ONLY

ONLY



only the lonely go to cemeteries with their guitars

searching for Hank's honky tonk blues

moaning about dead cold cold hearts

only if they knew his ghost was still alive



only the lonely drive around in empty Cadilacs

window shopping for lost dreams and whiskey

before breaking chains from cheatin hearts

only if they knew wild men have karma



only the lonely go to empty bars

waiting for strangers that dont care

hopelessly scheming for more heartbreaks

only if they knew everyone has the lovesick blues



only the lonely stroll down deserted back alleys

not trying to control the rowdy uncontrollables

pleased with the gorgeous scent of jambalaya

only if they knew half as much



only the lonely spend new years in jail

knowing losers can never lose again

angry because the will miss the super bowl

only if they knew their teams always lose



only the lonely go on stage with their band

playing sad songs dressed in smoke

happy to find more teardrops from the songs

only if they knew their lonelinesss is happy



only the lonely dance by themselves at 2AM

not caring they missed closing time

uneasy with their pretty Mickey Mantle eyes

only if they knew

SPEAKING IN TONGUES

looking at my hands after another morning with my chain saw out in our woodlot....cursing at the MO...squitos...somehow came up with this

SPEAKING IN TONGUES

after morning of bending and strains
smothering denunciations of pain
the ghosts of three dead poets listened
hearing the voices not believing
blinking to the braided trite realities
of some church of language
speaking in tongues
rolling their eyes
flailing their arms
with jagged lines of poetic justice

rejoicing in their emptiness

playing harmonicas with no hands
learning the secret of speaking
through abstract words of death
expressed in some jazz muse
rising and falling with all the church members
guided by the ability to tell the phonies from reality
and the paramedics waiting outside
with poet doctors laying on of hands
unable to speak in tongues
only a new presence of poetry

BASEBALL IS LIFE FOR A KID

6 word ..childhood memoirs

BASEBALL IS LIFE FOR A KID

it all happens within the baselines
where happiness is getting a hit
or fielding bad hop ground balls
making double plays with your mitt

when Spring starts Summer never ends
games never finish just rain delayed
so we keep playing without lights
baseball most important game we played

paper clips and baseball never change
suicide squeezes moments in our life
where the grass is always greener
win some lose some; sometimes strife

TIME

Writers Island prompt#17....Time Travel

TIME

travelled back last night in an old magazine

to a distant place where it was mine

beyond Fleetwood Mac and modern art

where my mind took me back with Time

Truman preached his New Deal

Sinatra was finding his voice

no gated communities or ponzi schemes

when democracy gave us a choice

walking back to the age of ten

my lost boxes and treasures

memories of the house that Ruth built

playing stick ball and other pleasures

rewinding to Joltin Joe 1948

when moving fast was still slow

and all the news came a week late

where have you gone Joe DiMaggio?

DALAI LAMA AT CITY LIGHTS

using some of the words from the wordle (in red)

DALAI LAMA AT CITY LIGHTS

a summer night in North Beach

where street cars dance to the beat

of jazz notes blown

sitting at a table at City Lights

with Kerouac and other misfits

drinking towards another stream of consciousness

baked on silk pie and pineapple wine

approaching silence with reckless abandon

reading dry salvages with blemished views

puzzled by his deep shadow of silence

confident moments of his nothingness

and relentless expression of beauty

wondering what brought him to this place

we listen to the poetry of his smile

in our rowdy silence

MOTHER OF THE AIR

WWP#15 inspired by above photo..by Sarah Regnier

MOTHER OF THE AIR

every morning at dawn she sits

staring at her radio

listening to Oxydol's own Ma perkins

and the rest of the characters on the shelf

lighting up her first Chesterfield of ther day

gagging herself to death

blackmailed through her smoking and gloom

trapped between her lost independance

and frenzied delerium

puzzled by the quietness in the empty kitchen

the howling kingdom on the shelves

and the endless persecution of the roosters

listening to another episode

before writing

her last poem of the air

FIRST SUPPER

FIRST SUPPER

in the silence of the high mountains of Oaxaca
where the valley gets deeper and higher
suspended in mid-air
sitting for our first supper with Jesus
at the agnostic church of holiness
twelve beat poets clearing their senses
surrounded by the forces of chaos
without technology entering our minds
only magic mushrooms
one bite at a time
seeing the light with delusions
singing hymns to St. Geryon
drinking wine with bread
eating mushroom soup
throwing out words in the quest for truth
and more poems

