Tuesday, August 26, 2014


                   Asylum Rhapsody

as he stands
in his room
of his inferno,
his mind spins inward.
stands with him
and wanders without sound,
bruising his eardrums
with deafening rhythms
of  solitude and suffering.

colors form
    upon his eyes,
dazzling with sensations
    in his heart.
moving patterns
race around
    the wilderness
of his head,
     confused recollections
from their trenches.
away they fly
scampering in the cloud
twisting through
the wrought-iron bars,
caressing the fragments
from the convulsive arrangement
        that protect him.
so when
        the crazy spindles break
he unfastens rage
from his paint,
but it sticks on
         with free will,
dancing in the confusion
and frolicking
on the fatalities
of his synaptic battles.

so he goes back to the window alone
       and paints
the starry night.

               this is realistic version (digital) of Van Gogh's "Starry Night"

Friday, April 11, 2014



they lift bats
pound their gloves
chew gum
wipe sweat off their foreheads
proud in their uniforms
overwhelming like ballerinas

they smile and fist pump
when scoring a run or making a play
shake their heads with a wrong call
Barnstorming Boys of summer
moving from town to town
sliding with the hot summer sun

the joy that came across their faces
when slamming the ball
over the fence
the grace how they catch the ball
run the bases
with dirty uniforms

I came early to love baseball
even as a ten year old
I knew how to swing a bat
catch and throw the ball
somehow learning by watching
Satchel and his Barnstorming boys of summer

Sunday, March 23, 2014


                                                           photo by Tracey Emin

I laid under my bed for a week
making jazz and poetry

Sunday, March 9, 2014

ROOM 1403


                                                photo Lee Plaza Hotel.by Bonnie Bleeccher

                 ROOM 1403

in that drunken room
where the pulled down curtains
would hide his gloom
as the flamingos danced

drinking with loneliness
where his psyche was senseless
and the whiskey made him wise
he sang with the angels

he always sat in his big chair
getting ready for the next one
always surprised with the laughter
from he room next door

he never turned on the TV
so he stared at the light bulb
remembering his younger days
with no concept of failure

he never spoke
as he talked with his poems
forgetting his assured success
would never make him rich

he had such great fun in that room
dancing with the flamingos
singing with the angels
staring  at the light bulb

and writing that last poem

Monday, November 11, 2013


her soul trembling and forlorn
surrounded by cracked walls
and salsa rhythms
she sees his shadow

driven by broken hearts
encircled by gnarled beats
and a lost lover
she feels his shadow

her soul tremulous and stiff
enclosed by a rusty past
and memories lost
they dance

photo by Edgar Degas

Sunday, September 8, 2013


                                                                       PRAIRIE TRAIN

The white train comes from a dark tunnel
of rocky mountains with its covering of snow.
The white train looks as though it has just escaped
from the jaws of darkness.  The white train steams
from the mountains into the flat
prairie, yielding the fresh seeds around it.

The horizon is exalted.  Ancient plains.
Whole sections never to have been farmed.
Over there the strong arms of farmers who
stand in little groups.  You cannot see
warriors or lost faces. Cattlemen at a distance.
On their way to a roundup maybe.

In the dining car, behind the hardwood door...
breakfast cereal and berries, cold juice
and a smile.  Already this morning
the chef has prepared breakfast for twelve
while tracking the prairies;  the formal
waiter never spills a drop only smiles.

A clean white napkin sits on the table
like a small mountain ready to fall.  Suddenly
the train brakes and stops.  The boy and waiter
peer through the window with wonderment
as they see the farmers with silver scythes
ordering them off the train, into the prairie.

Wednesday, September 4, 2013



with the shell of memories inwardly held
she once was approachable
ever captivating like frozen rain
her problem is what will come next
being alone is not easy

her soul has hardened
now petrified of other people
even those who love her
so she escapes from them
being alone is not easy

she likes nothing more than a sip of tea
so she can forget the dizzy race
and search for the stars in the sky
instead of watching old movies
being alone is not easy

buried deep beneath her brooding soul
remembering her life as a tale of misfortunes
and finding solace in self pity
she sees herself as a victim
being alone is not easy

thinking it best not to deal with details
she has difficulty with simple things
paralyzed by her will not to change
she feels good to be sad
being alone