He enters looking bedraggled, tired and worn out, his skin like vellum, blank and pale.
Lifting his eyes to catch their gaze he gives a slight nod to acknowledge their presence.
He scans the room as he would a poem seeking an indent that leads to a quiet corner.
A half-lit light casts a shadow on the flock wallpaper, ink stained.
He sits hidden from view, away from plagiaristic eyes. Head In hand
Scribbling while listening for a new word, a muse sings, emanating an un-heard
Beat that guides his rhythm while searching for that elusive vowel. On the floor
Is a scattering of pencil shavings and broken lead, frustration at the loss of an adjective.
The half rhyme squeezes like a tourniquet on the brain…
Frustration runs high as enjambment slips off the page and gathers in reflective pools.

The Lay Pastoral reads an Elegy to the passing of Sir Rondeau Redouble, he lead a very lonely life ascending and then diminishing becoming less Didactic, the Footle holds a Lanterne for the loss, while the Limerick found it quite humorous.

At the bar a Stanza of poets gather, disciples of Villanelle, and regale of their latest triumphs in Women’s Quarterly. Then silence falls as Suzette Prime performs her latest Burlesque she is in good Shape. The Epulaeryu’s compare their Diamante while eating their babba ghanoosh. At the pool table the movers and shakers decant opinions on the latest ‘form’ something to do with A,E,I,O,U…Acrostic looks it up and down looking puzzled, Blank verse remains silent,

They dissect, analyse the entrails, the faint hearted feel a little Grook. The atmosphere is tense. Verbs drift like dust in the light, causing confusion, they mop their brows with a tired senryu. The haiku’s have little to say on the matter…

A Quintain of intellectuals quietly sit, the Sicilian sipping slim line Monoku’s (no ice) hoping for a Couplet before the end of the night. On a stool sit’s the barfly spilling his Bio over the counter top exposing an Ode-ious life, metaphorically speaking. On stage the hottest group in town… Chant Royal and the Syllables… singing their latest Sestina it reached 39 in the hit parade, the notes drift across the room resting on the floor congealing into a poet-tree fountain…they feel at home as the last act MC McWhirtle enthrals with his latest Ballad…the barman Ric Tameter calls time, the evening is a Rap. The club is Epic…


© 27/3/2013

I was minding my own business
on my way from here to there.
(I was not one of his disciples,
stack the bibles and I'll swear.)
Yet when I was accosted
by a Roman with a sword,
I was forced to bear the Cross-
as certain "points" can't be ignored.
The way was steep and rocky
and the cross beam hard to bear.
On our way up He was silent,
perhaps lost in silent prayer.
There were sounds of women weeping
and jeering Jews who came from town.
I was glad to reach to summit-
relieved to lay my burden down.
It was only then I saw His face,
beneath its thorny crown.
He thanked me for my labor
with a kindly look and word.
I said a blessing in return,
but I wonder if he heard.

Yes, I recall the day quite well
when our paths crossed, then diverged.

His eyes burned in my memory
as I stumbled on my way.
I did not stay to watch Him die
but I was there that day.

HE would not,

come down
from the

CROSS!!!!

For me.........

carve the words
"right" and "left"
deep into your wooden wrists
backwards, if you want
just make sure you can feel them
so you can't forget
how many letters
went unopened
or how red the ink must have appeared
as it bathed the roots
of so many solitary trees

I am taken aback by your mind.
Stricken by your soul.
Only to have your body soothe me.
The grasp of your hands on my hips
Your lips caressing mine
As your tongue finds its way to hold my moans back.
You stroke me as if I'm yours
So I close my eyes & fall into a world where I believe it's true
And for a while I'm in ecstasy
Making love with you endlessly.
Scared that when it's over you'll forget about me.
& hey, what's up? to the girls blowing up your phone.
So I stay in your bed
Trying to comfort myself.
Wrapping myself in a false reality
Living in a dream where I thought love existed.
To realize when I wake up
Last night was a mistake.
Along with the previous night
& the night before that.
There was no love
Not even the slightest feeling of a crush
Yet your affection when your ******* me
Caresses the affection I want to feel,
Not from you
But any who will.
Your mind was not a matter
Until I learned your thoughts
Saw the depths
To find your flaw
The biggest of them all.
You have no respect for ladies & you call yourself a gentleman.
Even then, I look past it.
As if there's the tiniest hint you have any for me.
Still, you want me to chase you
And honestly I need to replace you.
You're no good for thee.
And yet, I still look beyond it
Thinking your soul & mine were meant to be
That they've been searching for each other for an eternity
Madly in love in another lifetime.
Yet,
I am going to remain quiet, silent, hushed.
Figuring out in my head that it's time that I began to realign the distance between us
Making it grow *farther & farther & farther & farther
Until the idea of you doesn't creep into my thoughts,
keep me up at nights,
wishing, hoping for no apparent reason that you're thinking about ******* me
**Because then at least I know I'll hear from you.

short-handed love letters
written in the daydreams of a deliberate narcoleptic.

i send you the paper plane promises of summer
(sealed tightly in sweaty palmed envelopes)

you're not one to read poetry
yet i always manage to find feather light stanzas draped across your shoulders
held down by nothing more
than freckled thumbtacks

years fall away
like too heavy eyelashes onto cheeks

waiting to be brushed away
by the callused fingers of patient lovers

our slow and natural tendencies
our lips mimic the rate of gravity

you use a box cutter to lengthen the creases in my palm

but borrowed time
and fickle fate
will never heal heartbreak

(there are your practice poems)
which we’ve all written
(there are your professional poems)
where we assume the accent of "the poet"
and then (there are your Real poems)
those where a woman can no longer speak to her mother
(and her mother isn’t dead yet)
and her husband stays by her side
(because their bond is that strong)
and that's how things end up
(how memories fail)
and we all get distracted
(from what really matters)
and then some child tries to make it right
(but fails, again)
like some inept diplomat
(and then gets distracted...

They told me I had to go to college,
Get a job,
Start a family.
But I wanted to be the ocean when I grew up.
Or even just a wave.
And again they told me to be realistic.
But if I cant be the ocean, then why am I seventy-five percent liquid,
And why do I leak salt water when I am sad?