Nature I

blocks of green
visible through the window
the sky hints of an early summer storm


“this is not poetry” no. 1

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of a morning (I)

a gentle spring rain
opens my eyes and greets my ears
with whispers of things
yet to pass and
yet of those things past
intermingled in the soft drops
all dashed together on
the asphalt sidewalk

the west

living in the land where the sun sets,

drinking wine as plentiful as water,

there is no sadness here.

waking at first light,

lying still as dreams drift by,

here is the bed where the moon rests.

drinking at night

during the day if one imbibes
he must keep up appearances

at night he need not
trouble himself with social moors

his midnight company keeps apace
drink for drink

minds of a kind
sloshing around in drunken bands

who carries the torch?
that faithful bottle that keeps the peace?

fill up a glass
or drink from the source

we’re all friends
in the dark


Today I am the hanged man,

staring up at the floor as I crane my neck.

The discomfort is lodged in my bones

and I cannot sleep.

This prolonged insomnia leeches 

my peace of mind, and

words that speak only venom

drip from my lips.

6 word memoirs, backlogs

harlequin romances are 24 karat gold

life sticks you where it hurts

i cry for the beautiful things

a once upon a time love

smoking cigarettes will never be passe

the man left before it started

at the end, all things diminish

once a fool, twice a liar

the phone does not stop ringing