Monthly Archives: August 2012


remember December

when the colt runs
free through fields
of red clover

remember December

when the seaspirit
spreads irish moss
upon the shore

remember December

when sultry turns crisp
and rusts and yellows
play the foil to green

remember December

when the wind whipped your
hair and tears shattered against
the frozen shell of your heart.

Alone in the cold

Alone in the cold (Photo credit: Jenn Durfey)

Shawna snuck in some mid-week words,
this is for one of the lists.

Shared at IGWRT

and dVerse



Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts

Wasting Time

in the end,
both only wished
to be done
with the

free of each
other, guilt
and mock

proving again,

low expectations
are easily

Stood still, walk away.

Stood still, walk away. (Photo credit:

for three word wednesday


Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts


the young men laugh,
call him a dinosaur,
out of touch,
living in a different

he ignores them,
helps her with
her coat,
beams as she
takes his arm.

She admires the look
of his coat and tie,
and smiles a
‘thank you’
each time he
holds the door.








Written for Trifecta

photo credit: Ed Yourdon via photo pin cc


Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts

Decayed Decadence

Shawna’s words refused to conform to my sense of literalism, so I let them roam.

beautiful decadence

beautiful decadence (Photo credit: rromer)

contentment pours
from the goblet

scorned sweetness
left to pool
in her

laden, the captive
climbs chrysolite
to escape
his freedom

escorts fan
her with sheaves
of wheat,
feed her clusters
of raisins,
anoint her waist
with dead lotus
flower oil

her lover
spreads his shekels,
lets his blood
and washes the
mandrake in


Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts


embrace me
so that I
may find
in your

touch me
of times

hold me
banish my
of abuse









Rescue a pet.

Spay and neuter.

Written for Vice Versa at Poets United



Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts

Moving Day

“Operator, well let’s forget about this call
There’s no one there I really wanted to talk to. “
Jim Croce

I watch dusk take over the yard,
shadows grow where once her
rose bush had consumed the fence,
intertwining with the chain.

Inside, memories collect like dust
in the empty rooms.

Colored pencils rest in a coffee can
next to the easel. I can still trace
the lines where we used
them on the wall. Admonished,
more for using the good pencils
than for the wall.

A hand written recipe book,
pantry essentials listed on
the back cover, each page
a link to a meal, a holiday,
a laugh.

There is an empty place
on the mantelpiece. We
were forgiven for breaking
her mother’s vase, but it
was never replaced.

Full dark envelops the house
as I leave, returning it to the
realm of its ghosts.

Written for the Sunday Whirl, and goes well with The Mag prompt as well.


Filed under Poetry

The Circus

dVerse brings us the artwork or Borg de Nobel as inspiration today. All of the ones offered were fantastic (I could be back with another), but this one stood out to me, combined with some info from her bio. Be sure to check out more of her work at

Two parts of the Road as a whole
by Borg de Nobel
Used with permission

I hear it! It’s finally here!
I have been waiting for weeks.
Do you hear it, Billy?
It’s the circus train.

Oh, the train? It is like a car,
only much bigger and taller,
like a house on wheels,
with a chimney even, blown’ smoke.

dance children, the circus is in town
lions, tigers and, of course, the clowns
sights for all to see, come on down

Please come with me Billy,
I so want to go,
I promise to hold your hand,
tell you about everything.
The tight rope walkers and trappese
and all the animals. The elephants
are my favorites.

Elephants? Hmm. They are amazing!
They have four legs like the dog,
but they are huge! almost bigger
than the train. Their legs are round
and straight, like the tree in the yard, with great
big flat, round ears and instead
a nose they have a trunk…no, not like that,
it looks like a long stocking.
They make music with it like a trumpet.

dance children, the circus is in town
lions, tigers and, of course, the clowns
sights for all to see, come on down

Please come with me Billy,
it is simply marvelous! There will
be music and clowns… Them? Well,
they are just silly and there is usually
a lot of them dressed up in funny wigs,
that’s fake hair, and clothes and they
paint their faces and make everyone laugh.

And the smells, Billy. You will really like that.
Cotton candy and popcorn and ice cream.
It is a lot like carnival except with shows
instead of rides. Won’t you please come?
Yes, I will hold your hand, I promise. Yes,
I will tell you more about the birds
while we walk, every one we hear.

dance children, the circus is in town
lions, tigers and, of course, the clowns
sights for all to see, come on down


Filed under Poetry


There had been an implied promise
in that loaded down jeep, u-haul
on the hitch, Frampton on the 8-Track.

The promise of success in the bustle
of the world. The promise of family,
home and prosperity. The promise
of health and happiness.

Expectations high as youth disappears
in the mirror and the elocution of the tires
on the road melds with the rant of the guitar.

Third class missed in a week, too tired
to move, no ability to focus, no desire
for coarse lessons from pompous professors.

He liked her smile, her mysterious
attitude, the flirtatious promise of a
salacious fling. The spoon was a surprise,
but her look overcame his fear.

No more school that semester, failed.
Failed to show at work, failed to call family.
All he remembered later was the rancid
taste of the froth in his mouth when
he was found in an alley.

The expected admonishments did
not arrive with his father. He hugged
him quietly then loaded the car.

Silent, he peered out the passenger
window as his dad turned the car
homeward, like current through a diode
it was the only way to go,

towards a promise of peace and second
chances. He realized as he nodded off
that sometimes dreams take time to coagulate.

English: mihai, grecu, coagulate

English: mihai, grecu, coagulate (Photo credit: Wikipedia)


Kellie Elmore offers up a challenging word bank for her Free Write Friday.


Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts


Victoria is hosting at the dVerse pub tonight and has asked for a poem with character development. She suggested the ekphrastic route and this pic came to mind. Kind of shot from the hip a bit (yeah, I know, what’s new), this is mostly stream of consciousness with very little editing. From what I have been told, James was certainly a real character.

Also shared at IGWRT.


It is difficult, perhaps impossible,
to reconcile man to myth,
with a picture in hand
and years of stories
cluttering the mind.

Vibrant in black and white,
confident, looking the part
of a man’s man in his
pressed suit and cocked fedora.

Remove implanted memories
and you can romanticize the image.
Convert the knowledge of moonshine
sold out of the back of a Tennessee
BBQ joint to runnin’ it down backroads
in the trunk of the Hudson — ninety to
nothin’ escapin’ crooked cops.

Mean does not show up on polaroids.
Controlling and angry are hidden in
still life. There were no pictures of wife
and kids hiding in the apple orchard
waiting for the shots to stop and the
whiskey to wear off.

I only remember seeing him twice.
Once at a truck stop, Mom agreed
to meet him when he came through
town, would not tell him where we lived.
He gave me circus peanuts, showed
me where he slept in his rig.

The other time was a surprise. We went
to visit his mother, she told him we were
coming. Mom was pissed he was there,
but he did let us go to his house (forbidden
before), go through some things,
collect a couple of memories.

A relative called, said his part of the headstone
had been engraved. Mom acknowledged.
Was there remorse after his wife died
and his children refused to speak to him?
Is there regret at not knowing
your grandchildren?

I wonder at times if he ever cared.
Maybe a bottle by his deathbed
was company enough.

It is hard to tell the difference between
a grandfather and a ‘real son-of-a-bitch’
in an blurry old black and white.


Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts


So many misguided
souls of the fairer sex,
go into risky relationships
thinking to ‘change’ him.

Often though, the dangerous
types are that way for a reason,
a black heart may stay that way,
beyond repair or remorse.

Sometimes a bastard
is just a bastard.
Nevertheless, she will try
and find out the hard way.


Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts