dream-vision pd

somewhere                                                                                                                                                between                                                                                                                                                     Bermuda triangles tangles comets and                                                                                               satellite celluloid  there exists                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            a  black  hole                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     and some person  who is                                                                                                                              a near likeness to you                                                                                                                           sits on a shore where time                                                                                                                         moves in different increments

No one is ever late

or early

or even ‘punctual’


They need                                                                                                                                                       no elections no protections, no laws  no cause

they never                                                                                                                                                     EVER                                                                                                                                                                 say things like ‘tomorrow’ or

‘maybe’ or  ‘someday’

They just are.





dreams pd 3


This post is in response to the Daily Prompt  Maybe

Rhetorics and Politics



Alice court pd

That’s a bit out of your depth, don’t you think? 

Ever hear that voice? The one that says  Oh  no.  Not you.                                                                      Not good enough not smart enough                                                                                                      who the hell                                                                                                                                                    do you think you are                                                                                                                                  that YOU                                                                                      

 should be allowed to do THAT


They will tell you all kinds of things. Philosophy, theosophy                                                       Nietzsche and Sartre                                                                                                                                    Kant and Descartes.                                                                                                                                   Rousseau and Plato.                                                                                                                                   constitution institution politics and rhetorics

But in the end

They are nothing

but a pack of cards.


alice cards 2 pd


This post is in response to the Daily Prompt Depth


In America We Love to Drive


highway pd

In America we love to drive                                                                                                               highway wide                                                                                                                                             gas be damned as we slam                                                                                                                         pedal to  metal. We speed                                                                                                                       smile sweet                                                                                                                                                 when they ask



We dream

of Autobahn, pay blood                                                                                                                               for oil, trade illusion on flat                                                                                                                     land                                                                                                                                                               angels swinging  from a chopper.                                                                                                      Hog the road

to stay alive

in America we love to  drive

rider pd


This poem was inspired by the Daily Post Drive

Friend, Foe, or Otherwise?


haunted-castle public domain

The wind whipped steady at my door                                                                                                       and the floor                                                                                                                                                   creaked like dead wood. Warped. Rotted in                                                                                              sodden gray light

miasma from a                                                                                                                                     chasm, ringing night sweats.  “Friend, foe, or otherwise?” I murmured to the                            darkness. No answer.                                                                                                                         Silence grinding  a place                                                                                                                  where Poe’s  raven would have been welcome. Dark wings                                                               or anything                                                                                                                                                     I could see.

But no. This guest of a ghost                                                                                                             trickster, lights flickering dim.                                                                                                               And yet.

I welcomed it.

The old house no longer empty.

ghost-of-the-renaissance public domain

This poem is in response to the Daily Prompt Guest

Love Breathe Dream



The moon is new, the month is June                                                                                              Dark skies and an embryo of all possibilities.                                                                                        Gemini reigns, twins of truth and duality.


June is music, days lengthen, a slip of lithe light as Litha                                                                 approaches.                                                                                                                                                   A time for dizzy romance,  the dance                                                                                                       a deep                                                                                                                                                         abundant plunge                                                                                                                                         into summer.




midsummer goddess

A Quest




Defined by listlessness I seek                                                                                                             the lonely evening as yellow                                                                                                            bellwort lowers its

head in the meadow, giving                                                                                                             faith to a brazen  day.                                                                                                                           How I long to dispatch myself

straight  and hard to the                                                                                                                          humongous                                                                                                                                     whirl of purple sky!

But no.                                                                                                                                                       I am human. Weak. Ignorant. Foolish.                                                                                          Nothing but a noddy.

I sigh in physical haughtiness                                                                                                                 and  wait                                                                                                                                                for a new break of day.

purple sky


This poem is in response to Bojenn’s poetry challenge

Poem of the Day: Howl by Allen Ginsberg


I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness



starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,

angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,

who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,

who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,

who passed through universities with radiant eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,

who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,

who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,

who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,

who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night


with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls,

 incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping towards poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,


 Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind. 


ABOUT GINSBERG and HOWL:   Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997)  was a Beat Generation icon who hung out with his pals Jack Kerouac, Neal Cassady and William Burroughs – jazz grooving, social misfits who often went On The Road as they tried to  piece life together in the shattered aftermath of  WWII.  They felt, in fact, ‘beat’.

