Paris Fling

Too de loo my work a day world!
Now to my dream quest
To share a “moveable feast”
Feel the cobblestones ‘neath my feet
Smell the delicious and the vile
Trip down Parisian aisles
Past markets of fish and flower
To sit with Hemingway and chat an hour.

Discuss the human condition
Blow smoke rings, quaff a Rheum St James
Poor Hadley, left at home again?
Wander on to Gertrude’s famed parlor
27 Rue de Fleurus
“A rose is a rose is a rose…”

Listen to the ex pats
Pablo, Ezra, Matisse
Kentucky weed in my brownie?
Thank you Alice B.
Close the book, open the door



“Whistling Gals”

I could see the quiver of distaste
At my bold behavior
All could have been forgiven
Had I been abject, bowed, submissive…
Assumed the position.

A pat on the head or the behind
A jovial remark
But to throw off the burka,
Stand upright
Spout some educated nonsense

Echos in my mind
My father always said
“Whistling gals and
Crowing hens
Always come to a
No good end”



Lost Tribes

I travel winding lanes dappled by sun and shadow
Lush green fields lambent in the evening glow.
And lingerings of past and present abound,
Of old Kantuck, the “dark and bloody ground”.

Where once Cherokee and Shawnee did gather,
Tribal brothers adorned in bead and feather,
Now a new tribe of lost souls roam,
Of pale skin tatted with cross and skull bone.

Old Kantuck still the “dark and bloody ground”,
A cornucopia of Nature’s beauty all around.
In the midst, tin can tepees scattered,
Where meth and oxy leave lives tattered.


SciFi/Fairy Tale

With the cool eye and hand of a surgeon
You excised my heart
And placed it on a cold stone slab
Sacrificed to a lustful egotistical moon.
Your cruelty beyond my comprehension.

My new heart will be stainless steel and titanium
With a steady beat, no excitation
The brain may silently scream
Synaptic backfires, heart unresponsive

Music will not thrill me
But pulse and heart rate constant
The soul a prisoner to safety
Protected in a hard shell
Till from SciFi to fairy tale
I believe again in humanity


At Home

He drinks his jack from a mason jar
Passes the weed with stained fingers.
The hillbilly nomad wanders to Walmart
In dirty jeans.
Wall eyed and out of focus
“I’m crazy” his mantra
“I’m crazy” he greets
“I’m crazy” the pearl in his oyster.
He quests for what he lost.
He seeks a Divine knowledge.
Now he questions: “I’m crazy?”
Until, a voice in his inner mind,
Says,”Go home.”
At home, his 42″ TV
At home, his check from Social Security
At home, a peace enfolds him.



Hound dog lolling in a bed of tulips red and yellow
He ain’t fit for nothing
He lays legs akimbo and every now and then
Waves them like a silent Hallelujah brother, thank you Jesus

His eyes are bleary and bloodshot
He has a lopsided rolling gait
Ain’t no creature more singularly lacking in grace
But that, hound, has a heavenly predilection for doing nothing