HAVING IT ALL

for BIG TENT POETRY....possessions


HAVING IT ALL

I put all my clothes in a garbage bag
gave my broken watch to the pawnshop
returned my stuffed animals to the carnival
spent my last dollar at the penny arcade
used all my air miles to travel the world
bus tickets to tour the city
sent all my red sox back to Boston
my white sox to Chicago
soiled pennants to yankee stadium
Sinatra albums to a disk jockey with no horse
Diana Ross albums back to soul city
forgotten memories to church of dictators
sent used hash back to the Taliban
burnt a stashed welfare cheque dated 1961
pushed my old VW van over a cliff
had a bonfire for my overdue mortgage
then sent the ashes to the homeless
the empty fridge back to the farmers market
recycled the stove at some conservative convention
tore up my unpaid credit card
after my souvenirs were stolen
and my broken memories faded away
I sit and listen to my voice
having it all when having nothing

AFRAID

WWP#14 afraid


AFRAID


sadness leaking through the windows
of the broken down limo
ladies sleeping in the top down cars
with lipstick-stained cheeks
strung out junkies fixing
the flat tires blown
dime store winos
singing in harmony with Blind Willie
the mentally ill
looking at the city through rear view mirrors
their lost chess games never played
burnt out pennies never gambled
afraid to be alone

UNPAINTED LADY

POW#14 Man Ray wordle

UNPAINTED LADY

like a musical instrument waiting to be played

she sits on an unfettered log

looking back to see her forbidden tattoos

and my frisson of excitement

with a silk tulle wrapped around her head

falling across unpainted lips and finger tips

beneath the rose covering her broken heart

wobbling around her lap like some unforgiving girdle

towards a white feathered promise

of untold virginity

I pick up my brush

FORBIDDEN TATOOS

FORBIDDEN TATOOS

WAILING BANSHEE

for Writers Island...prompt spellbound

WAILING BANSHEE

bound by the spell of the Sea of Milith
listening to the bardic songs of Shannon
with her wild harp stuttering
to the foam of the melancholy Atlantic
clasping her mournful soul
between her missing knees
screaming in her beckoning voice
from her tortured chamber of hell
spellbound
by the wailing banshee

POETS BIRTHDAY

a poem from OUTSIDE the ring...this is in stanza form ... with rhyming...not how I usually write

POETS BIRTHDAY

birthday north of july unable to forsake
reading poems of Corso behind the door
arming myself with eggs and steak
unable to scramble words from the floor

begonia dawn breaking through the window
lighting candles for all to see
unwrapping blankets to let go
with the souvenirs that might be

magic in my shoes keep dancin
in time with words I'm unsure
reciting the thoughts I can't begin
noisy silence a phantom overture

putty in the words to fill the hole
plastered for bards that sound the same
searching for a lost igloo behind my soul
a freezing heart a poets flame

TEXAS HOLD EM

WWP#13......variation of Red Ring Hood


TEXAS HOLD EM

sweating from a troubled brow
grandma deals
searching for his poker face
the wolf shows his teeth
what wonderful cards you have dealt me
I'm all in
the lady with the red hoody smiles
reaches for her pistol and shoots the wolf
grandma and the red hooded lady hi five

LA HABANA DE AMOR

POW#14 ...sprinkling of Spanish....inspired by Cuban Jose Marti

LA HABANA DE AMOR

I sit in Central Park

beside the apostle of Cuban independence

beneath the orange sky and crumbling cement

tangled up in vapours from the sea

cigar smoke and baseball

sipping one mojito after another

eating freshly baked bread

where the statue of Jose Marti

watches the city smile and suffer

cultivating his white roses

for the Santerian ladies

dressed in turquoise and yellow

with their voices in high heels

he watches forever

La Habana de amor