A writer writes.  
A writer writes when he wants to
and when he doesn't.  
A writer writes when he is inspired
and when he isn't.  
A writer writes when the words are flowing from his mind like moisture off of a waterfall
and when the words are as scarce as republicans in Boston.  
A writer writes because he is a writer,
not because there are people who will cheer him on when he is finished.  
Sure, most writers dream of the cheers,
but a writer who will be a writer tomorrow
is one who writes even when the fans don’t show up.  
A writer writes when everything looks hopeless
and when everything is falling into place.  
A writer writes as a baby coohs.  
A writer writes as a child plays.  
A writer writes as a teenager dreams.  
And a writer writes as a grownup worries.  
A writer isn't a writer because he was chosen.  
A writer writes because it is what he has chosen.  
What does a writer write when the words are scarce?  
Many scarce words.  
What does a writer write when the words are abundant?  
Words in abundance.  
A writer doesn't wait for inspiration to hit,
he writes until inspiration catches up with him.  
A writer doesn't write only when the muse is on duty,
he writes until the muse feels shamed and shows up.  
A writer does not seek fame,
though fame often seeks writers.  
A writer does not seek fortune,
though fortune too often seeks writers.  
A writer doesn't seek anything but the satisfaction of writing,
for fame and fortune are fickle and writing only for them leads to many a blank page.  
If I write something meaningful and it is not accepted,
is it no longer meaningful?  
If I write words never before combined,
will people rave over my originality,
or complain about my lack of skill?  
I am a writer and so it doesn't really matter.

With mouth agape, just like a clown,
I'm drifting through a brand new town.
All captivated by the lights,
I'm glaring, staring at the sights,
that awe me with their high renown.

As though wearing a royal crown,
I'm floating through this well-known town.
Above the sky, I reach new heights,
with mouth agape.

Too high for life to pull me down,
I'm soaring through this humdrum town.
On wings that arc above the lights,
I scarce can see the dwindling sights
of people, places, things and nouns,
with mouth agape.

people -- blue jeans -- t-shirts -- volleyball -- sparklers -- *** its -- stone bridge -- pine trees -- new trees -- old trees -- fireworks -- grass -- sonic boom -- picnic chairs -- bicycles -- oak trees -- bare neck -- tickles -- sneezing -- bless you -- slight chill -- cloud cover -- police cars -- policemen -- uniforms -- night sticks -- sweat pants -- baby strollers -- skull & crossbones -- muscle shirt -- sweat shirt -- baseball caps -- fountains of sparks -- greenery -- dandelions -- yellow weeds -- wafting smoke -- black man in white shirt -- white man in black shirt -- SUV -- Boxer dog -- red wagon -- smoke stacks -- asian couple -- running shorts -- acrid smoke -- ice cream truck -- double trees -- pony tail -- mosquitos -- fishing hat -- yellow truck -- handlebar mustache -- bad *** attitude -- shaved head -- balloon -- barbeque -- sunset -- affro -- tennis shoes -- multi-colored hair -- canoe -- golden purse -- playing band -- American flag -- folding chair -- name badge -- red, white, & blue -- skipping rocks -- cargo shorts -- matching couple -- bike path -- hippie hair -- low rider -- peace sign -- golden chains -- waning moon -- waxed legs -- hoodies -- striped shirt -- victory dance -- short shorts -- cigar smoke -- watermelon -- Viking's bag -- leopard skin jacket -- skooter -- digital camera -- creepy stalker dude -- tent building -- horeshoes -- personal space invaders -- glow sticks -- picnic basket -- cooler -- smoke bombs -- plaid skirt -- 77 sweats -- interracial couples -- motorcycle -- orange vest -- plastic ball -- face paint -- cops in two different uniforms -- split tree -- pregnant lady -- trash talking horeshoe player -- street lamps -- playing tag -- large blue cooler -- bright green pants -- humorless boy

enamored eyes, bulging with trust, lay me
down to sleep and keep me protected in
ten thousand layers of love

flaky biscuits and delicious, country-sausage
gravy, or the world's very best lasagna
smile warmly as I come home from work

soul-mate -- not just a quaint concept

humming fans and clicking keys echo
like colliding tumbleweeds through the
desolated dessert of the computer lab

"Leading the AL in RBIs" squawks the
dingy, white speaker in squeaky stereo
"Best ERA in the majors," it offers a short time later

Watching computers, not have problems, is boring

Playful cups of sensual coffee tease each other across the way,
flirting, steaming whiffs of flavor -- double espresso and latte.
With a touch of creamy caramel and a shot of mocha too,
muggy coffees, slow as turtles, serve double entendre brew.

