Purple Canvas High Tops



His purple canvas high tops enticed me
a striking accent to his black tie tuxedo

I thought: I’d like to get to know someone
who wears purple canvas high tops
with a tuxedo

when a tuxedo wasn’t even called for
it wasn’t a black tie event or
a purple high top event
it was an ordinary dance

and he asked me to dance
and there was that flutter
like the softest of snowflakes
that fall on your shoulders
and make you think of twirling into their midst

It’s so cliché to say we danced all night
it wouldn’t be true anyway
but it feels true, and that is what counts
there were years when the snowflakes ceased
and we tripped as if we had two left feet
but we always righted ourselves

the purple high tops are gone
recycled into a flower pot
or sent to a homeless shelter for that guy
who lost his marbles in the great recession
but our dance continues as it always will
amid the snowflakes and without them
in this world and the next


OctPoWriMo – Day 5. The prompt is relationships or the feeling one elicits. I’ve brightened up from my previous few days… at last!

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Main Street in a Small Rural Town


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I want to do magic. I want magic to be done to me.
I didn’t say perform magic, but do it, make it happen.
Real magic. I want to shout, abracadabra!
And have the whole world listen.

Walking down Main Street in a small rural town
It doesn’t matter where, the Midwest, the South,
The Center of this vast country, I overheard a man
Talking to another man.

Fuck them, he shouted, grabbing the other man’s elbow.
I’ll take them out, every last one of them, if they try to tell me
What I can and cannot do.
It doesn’t work that way, said the other man, gently pulling away.

You’re either with me or against me, the red-faced man roared
Through clenched teeth, the sinews at his neck bulging
Like rope so taut it begins to fray, to split, to rip
On the edge of bloodletting when the capillaries burst.

Chet, the gentle man says, I don’t believe it’s as bad as all that.
I don’t believe anyone is coming to get you or wants to take what is yours.
I don’t believe what I hear on television.
And Chet replies: At your peril you dumbass motherfucker.

Hearing this makes me want to believe in magic.
I want to utter “open sesame” and open the closed mind.
To snap my fingers and part the clouds
And watch the light rinse the dark of intolerance.

I want to do magic. I want magic to be done to me.


OctPoWriMo – Day 4…. The prompt is “magic.” Will I ever lighten up? Maybe. Tune in to find out!

Thanks for reading!   Poetry5



Etymology of Paranoia



Hatred and fear blind us. We no longer see each other. We only see the faces of monsters, and that gives us the courage to destroy each other.  – Thich Nhat Hanh


Illogic drains me. Delusion, the madness in it. Without reason or cause a conviction that horror lurks behind every door. Fear in the perception of color. Raised voices. Rational discourse? As ancient a term as the Socratic method. It has ceased to exist. Poisoned by hemlock. A riot of aggressive, regressive states. A desire to return to the relative ease of a decade long gone. Instead of a chicken in every pot, guns in every cupboard. Blinded by the mania. Control your constituents through fear.

is the folly of men
in his ignorance
he shot himself
in the foot

OctPoWriMo Day 3. The prompt was “drain.” What drains you? I’m on the same topic as yesterday. Working it out through a tanka prose piece. I’ll try to be a bit more uplifting as the days proceed.

Thanks for reading!



Guns in the Classroom



Standing tall in front of them in his combat boots
and camo pants

His clothes stiff, unwashed, stained with the sweat
of anxious days

A golden beam of sunlight glinted off gray metal
blinding them

Stand up he commanded, if you’re a Christian,
and they did

Believing they might be safe from harm, from death
from bullets

They fell, nine of them, not from strict adherence
to their faith

But from the cold hard steel of a mental illness,
endemic in the USA

An evil malady of easily, legally obtained vehicles of slaughter,
of guns

We content ourselves, this time, that no one said:
he seemed like such a nice guy.

OctoPoMo – Day 2. We were prompted to write a cinematic poem. You be the judge. How many times have we witnessed this scene on the screen? A reality horror show.


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Fat Pashas in the Clouds


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She tells me: your head’s in the clouds

I wish it were true

But I’m affixed to the earth.

I imagine I’m a fat pasha gliding

On my own cumulus

Rising incrementally higher into the cirrus.

I never want to land.

Not until the loose soil

That covers your face is swept away

And once more your lips move

To say my name.


OctPoWriMo Begins! 31 Poems in 31 Days… Will I be able to keep it up? Tune in. Join the challenge. Poetry is good for the soul…