Ginsberg’s poem Howl drew a lot of attention when, in 1957, US officials decided it was obscene, illegal, and could not be printed nor distributed in this country. (You saw that line about cock and endless balls, right?)

Keep in mind, the US was a very uptight place back then.  They basically tolerated nothing. Homosexuality was considered a mental illness. Drug abuse was unheard of, or at least unmentionable in the polite circles of 1950’s Americana.  ‘Leave it To Beaver’ was  considered the ideal of family life.  (Funny, eh?  Leave it to Beaver?  Could have been a very empowering statement of female sexuality 🙂 But I digress.)

Ironically, Ginsberg himself was out of the country at the time his poem went under scrutiny.  He never suffered backlash for the obscenity charges, but Lawrence Ferlinghetti, owner of City Lights book store in San Francisco, was arrested and stood trial.  Amazingly, Ferlinghetti won!   Viva la free press!    California Judge Clayton Horn decided that the poem was not obscene, and it was, in fact of  “redeeming social importance”.  Well now 🙂

I am not including the entire poem because it goes on for like 30 pages.  Read the whole thing here:

I love the ending lines!   Allegedly they are addressed to one Carl Solomon, a friend of Ginsberg’s whom he met while receiving electric shock treatment in a mental institution.


I’m with you in Rockland 
         where we wake up electrified out of the coma by our own souls’ airplanes roaring over the roof they’ve come to drop angelic bombs the hospital illuminates itself   imaginary walls collapse   O skinny legions run outside   O starry-spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is here   O victory forget your underwear we’re free

I’m with you in Rockland 

         in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-journey on the highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night



Poem of the Day: in Just – by e e cummings



in Just-

spring          when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman
whistles          far          and wee
and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it’s
when the world is puddle-wonderful
the queer
old balloonman whistles
far          and             wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing
from hop-scotch and jump-rope and


balloonMan          whistles


About the author:e e cummings never bothered capitalizing his own name.  He even legally changed it to use lower case letters, as he often did in his poetry.  Born Edward Estlin Cummings ( 1894 – 1962)  he was an American poet,  painter, author and playwright.

He was a decided Bohemian who did time in the salons of 1920’s Paris, no stranger to the likes of  Gertrude Stein, Ezra Pound  and Picasso.  He was also  a right wing Republican who, back home in the U.S. A.,  supported Red-Scare senator Joseph McCarthy in  1950’s anti-Communist campaigns.  His work was influenced by Dada, Surrealism, Transcendentalism and experimentation of all kinds.

 in Just –  was first published in May, 1920.  Some say this poem is about little kids playing marbles, some say it is about puberty and sexual awakenings. Well now. You decide  🙂


 Happy Poetry Month!

National Poetry Month

Poetry voltaire

Apparently, T.S. Elliot was not very fond of April:

“April is the cruelest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain…”

Yeah yeah.  Well, the poem was called ‘The Wasteland’. What do you expect?  But despite, or perhaps because of this — April is National Poetry Month,  a great time of inspiration and creativity.  It is a chance to flex our Bardic muscles. This month, try reading and/ or  writing a poem a day.  Take a stab at haiku, quatrain  or free verse.  Consider sonnet, sestina, rondeau, ballad, or ghazal.   Support your local poets and poetry blogs. Honor your own personal favorites, dead or alive.   Revisit those dusty  old volumes, or better yet, look them up online.   Hundreds of poets are available to browse at


If you’ve never been to a poetry slam, attend one! They are great fun, a chance to meet, mingle and appreciate the spoken word. Plus they might choose you as a judge. And even if they don’t, you  still get to snap fingers and yell out random things like “As It Should Be!”

In your own writing, you can emulate the masters or go indy.  Be expressive.  Let the imagination soar. It doesn’t even have to make sense!  (Not really.)

Jim Morisson

Opens all Doors.  See what he did there?

Poetry  is very flexible. It has the ability to tap into  the subconscious and collective consciousness simultaneously, in a way that no other art form can. Poetry can blend style, substance and individuality with psychic connection and dream states   Every time we put pen to paper, there is the potential to learn something new about ourselves, our past, our loves, our truths and our humanity.


Happy April and Happy Writing 🙂