Behind the gawking throng

Behind the skirts and shirts

And pocket books

Behind the cameras, neckties

Behind the finger pointers

Behind the railing, fence

Behind the iron bars

Behind the safari hats

Behind the long whiskers

Behind the resigned eyes

There the wild thing dies

20200127 https://dversepoets.com/2020/01/27/quadrille-96-wild-monday/

And button or’s

Ok, let’s go…

I am cast adrift from myself
Like looking at something with
Crossing eyes. the way
The image doubles, splits and slides apart.
The dock line slips into dark water
There is no returning to this mooring


this moment is every other moment,
every hemming and hawing and indecision.
But it is not between what is right and wrong,
though it’s ok if you think that (for now),
its between real and illusion,
between chocolate geld and real gold coin,
between who i want to be and who i actually am.
Is this what She meant by ‘action’?



chicken soup

oh dear
my lord
it seems
i’ve burnt
the soup.
i’ll eat
it anyway

and ill choke on that chicken
because thats what i do
but its ok, that road
leads there too

if noone will break me open
i’ll find a way to do it myself
but not that excusy way i used to do
beating myseLf up, that didn’t cut me
loose, only let me continue on…

these tears too are torn
each one is for you, my lord

the only thing that keeps
me from falling, is that fear



sundown at 4:25.
burnt pecan pie.
leftover turkey,
no stuffing, no gravy.
snowed all day, didn’t stick .

we are fat and round,
on couch, in down,
hot cocoa and butterscotch schnapps,
sweat pants and fuzzy socks.
waving spirit in pine
branches and christmas lights


for the prompt at dVerse


When I came screaming into the world, like so many of us, from the shock of it all, and they cut the cord connecting me to her, and bundled me off to a plastic bin with the others, little did I know how far they would go, how complete that separation would be, nor that one time she saw me, peering out from that hair, pouring such love over me, would have to last for forty seven years.

When I was king, and the usurper came and stole my throne, the strange conclusion that I had failed again, that I wasn’t good enough, insufficient, leaked it’s way into every facet of my young life. That’s when friends faded, surely driven away by this erroneous worthlessness.

The old wound not yet fully healed

There’s more to be endured

Before gratitude is revealed