This, These, This

In the dark, ceiling-staring
into the nightly abyss,
I became not-alone.
Twilight dreams before sleep
projected a life of never be,
but would never leave
in the soft dawnlight glow
behind my hooded eyes.

I lie there thinking of
the living, the dead
and the one beneath
those covers who was neither.
With one more sigh,
t’was then I saw them,
short strings of expression
rising from my body,
five knots in the first,
seven on the next.

They repeated over and over,
a rope ladder I climbed
past soft women,
and hard worlds,
elevating my spirit
and body to a near-waking
breath and breath
exhalations of unrhyming song.

The blood-rush in my ears,
wave upon wave, sounded like
“Wish, which, wish,.”
To which I replied,
“This, these, this.”

My young friend, the terrifically talented Anthony Desmond, makes his official debut as a member of the dVerse Pots Pub crew the afternoon of March 4. He is asking poets to write a poem that is influenced by certain times in our lives that made us the poets we are today. I originally wrote something mopey and dark, but decided to toss it this morning. (I’m a foolish artist, aren’t I?) This piece came to me, like the time my first “real” poem, Night Writer, did. In fact, it practically is the story of Night Writer. Welcome aboard, Anthony. Hope I did right by you.

I Been There


I been to South Bend and North Troy,
Boston and Houston, too.
I been in a city where I found a street
by that name, only they pronounce it House-ton.

But it was never home,
‘cause, you know…

I been to London—the little one in England, New,
and the famous one in England, Olde.
I been lost in the Sierras and Adirondacks,
Montreal and Jersey, too.

But they was never home,
‘cause, you know…

And I been in your head and you in mine,
peeked through the windows of our souls,
bounced upon each other’s hearts
like beds in the lonely dark.

And I thought they was gonna be home,
‘cause, you know…

A rambling lunchtime piece about a rambling (and lost , from the looks of it) poet guy. poet and guy.

Enraptured ~ A Story


lace_black_02 (Photo credit: queenBlingerie)

“While I’m in the shower,” Elise said over her shoulder to Glenn, her date this hot July night, “would you be a love and pick out a set of undies from the fridge for me…whatever strikes your fancy.”

As he pulled a sandwich bag – a sandwich bag! – full of black lace from the vegetable crisper, the open refrigerator  couldn’t cool the burning on Glenn’s face, nor the burning question others asked of whether he’d bitten off more than he chew in asking out Elise.

He couldn’t think of anything but Elise since she came to the firm’s Cincinnatti office from Columbus, a law school buddy of Glenn’s supervisor, and how he finally got up the courage to ask this edgy, cerebral beauty out.

Over the sound of the shower, feeling the chilled bra strap between his warm fingers and along a gelid lightning bolt from his right shoulder to his navel, Glenn heard Elise sweetly call, “Just leave them on the bed or dresser, Glenn…I promise not to keep you waiting long.”

Glenn was about to place the underwear on the long dark dresser when he noticed two gold bands and a diamond ring sitting in a blue dish; he blinked, stared at his reflection in the mirror, then shrugged at the familiar-looking guy goofily grinning there, and sat softly on the bed.

A flash of Five Sentence Fiction today, based on the word Enrapture from Lillie McFerrin.

Popping the Question

Candle Glow 149/365

Candle Glow 149/365 (Photo credit: gravity_grave)

“So what are we celebrating here in THE most expensive restaurant in the tri-county area,” Miranda asked Jack, who slid her Cosmo just a little closer to her hand, there on the other side of the table’s pulsing candle light.

“Why do we need a reason, isn’t just going together for, what, ten months, enough?” Jack said, and took two very large gulps of his double Maker’s Mark on the rocks and shifted his eyes everywhere but upon Miranda’s.

Jack took a finishing swig of his tumbler of bourbon, held it aloft and shook it for the waitress’ benefit, showing her his ice cubes were in need of more than this remaining dilute tawny dribble of Kentucky oak dance floor.

