you'll ne'er find
his voice a substantial weight
his promise looming and great
those below look up with awe
all too blind to spot a flaw
**Cleaners**
~ O.P.E.N ~
Mon-Fri: 7 a.m. to 7 p.m.
Sat: 9 a.m. to 5 p.m.
Sun: Closed
- 7a.m. 7°C -
The key scratches
alongside the knob,
cobwebs capture
every corner of the door.
The cold air thumps
against the windows,
as the lightbulb flickers
morning and night
in the gaps of the ceiling
outside the barely
shut door.
Underneath,
reddish pigment cover
the bricks and the cracked
mortar spews out moss,
releasing all creatures
from its remnants.
Squirming around,
tossing about surrounding
the cigarette bud left
from last winter.
The distant air smells
of cheap store bought coffee
mixed with gasoline.
Above rests a pair of shoes,
tarnished from all the weather,
tangled since last year.
The shoes aged
along with the time
whereas the boy,
since last winter,
dissipated
with the once lit
cigarette,
As white blankets
the grounds,
the embers sparks
rises with the ashes
up the telephone wire,
I barely remember
the time,
that boy
never came back.
Edited (7.18.26):
1.18.17 ~ 2.19.18
Stray words pulled from thin air
strung like birds on a wire
as a poem
won't light my fire
random thoughts on the off-chance
hung as wash on the line
is worse and not verse
at least not one of mine
every tenth girl's name
flung from pages in the dictionary
like pretty maids all in a row
is neither prose nor poetry
give me literary or give me wealth
of wisdom humour rhyme or reason
lyrically make me laugh or think
entertain elucidate or educate
for therein lies the missing link
I've had this spool of wire for nearly 20 years.
And I’m almost out of it.
Sure, people may look at it and be confused at my sadness.
They’ll ask why I’m so fixated on this spool of wire.
But, inside my head I just keep thinking to myself.
I’ve had this spool of wire for nearly 20 years, and now?
I’m almost out of it.
Sure its tightly wound, held together tightly by the forces that be,
The whole thing under tension unless I’m near people I trust to unravel it.
But I’ve- I’ve had it for almost 20 years.
Now I’m almost out of it.
And- I’m looking down at it, the same way I did 20 years ago and just-
It’s almost gone.
This wire,
This steel straight I’ve had for 20 years,
This.
Lifeline.
It’s almost gone.
Sure theres some rust on the underside,
Sure there’s cuts in places from when I got mad or upset-
But
It's almost gone.
And it’s stupid, I know it is,
But- I looked up to this spool,
This thing I always had.
I realized I had it in my mind that it would always be here.
Now its clear it won’t be one day.
And- I’ll need to get a new one,
With the knowledge it’ll also run out, 20 years from now.
A sharpie--clutched in an iron fist.
Backed by barbed wire justice.
And noose-tight legislation.
Masked police… across the nation.
Surveillance towers.
And military powers.
Voices stifled.
Bayoneted rifles.
Distrust.
Fear.
Both--far and near.
A Republic—shattered.
Her people--battered.
Liberty--locked and chained.
A Constitution--so profaned.
Justice…locked neath bureaucratic bars.
Political corruption--leaving scars.
Across the land I once defended--
My heart is broken.
And unmended.
The man was
handsome, intelligent,
and good in bed.
But he just
had nothing
to say.
And all of his days
were the same.
Monochromatic
introspection followed
by a sort of smothered
self-expression.
He never
felt like himself.
And he always felt
worried about what
other people thought
about him.
Who even was
he?
His routine?
His career?
His interests?
His beliefs?
Beliefs?
The man had
no beliefs, the
man didn’t need
to believe.
For if he started believing
in something, he may have
actually needed
to start existing.
And that idea
scared the
hell out of
him.
Barbed wire, it sure ain’t pink
Poor Barbie, she can’t think;
she’s a smart, sharp dresser
wire’s a sharp oppressor.
She stares with steely gaze;
wire’s steel, invokes delays.
Barbie is a girlfriend, true;
wire’s no friend of me or you.
The whole world is Barbie’s kin
barbed is there to fence us in.
Growing old, things loved and cherished come and go.
Phone calls- text messages thinning.
Tossed aside in a world of folly and thickening frost-
Growing old in a world that keeps getting colder.
Hard faces-hovering over graying steps.
Cobwebs in the corner of an empty nest.
Growing old, another funeral procession -one friend less.
Life becoming an endless blue eulogy-nothing more, nothing less.
Layers of experiences - wisdom making very little difference
Growing old, what am I to leave behind...
A fistful of photos- memories forgotten
A few half-assed poems
a small sack of dirty dimes.
Where does time go when it's tired?
Years lost to a breeze-like a willow in spring.
Hard times and regret chirp away at the mind
Like sparrows on a line-so little time.
Where did the time go,
I wish I could buy a little bit more.
To release this overdue dream from its chrysalis.
Place barbed words back in the voice box.
Pay the toll for goals unmet.
I need a bit more time for apologies.
To tether forgiveness to regret.
Where did the time go, growing old?
Walking a thin wire
way up high above
whichever way you lean
you just might fall in love.
At times there's nothing better
the feelings are so great
mistakes do sometimes happen
when love has turned to hate.
It's hard for some to figure
why everything did change
but love is an enigma
and sometimes even strange.
So get back on the wire
better balanced than before
another chance at falling
for a love that will endure!
I have a story to tell
Where survival and pain
Literally broke the veil.
It took years to see
The truth of my abuse
And the memories of my hurt
Has given me my muse.
I fell into men that craved control.
I knew one day I would get rest
For my weary soul.
Physical pain was a common norm
And my abusers have released my storm.
I take no orders.
My boundaries have no give.
I’m locked away tightly
Behind iron doors
Where I will shine brightly.
My wires are set.
The traps are laid out.
Anyone trying to enter
Will leave with a pout.
Tread with caution.
or trip a wire,
your gift will be an explosion of fire.
You will burn down to ash
with nothing to recover.
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