It started with a cookie -- oatmeal and raisin,
soft and moist like a May strawberry.
Mom said, "wait." But waiting didn't
taste as good as stealing.
Cookies came and went -- grade school turned into
high school and lessons turned into tests.
The teacher said, "study hard." But studying
wasn't as much fun as cheating.
Graduation day arrived -- as class Valedictorian,
my speech brought my classmates to tears.
I said, "Don't ever sell out." But selling out
is easier to do than laboring.
I started my career -- working in Corporate America.
Easy money schemes abounded.
The boss said, "don't break the law." But bending
sometimes leads to breaking.
Sentencing day arrived -- convicted on nine counts.
I'm eligible for parole in fifteen years.
The judge said, "resist temptation." But resisting
doesn't satisfy like enrapturing.

If a picture tells a wordless poem

Then a brief glimpse, starting with a glance and
ending with a knowing wink,
would be a short story.

And too, a playful exchange,
culminating in an unexpected tryst,
needs be a novella.

And thus, an afternoon chase leading to:
a heartfelt talk, a fevered clash of naked flesh,
and a midnight mocha by a lively winter’s fire,
must be the the opening chapter of mankind’s greatest epic.

Impossibilities.
Distilled reality.
Idiosyncrasies.
Eventuality.
Living life with terminal frailties,
Searching for my lost tranquility.

Is it worth it?
Some days.

the candy bar snickers at the can of soda
the can of soda, keeping tab, waits for its
chance to crush the bar of candy

suddenly, a pill bottle pulls out a tablet to
write a prescription but rolls off in disgust
after spilling acetycylic acid on its shirt

Trying to choose a snack gives me a headache

finding the tiny pieces
  of the broken vase
putting them back together
  with nothing out of place
would be altogether simpler
  easier by far
then wrestling the decision
  entangling my heart

Feeling hopeless, useless
Rejection left me low
Way too low

Death became an option
The preferred option
But no go

I woke up, stomach pumped
"******* paramedics!"
Profound woe

Many memories missing
Many bridges too
Reap and sow

Faith and hope dismantled
Dreams all entangled
Sun won't glow

Reaching out for others
Former friends AWOL
New ones show

Love and concern offered
Their judgment AWOL
Hope can grow

Equilibrium regained
Hard lessons learned
Now I Know

"Universal health care is too expensive,"
explains the fully insured bureaucrat
while his constituents fight to make ends meet

"here, have some more money,"
offers the slick, teflon-coated lobbyist,
best friend of the health-care industry

Obviously the twain have met

Winter brings
falling puffs of weightless white
gliding effortlessly down
to the ground
pausing briefly on the wings
of swaying outstreched needles
from the pine,
the winter wooden warden,
trustee of frozen forest.
Arctic winds
seize hold the fragile snowflakes
plucking, snatching, and clutching
the flimsy
whisps of still independent
drops of moisture from the air,
forcing them
down, down, down to the icy
surface of the silent earth.

little blinking lights, yellow and round,
fight to keep up with the incessant
whirring of the tape drive

the old unit, yesterday's model,
wearing it's rolled up power cord like a crown,
waits patiently in the senior center under the desk

Eventually, the whirring will stop, and the two will rock side by side

Supposition, I suppose, is worse than puppy pantyhose.
Indecision, I decide, is something I sometimes deride.
Aberrations, normally, are things I follow faithfully.
Prevarications, I attest, are often more true than the rest.

a square pad of paper, red glue on one end,
hides under its sheet and glares at the
yellow post it note.

sporting a fingerprint tattoo,
a black and white BIC pen clics its
stic while it waits for work.

Paper and pen make their mark together

bound although innocent, the network cable
waits patiently, ready to pounce on any
unsuspecting, incoming internet traffic

cursing the plethora of refrigerator decorations,
the critical back-up tape peers nervously
around the hectic office space

Neither servers, both serve up their data

...and then PETA showed up and wanted to know whether there were sufficient air holes for the lamb to breathe and how the separating of the lamb from its mom went and whether or not the box was organic and free of all chemicals known to cause allergic reactions among lambkind.

The prince pulled out his legally concealed pistol and shot the PETA representative.

The ACLU, not arguing with the prince's right to carry the legally concealed weapon, but objecting to his failure to alert the PETA representative before shooting him, offered to take on the case of PETA v Prince for free, as long as PETA would agree not to protest the Jack In The Box deliveries that would be a thrice daily occurrence while the ACLU readied itself for trial.

