Soggy gray skies
Been hanging 'round this week
Puddle-jumpin’s gettin’ old
My mind’s gettin’ kinda moldy
It’s like a bad case of headcheese
I'm talkin’ about baby

Lately the day's grind
Winds
On into the night
Nothin’ feels right
There's nothing but bad news
And I still haven't got used
To you gone

So I think I'll just sit here
And hum me a new tune
Somethin’ blue and lazy
I know you think I'm crazy
But I don't care

(Roundelay)

with all the

cunning attraction

of freshly fallen snow

accumulated

in a barren field

how deliciously tempting

to caress

the virgin surface

forging

a personal trail of tracks

She found an addiction

for the sharp

quick touch

of puncture kisses

on a bed

of soft smooth skin

with all

the cunning attraction

of freshly fallen snow

accumulated

in a barren field

how deliciously tempting

to caress

Beneath the surface hides
a host of pain and pure
Exhaustion that's relentless.
A skin that's sensitive
to the touch, or a multitude
of phantom driving
Unendurable itching
and burning sensations.

My poetry is like a fine mist
The verses caress like a tender kiss
But when I drop ink with a twist of my wrist
I spit mad bars because I get pissed

Here’s the gist of it
I slip the quip in there
It’s whatever comes up to the surface whenever the spirit moves me
If there’s a lisp in it
It’s my speech impediment
I breathe fire because aside from the ire writing also behooves me

(on a rainy May thirteenth
two thousand and twenty five)
as a balm against ennui
becoming engrossed, immersed,
and lost in space of orrery
regarding the universe created courtesy
Nora Roberts well crafted novel Montana Sky
perusing said realistic fiction
as if inebriated
with one hundred proof liquor
experiencing drunken stupor
merely from evocatively written story
and subsequently
envying such craftsmanship
incorporating her gushing wellspring
plentifully populated

The tides still reach though hands grow thin,
Oars lie quiet where once they'd been.
From spade to sail, from heart to shore,
A song remains, but boats no more.

Beneath the hearth where old tongues weave,
A tale is born in ember’s sleeve.
The voices rise, the echoes call,
In fireside lore and shadowed hall.

A bard’s bright words, a poet’s strain,
Still whisper through the lashing rain.
Let not their song fade, nor their rhyme-
For stories guard the soul of time.

My poet friends, I’m ailing.
some sickness, stern and silent
has found me, and I’m failing
to still this storm so violent
in my soul.

My goddesses – the Muses.
(I’d met while waves were weeping)
My rhymes, if one peruses,
will shout: “these girls are sleeping
in your soul!”

My life’s a solemn sonnet,
a desert bleak and barren.
No flower grows upon it,
no royal rose of Sharon
like of old.

The rider rides
With rage and passion in his heart
Over golden hills and across the plains
Across the great breath of land
Through realms and domains
Ready
     To capture the sun

His untamed spirit and will
Has no time for menial things
There is a flame to catch and a force wield
As he gallops into the distance
Willing to conquer the day
Ready
     To seize the sun

The finality of yesterday
began early yesterday morning.
The serenity and peace I feel today
is based on
the consecration of Shaya's tombstone.
It seemed like a long time to me,
but now that it has happened,
it happened at the right time,
and in the right way.

It's May

Marigolds pop up
to swing and sway and
hopefully
stay.

Then,
they may,
oh how I wish,
that they'd pop up
again,

Mayhap
next May?