Day 2 NaPoWriMo
a decayed twig clutters
the running creek ripples
cedar branches stumble
Monday, April 2, 2018
Tuesday, August 26, 2014
ASYLUM RHAPSODY
Asylum Rhapsody
as he stands
in his room
of his inferno,
his mind spins inward.
depression
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,
liberating
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
BARNSTORMING
BARNSTORMING
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
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
HAVANA DANCE
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
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