Miranda shivered with a chill yet felt her face burn with a fear and excitement she was about to hear she might be losing her intelligent, funny, sexy, “beautiful man” — a doctor no less — or perhaps that he was going to ask her something just the opposite.

Jack took yet another big pull on his new drink, then took Miranda’s warm hand into his moist, ice-chilled fingers, gazed decisively into her eyes and said, “Sweetie, I’ve been thinking about this for months and months and then you came into my life and I knew you were different and, well … how would feel about having a lifelong partner, someone who loved you more than anyone in the world..someone named Jacqueline?”

Celebrating the two-year anniversary of Lillie McFerrin’s Five Sentence Fiction prompts, with this week’s perfect prompt…Celebration.

No Soft Place

In the Wet Mountain Valley.

You don’t often find
any soft place to land
when you fall from the top
of Mt. Grace. The ragged rocks
and jagged fingers,
evergreen, are ever keen
to slow your descent
for the price of a pint or so,
a pound if you wish, of you.

And so we chicane our way
in the embrace of gravity,
not some angel also fallen,
a temptress who enjoys company
on her wingless flight.
Her hug irrefutable,
sure as sin.

And sin, surely just a wrong turn
on your upward path,
was that faulty first step
into your final fall from
Grace’s cloud-shrouded peak.
But how else could you peek
at this view of colorfully
autumnal reality? May it be worth
your toe-stubbing trip.

The Murder

English: Crows in flight This field is close t...

English: Crows in flight This field is close to the junction of Nottingham Road and Loughborough Road in Leicestershire. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Black pen-nib crows write sure,
harsh and profane above me, all
flourishes, loops and T-crossing,
shouting outbursts of joy
in their own creativity. And I stand
here watching them, feeling guilty
that I’m not flying across some page,
envious of that abandon and their
bumptious “F-you” to those of us cursed
with too much of our own gravity.

Groundbound, I drop my spirit
and my eyes, and fold back my wings.

Now I sit here and curse you all,
crows and men, envious I’ve yet
to test my wings in the open sky,
feeling guilty for listening to
your caws for your own cause.
I stand and give a little jump, write
my little “F-you” to all those flyers,
real and imagined, and curse this
murderous might-be fear and
my own already accursed gravity.

Ain’t a Hoss Can’t Be Rode

"A bad hoss" by Charles Marion Russe...

“A bad hoss” by Charles Marion Russell. Lithograph. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The rejection doesn’t slip through the mail slot
with a clanking brass slap on your cheek anymore.
It doesn’t get attached with white athletic tape
to the locker room door. You hope it isn’t delivered
with feminine giggles and the chih-chih-ing away
of saddle shoes on tile, once more leaving you standing
empty-hearted. The sting still explodes through you,
but digitized and sterile, without a human claim
of ownership found in a flourish of pen and ink.

The “rub some dirt on it” ol’ boy within you
cups his hands like a stirrup and nods for you
to step back up on that hoss what throw’d ya.
The chubby kid whose name didn’t show up
on that Varsity list suggests you join him
in pouting and spouting crack-voiced woes and “whys.”
The collector of broken dreams wants to build a wall
with them, hiding safe from more disappointment
tossed across the ether by electronic trebuchet.

But you’re now the gray-haired guy with pencil
behind his ear and notebook in his lap
who just catalogs those feelings, the images
and imaginings of the unseen senders, and
the fantasy failure that you’re not. You’ll use them
in some future foray, when you’ll pull the trigger
on one more chance to last eight seconds,
to make the cut, to kiss that girl and she kisses back.
Because you’re funny that way, writer dude.

This week, my friend Kellie Elmore had another interesting Free Write Friday prompt. She called it Writing Wrongs, where we’re supposed to vent about when we’ve felt wronged or treated unfairly, either by way of a situation or another person. I sat down and this happened.

#FWF logo