Silent, These Bouquets

When first we met, I thought you were so young,
hands smooth and eyes bright as shining star jewels.
And I’m sure no old poet’s words I sung
to you since back then I lacked any tools.
Dumbstruck, I could but only nod “Hello,”
or I could not express my true feeling,
in a heart that’d whisper, not bellow.
Even today I find my head reeling.
Voicing what my heart longed to say back when
ev’ry fiber of me still wants to shout.
Nowadays I take in hand this hack’s pen,
so on paper I try digging words out.
And still I sit silently hours and hours,
yearning to grow you poems like flowers.

My brilliant poet/teacher friend Bethany Pope encouraged me to try writing a double acrostic sonnet this morning. But I thought I should crawl before I ran. So I scribbled this single acrostic sonnet, a poem of fourteen lines in iambic pentameter (I think) with a rhyming scheme of abab cdcd efef gg. The tricky part is making the first letter of each one, read top to bottom, spell out something that relates to the theme of the poem. (Again, I guess.) So here’s my very first try, with an old message. 

You’re Welcome…Welcome…Welcome


I introduced you
to those who
gave meter to my
iambic shuffle.
Voices, then
names and faces,
who’d accompany you
on your journey
to nameless places
on trackless roads
to destinations
whose way you’d lost
when your heart
tripped over itself
again and again.

They so mirrored
your thoughts,
you’d use them
to smooth those
jagged days
whose dust they’d wash
from your cheeks
as you’d listen
at night and wonder
the why, why, whys.
Perhaps I was unwise
to share, since now
they no longer
belong to me…
never could to us.
I’ll be fine…
echoes follow me

A 100-word free-write I used as a warmup to today’s fiction work. These dreamy pieces seems to open up my storytelling sluices and maybe give a bit of running-water rhythm to my prose.

The Uncertain Certainty of Eternity


I stood before their stone
one afternoon, wondering
what comes next. Is death
the punctuation of life?
An exclamation point or
even an ellipsis. The wind
rose and strummed the trees
in a protracted C-major.
The birds chirped in layers
of tiny percussive iambs,
heartbeats that predate us
and likely will continue
long after we’re gone.

For a moment, I heard
a poet who writes on clouds
the wind carries away like
pages torn from a notebook.
Without a manuscript, Nature speaks
in verse without words,
something few understand
until we’re closer to
our own grand editing,
where all will be revealed
and we’ll spend our
final breath on an “ahhhh.”
And our poem will go on and on
for the uncertain certainty
of eternity…even if I won’t

A quickly dashed off poem of sorts based upon the quote from John Keats at the top of this posting. It’s this week’s prompt (the first in months) from my friend Sharyl Fuller.

One Hundred Beats A Minute free today for Kindle


A little holiday giveaway.

Today only, I’m making my latest collection, One Hundred Beats A Minute, free for Kindle on

I think you’ll like this latest book, even if you’re not a big fan of poetry. Sixty small portions of verse, each only one hundred words long. Yet each one will leave your soul feeling full and satisfied. Or, if you’re like me, you can binge on the whole volume over the holiday and not feel the least bit guilty afterward.

I’d appreciate it very much if you would leave a short opinion of what you think of the book on its Amazon page. Hope you enjoy it.

My Second Poetry Collection, “One Hundred Beats A Minute,” available on Amazon


Some of you may be wondering (or not) where the heck I’ve been for the past few months. Well, once again, lots (and lots) of Hesch-type life kept me away from you as a friend and a writer during that time. What I hope is the best of those things separating us was my working away on a new collection

So it’s with some excitement and a considerable jangle of nerves that I announce the publication of my second collection of poetry, One Hundred Beats A Minute: Sixty 100-Word Poems.

You can find it in paperback and Kindle versions on Amazon here:

In my first collection, Penumbra: The Space Between, I expressed my impressions on life and nature from the view of a man emerging from years of darkness into a brighter personal and artistic existence, standing astride middle age. Neither young nor old, still peering at things from the edge of shadow and light, the penumbra.

In this collection, I hope to convey impressions and imaginings of life, love, art, nature and what I see outside or inside the swirly-glassed windows of my soul. All sixty poems, the number of seconds in a minute, bound within the frame of one hundred words.

No wiggle room, exactly one hundred, or my obsessive mind gets all edgy. When I succeed, where obsession met compulsion and life met art, I squirmed in my seat, my knees and heels tended to flutter up and down from the floor and my heart beat like I’d just run a sprint of a hundred meters.

I hope the poems in One Hundred Beats A Minute give your heart and mind a rush here and there, too. Maybe even one that taps against your life’s window at, oh, say a hundred beats per minute.


