Wednesday, February 24, 2010




believing to be washed away
to some unknown place
not knowing if my robes
will be clean or dry
believing there will be poets
in their solitude
not knowing if there will be angels
that make me cry

believing to have insight
into some sacred mind
not knowing if the journey
will be covered in gold
believing it will be a pure land
of sober drunks
not knowing their language
of stories never told

believing the air will be pierced
with beauty and jazz
not knowing if the notes
will be felt or heard
believing Satchmo will blow his horn
along Bourbon towards Boogie street
not knowing if it will be birdland
or the land of absurd

Sunday, February 21, 2010


(using one of the words from this is a draft


looking through the eyes
of yesterdays perceptions
beyond forgotten places
there was a sea of red
above some flooding torrent
of endless tomorows

in this disenchanted place
I once knew as home
now tarnished like a bronze arrow
after centuries of rusting salt
my head keeps sailing
towards some crackling winter storm

tomorrow I will awake
before the ancient dawn
touching the universe with my fingertips
standing still watching the stars
gathering silence with simplicity
listening to the distant dolphins at home

Thursday, February 11, 2010




Welcome to our sauna
the home of many bums
there is plenty of room
to sit around naked
sweating in silence
discussing the facts of nothing
forgetting the lost days never found
and the dark nights of nowhere
without headaches or snapped minds
reading Huxley, Kerouac and Marx
watching the medieval tombstones
floating down the silvering creek
towards a tidal wave of water
where nuns and monks dance
and tiny fish swim
in a torquoise sea of light
where no one has invented ownership
or discovered hate
we sit silent with our breath
disolved in our space
sweating it out.

Thursday, February 4, 2010


RWP#112....prompt..something inspired by bedroom as a kid.


It was a sanctuary

the walls were special

plastered with baseball cards

the whiz kids playing pepper

a catcher in the grass

the splendid splinter swinging his bat

where the real world was a diamond

my room of dreams

lying on my bed every night

staring, dreaming

at the bums of Flatbush roosting

Newk, Duke, Campy

Jackie dancing some jitterbug number

before stealing second base

always the centre of the diamond

my wall of dreams

with the moon sliding through the shades

staring at those cards

I became that gangling black kid from Mobile

Hank hammerin another out of the park

Willie making another basket catch

a kid from Spavinaw called Mick

doing it all

in my room of dreams

unable to pull up the covers or sleep

summer always in my bones

playing suburban stickball

where the season is forever

travelling with suitcase Simpson and Satchel

I became Minnie Minoso

and all those cards on the wall

my world of dreams.