A Simple Wish

I wish my hand could replace your’s in mine

I wish that it was I that made you blush

And if I could wish a wish more pure, more true

I wish it was I who lit that spark that dances in your eye

But your eyes always seem to seek the floor

Or the ceiling and then the wall

Where my heart lies waiting for you—

I wish it was I who was mending you… mending me

Red and blue

Red and blue, red and blue?
Who shot the elephant in the room
A braying ass
Holds no more class
Than a motley crew

Red and blue, red and blue
We tired and shrewd
This purple bruise
Blocks only one eye
A blackened sky
For you, red and blue

Red and blue, red and blue
Who shot the elephant in the room?
Red and blue and yellow, too
If primaries brew
A coward stew

Red and blue, red and blue
Who shot the elephant in the room?

NaMoDraMo: Drabble 1

“Dat’s day mahsh out dere bebe,” Old Nanette said from her rocking chair, a bowl of snap peas in her lap. She pointed southwest towards the dying day.

I swallowed. I’d come this far, only to be thwarted by darkness.

“You should wait til tomorrow,” Jimbo said. He was leaned up against a porch post, picking at the chipped paint. “Nigel will be here with the dogs.”

Old Nanette rocked and snapped the ends off. She gave me a handful to work on.
“Ya betta have ya pointa finga on dat trigga enough plenti of da black powda fa ya gun.”

Jimbo coughed. “It’s daylight, ain’t nothing going to happen.”

“Bebe, no sunshine gonna save yas from dat. De devil does his best work in broad daylight, cause he wan the world world ta see.”

Freewrite: Hail Mary

The clock struck midnight as Father Vasile wiped Her blood from his chin. He knelt in front of the ikon and prayed for forgiveness before he stumbled back to his musty chamber.

She lay as one in sleep,  raven hair like a satin sheet beneath Her on the altar. In Her hand She clutched a staff of gold. Beside Her, red rivers flowed like wine at a sacred feast.

The clock struck one and She rose.

In his chambers Father Vasile snored.

To Apollo

Fair Apollo, may I borrow your golden lyre
So I might strum a heavenly chord full of fire
Else, let me pluck a laurel from your grove
Towards greatness, ever I strove

But alas my fingers are not nimble and quick
My wire sung words sting and stick
O Apollo were I as fair as the tree
Perhaps with second sight I could see

Fair Apollo lend me a voice as sweet and rich
A harpy in church, I rasp and –bitch
I’ll drown in myself if I not throw it out soon
I’m hopelessly blocked
And Half cocked at noon

Fair Apollo, may I borrow your golden lyre
So I might strum a heavenly chord full of fire
Else, take me under your bright wing
With your guidance, let this Philomel sing

I’ll Cast My Net No More

RIP to Gene Wilder, here’s an older poem


Pull up the anchor one last time
Then thrust my oar into the foamy brine
Often have I churned
with arms that burned
My home became a darkened speck
Resting upon the horizon's deck
I'll cast my net no more
For the far away shore
And I'll no longer dwell
Within Poseidon's swell
My calluses I've earned
For Siren's graces I've yearned
My eyes still watered and burned
The oars quicken as I churned
But I'll no longer cast my nets
To fill with inky regrets
I bid farewell to my family first
A salty sea to quench my thirst
Life's adventures have passed me by
Now in my funerary vessel I lie
And I'll cast my net no more
For the far away shore