A Day of Reckoning and Night

A look of death

A look of death, your face is white–
I do not ask, to be polite;
Instead I comment on my day
And grasp for other things to say.
Your eyes don’t ever meet my sight.

Get Thee To a Nursery

There’s nothing worse than newborn moms
Who dote on college men as sons
Most infantile as if their own,
Who chide and chafe with stern reproof
And worries wither to their root,
Who think that there’s no difference
Betwixt young men and young infants:
Go to, go to, young mother dear;
Your baby boy is not found here.

What You See--It Isn't Me

Photo by Eliana Anthony


For: http://dversepoets.com/

The Trial of a Noncommital Wordict

Exhibit A

I hate the rate the candle burns,
The little bread my mettle earns.
I hit the bottom, bounced around,
Bit spittled bullet, cashed the clown,
And what I found on my way down
I hid away in brittle crown;
With sandled feet I greet my fate
I handle graying matter great.
Your Methodist mother fanned the flame
Two fists of fury palmed to tame
The addled thoughts of worried brain
A battleground of mad and sane.
A butter churn of fatty strain,
I bought the jury, turned the main
Like it could sway the verdict.


The copper, tinged an umber green,
Fell twisting through the girded beams
In convalescent coils.  A mass
Of pipe dreams course with soluble
Solutions none of which quite fit
The problem.  Leaking ever more
In frequent pitterpatterns on the
Floor, where familiar mildew spots
Threw freckling faces fierce from rain,
The trickling plumbing of my brain.

For: dversepoets.com


I sit and watch the passing cars,
A lesson in velocity;
Harsh brake lights burst with flame of Mars
While met with blazing beams of stars.

“How Grim’s the Forecast, Jim? Hahaha…”

Another moody weatherman
Dispenses with his stormy news
The animated snow strange fuse
Contrasting with his fake spray tan



The soapy capsules float on air
A dream resides within them rare
But fragile shell is prone to tear

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Because Russ L asked

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