Monday, December 31, 2012


              WHISKEY and CIGARETTES
somewhere at a rusty table
a poet sits,
shaking her hands at what she sees.
a bottle of cheap whisky is open,
with ashes on her lap
listening to gypsy jazz.
it has got cold inside
so she lights up another.
a turtle moves slowly
towards the heat.  Tomorrow
she will write all day, and then
go dancing, but tonite
she translates bad poetry
and it  makes her cry.
the ashes notice and smoulder.
the turtle doesn't care.
she pours herself more whiskey
and thinks of the mountains
where coyotes come down at night
to gobble the turtles.
she doesn't hear sounds of help
so ignores them.  she flings
the bottle at the floor,
turns  the jukebox up, closes
her eyes and lights up another.

Wednesday, December 12, 2012


I sit here in my studio
the room of my life
sitting in complete blindness
with blank verse and forgotten words
where dust clings to yesterday

unable to give up my innocent past
or the dreams wearing new costumes
suffering with eyeballs that never open
like wall sockets without power
beating  to the beats of my soul

compelled to listen to yesterday forgotten
where nothing is what it seemed to be
offering windows of light and laughter
without conversations with my thoughts
never fearing death only endless nights

exhausted with the exertion of a poet
where words sit alone in prison
tumbling towards an empty page
I remain invisible to the world
opening the gates to another poem

Sunday, December 2, 2012


her eye cannot see the color of sound
or the times lost and found
can she see the face of the hawk
echoing the ticking of the clock

can she see the words behind the time
spoken incantations that never rhyme
spinning sounds ear to ear
can she see things only the poet can hear

can she see  the dark sky becoming blue
or write blank verse for you
can she see the smells always hidden
or poems to be forbidden

because everything is in the mind's eye
where unseen memories hide

her eye closes behind the scenes
look closely my friend