Monthly Archives: June 2013


Harvest your fields
and store up your grain,
there are storms coming
to ravage this land.

Burn your fires low — with
little smoke — hide your serenity,
there are storms coming
to lay low these woods.

Bring your boats into port,
secure fast the rigging,
there are storms coming
to terrorize these shores.

Lock away your children,
stay off of the streets,
there are storms coming
to decimate your town.

There are storms coming
for which we are ill prepared.


for the image prompt at The Mag

a musin yohan



Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts


late for dinners
late for dates
late for dances
late for races

they know I am busy

later there will be time to fish
later I will talk life with my daughter
later I will call my parents
later I will buy her flowers

she understands I am busy

regrets fill unused bedrooms
regrets fill tombstone shadows
regrets linger in the wake of her leaving
regrets do not expire, or wait for later

loneliness often awaits the busy


for the dVerse Pub anaphora prompt
yeah, way too much going on right now…


Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts

Wasted Breath

I have reached a point where
I no longer wish to
the garbage of life
to gain traction.
I do not feel obligated
to please
or bow to your idea
of how the world
should be.
I have passed the point
where it is imperative
to wade through the
to reach a moment
of contentment
or satisfaction.
The effort is never
worth the reward,
and you never listen


for Three Word Wednesday
anyone have a happy pill?
I seem to be fresh out.

Shared  at the dVerse pub


Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts

one little lie

It often takes a complex ruse
to cover up the mess of one
little lie…

The covered tracks along
the forest edge of my mind
conceal answers to questions
the class never thought to ask…

Towards the end she was still
and pale, asking for him more
often than me. It seems many
a ruse had been seen through…

I put gas and match
to the files, leaving her
to him, him to her,
with no trace of me…


A late entry for the Sunday Whirl
shared at the dVerse Pub


Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts

When Profitable Endeavors are Undertaken With Non-Monetary Intentions

I have done stupider things
for smarter reasons — never
was know for having any sense —
but this might shatter anything
previously on the crazy list.

I slept in the cave last night,
awake with first light and the
chattering of the squirrels
and morning bird song.
it is amazing how such a pleasant
sound can so thoroughly shatter
a perfectly good dream.

The load of firewood was cut
yesterday, the split pieces
piled and ready for the fire.
it did not take long for the
kettle to get to full bubble,
add in the mashed corn,
husk and all — is it one scoop
of yeast or two? — and let
the magic begin.

The woods are thick around
here, and a long way from…
well, pretty much anything,
not much chance of an ATF
agent stumbling upon this still.
The danger was in the transportation,
they regularly set up roadblocks,
untaxed liquor is illegal.

I am not in it for the money though,
my motivation is more basic,
pure: you see, drinking moonshine
always makes her giggle, and to witness
such a thing is worth any risk.

for the Sunday Whirl Wordle 

shared at dVerse


Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts

Arguing in the Dark

be held in the dark.
With the light out you must
judge the other’s emotions
by touch and the pace of their breath.
One becomes less concerned with conquest
trying to sense smiles or tears in the dark.


for the Trifecta Writing Challenge
use the word ‘light in 33-333 words,
third definition of course. 
The form is an Etheree.

Shared at Poets United


Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts

The Sins of Mississippi

“…visiting the iniquity of the fathers on the children and the children’s children, to the third and the fourth generation.”
Exodus 34:7


My ancestors settled in southern Mississippi,
mostly farmers, a few mill workers, land
owners, but poor. In the records I have reviewed
I found no record of any of them claiming
another man as chattel. I am not descended
from slave owners.

My parents were seniors the year their high
school was desegregated, separated from
friends and told who they would associate with,
given no more choice than the black kids who
were bussed in to a school far from home,
and told to integrate with kids they did not know.

My Grandmother was in the first class
of female police officers in Jackson.
I only remember her last years on the force,
when she worked Battlefield Park, looking
out for the “little nigger children” on the playground
and rousting bums from the benches. There
was a man, Robert, who did odd jobs for her.
He and his family were “good colored folk”.

1973, south of Hattiesburg on I59, three small kids
in the backseat, my Mom and aunt in the front,
three young black men on motorcycles pulled
alongside, one of them kept motioning to the car
and then pointing to the side of the road. My aunt.
scared, screamed NO, then ignored them until
they moved on. A few miles later we stopped
for gas and discovered the left rear tire was flat.

The sins of Mississippi have stained my family,
to the extent that I cannot now voice criticism
of a black man without being judged by the color
of my skin rather than the content of my character.
I hope I am the fourth generation, and these sins
will not be carried on to my son. My skin is white,
except for the charred scars from where I have
been branded a racist.


Filed under Poetry


Turning pages in the park,
a bench upon to rest,
a breeze to spill leaves.

Thunder spews from the heavens,
shimmering sheets of rain
obscure the horizon.

Camping on the curb
at midnight, watching
the jets come and go.

An afternoon on the front porch
steps, stories grow as long
as the shadows on the yard.

There is no place I have found
where there is no memory of you.



for the Sunday Whirl
I could not make ‘status’ fit.


Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts

Behind Painted Doors

She locks her
with a pretty lock,
paints it in
pastels and artistic
ensuring no one
will guess
what is locked











for the image prompt at The Mag


Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts

Over Active Corpus Callosum

There are days it almost
seems normal
when words appear
in stanza and verse
where numbers ruled
mere moments before.

Left brain for a living,
the right for a life.

The question becomes
a matter of when to exert
control — locking them
away where they can
do no harm or disturb
the cultivated order —
and when to release
them and the havoc
they may reap.

Left brain for a living,
the right for a life,
there are days it almost
seems normal.



today dVerse asks for a ‘twin’ poem,
and Adele Kenny asks us to ask questions.


Filed under Poetry, Poetry - Prompts