T’is a cold-hearted addiction I have,
a laughable wild-goose chase
to trade this reclusive life of
the honey-tongued mimic, to attempt elbowing
my way into the company of the published.
But who am I kidding? I’m the uneducated go-between
of hot-blooded youth and cruel hearted
old age, without a hint about joining
the ranks of the bold-faced names,
the ones that are read trippingly
on the tongue there beneath the title,
perhaps earning their publishers’
money’s worth from what small advertising they
might grant them. But I a publisher will never

I am the noiseless one, eschewing
the foul-mouthed pageantry of the readings,
staying home and puking out more verse
on this new-fangled whirligig of a QWERTY
quill, stringing half-assed, well-behaved
ruminations dexterously down this alleged page
that really isn’t. How can I be disheartened
if I do not choose to champion myself out in the
infinite space, if I remain faint-hearted it is
but a foregone conclusion that the game is up?
I’m not some bloody Shakespeare, you know.

Poem #26 in my poem-a-day quest for NaPoWriMo 2015. This piece was in answer to a prompt to use a word coined by William Shakespeare as the basis of the poem. You know me, dear readers…in for a penny, in for a pound. There are at least 30 words or phrases reportedly coined by the Bard of Avon in this ponderous piece of ever-to-be-unpublished fappery–including the title. This would probably be a funnier bit of business if it wasn’t true. I haven’t submitted anything to a journal in almost a year. And you can’t win if you don’t play.

I Made It Just for You

I have all these goodbyes,
like Christmas and birthday presents
I never gave, because I never did.
I keep them in the dark corner
of my heart’s closet, where I can
ignore them because I have so much
more life tossed in there on the floor,
like old shoes, each bearing
the scuffs of miles and miles
and the dirt and dust
of all the roads I’ve walked,
run and U-turned to get here.

I never gave you these goodbyes
because I wasn’t around when you left me.
Or maybe I just stood there
when you did, but wasn’t present.
And isn’t that word ironic?
When I leave, which I shall
one way or another, I don’t
want either of us to end up
with the clutter of misspent,
misplaced memory taking up
the corners of your heart or mine.
Here’s your goodbye, my dear ones.
Go ahead, open it.
I made it just for you.

Penumbra: The Space Between, my debut collection, available on Amazon

Some of you may be wondering where the heck I’ve been for the past few months, particularly during September. Well, lots of things kept me away from you as a friend and a writer during that time. One of them was this:

It is with excitement and a smidgen of nerves that I announce publication of my first collection of poetry, Penumbra: The Space Between. The Kindle version of my debut effort is available on Amazon in Kindle and paperback.


You can find it on Amazon here:

I have so many of you to thank for encouraging me with my writing, and for poking me like a rented mule to put this out. I wouldn’t be the me you see here without you. And you know what? I’ve got a few more surprises up my sleeve for the next few months.

To the Poets

Celebration Poets

Some craft their offspring
like little mothers
birthing secret babies
in locked bedrooms,
through pain and tears.
Others have the cause
thrust upon them
in lonely moments
of quiet desperation
too much to hold, yet
too dangerous to speak,
to act upon.

Some push them
camel by camel through
the blinking needle’s eye.
While others shake them off
by the lakeful, tireless retrievers
splattering their bits
of Archimedean and
Homeric displacement.
They give life to words
and toss them
like christened doves
from their windows,
carried on some divine wind,
to souls needy
for such sustenance.

Thank you brave poets.

Upon the third anniversary of the dVerse Poets Pub community and website, we’ve been asked to write an ode to poets or a specific poet. I never learned what an ode is, by strictest definition. But I have a heart and a wavering way with words. On my lunchtime walk, this 100-word drabble came to me. Congratulations and gratitude to my colleagues at dVerse and to all the poets in that community held so dear.

Yes, I Know

Conversation - Renoir

The Conversation, by Pierre-Auguste Renoir

They tell me I mumble and can’t understand what I say.
Then they tell me to shut up because I’m too loud and don’t want to hear it.
Shhh. Don’t have to raise your voice. I understand.
See? You never say that. You always listen, always seem to care what I say no matter how soft or loud, high or low, loony or loving.
There’s a very good reason for that.
I know…
Sometimes you don’t even have to speak and I know what you’re saying.
Yeah, that’s such a sweet thing and I…well…you know.
Yes, I know.

I’m not really sure what you’d call this piece. Poem? Prose? Prose poem? Conversation piece? But it came fast and from the heart. Like a blurt of emotion, of feelings. Hope you understand the expression behind it. Just like the two people in this conversation do.