The prince, misunderstanding ACLU's motivation and fearing the eventual loss of his right to legally concealed weapons, looked a little harder and deeper at the box and, voila, miracle of miracles, began to see apocalyptic scibblings regarding the fast-approaching war of Armageddon and the importance of a "well-armed militia" in the winning of that unavoidable conflict.

Recognizing the chance to shore up the faithful -- and put to shame the rest -- the Christian Coalition adopted the prince's message and gave it more teeth.  They stoked the flames of hellfire, added more levels to the depths of hades, and notched up the sufferings to those found guilty by their Lord, the Good Shepherd.

The ACLU responded, adding the Christian Coalition to the complaint.

The battle lines were drawn.  The ACLU and PETA stood on one side and the Christian -Coalition and the NRA stood on the other.

People argued and screamed and fought and condemned.

Then, a little boy of five, wiser than his years and saddened by the preemption of his favorite cartoons in favor of live coverage of the proceedings noticed something nobody else had.  Neither side any longer had a picture of the lamb.  So he drew his own.

Jagged bottles, freshly broken, line the
cobbled pathway leading to the house.
An open window and the heady smell of warm beer
implicate the under-employed and over-stimulated
inhabitants of something.
A frazzled flag, ruined by the wind and disinterest
drizzles limply in the breeze. Broken lines and
pointless stars point to broken lives and
pointless wars that spit on the lithe and measured
stiches of an avant guarde Betsy Ross.
Ancient wooden placards, blue and white and peeling,
shoot up through the hoarfrost of the unkempt yard.
Promising something, though not articulated, they
describe a geometric shape, strangely triangular,
between signs and flag and glass.
A strong confident voice, "Yes we can," wafts
through the open window, and floats above the dismal house.
Then a curse word and a shotgun blast and the
willowing smoke from a TV no longer in need of its
power switch punctuate the scene.

All that remained
was just an enigmatic shell.
All that remained
of decades filled with things obtained
to quench this narcissistic hell,
we realized we had to sell
all that remained.

"justice for most," screams the reformer
"justice for some," yells the status quo
"justice for all," wishes the repressed

black metal carts with beige metal drawers
stand at attention against the bleak wall,
holding the treasured secrets of a powerful giant

Neither justice nor secrets are well-protected

My babblings, my babblings
I cry out in terror
The thoughts of my soul
I burp out in error
My wisdom, pure wisdom
is hidden behind
the insipid, uninspired
notions of my mind

Introspection
  dejection
    living without action
Faux devotion
  commotion
    moving without traction
Mental trips
  acid drips
    falling from infected eyes
Turbulence
  opulence
    living life in disguise

Cotton puppies chase their tails
fluffy soldiers fight
cotton kitties play as well
lightning lights the night

Cotton puppies chase their tails
across the nighttime sky
but when the rainstorm starts to wail
the cotton puppies die

Concrete blood
Slogs through my
Asphalt body

Silent horror films
Cycle, ad infinitum, through my
Frenzied mind

My comprehension
Entangles truth
With authentic illusions

My hypothesis
Roars to life
In the eyes of strangers

Their expression
Or lack thereof
Contains damning evidence

Simple tasks
Once without challenge
Monopolize my agenda

My adversary
Transformed into Achilles
Receives leg armor

My vigor
Once formidable
Goes on sabbatical

My bed
Once a place of solace
Becomes my entire world

Morons miss the forest,
Obsessing with a tree.
Players send their soul mate,
Packing down the street.

Irony's not cruel.
Fate does not take sides.
Both of them, however,
Know what a person hides.

Dark brown hair, darting eyes.
Want to look, 'stead I sigh.

Passes by, looks my way.
Should I ask for a date?

If I wait, will I lose?
Was her flirt just a ruse?

Passion brews, in my heart.
Could a love affair start?

Eyes still dart, look around.
Can she hear, my heart's sound?

Going down, need to know.
If I ask, tell me no?

So I go, out the door.
Not a word, nothing more.

Same old score, chickened out.
It’s what fear’s all about.

No Tonka, no Barbie,
No Monopoly game.
Just a pack on my back.
The rest have the same.

We start at age three.
Continue 'til death.
I know I'll have work,
As long as I've breath.

Our families need money.
We're the poorest of poor.
All our older brothers,
Are dead from the war.

From sunup to sunrise,
I carry my pack.
I try to walk fast,
Just in case we're attacked.

I'd complain of my plight,
But who would I tell?
All of my friends
Share the same Hell.

I've heard of a place,
Where kids get to play.
I hope from deep down,
I'll see it some day.

But likely as not,
My kids just as I,
Will carry these packs
'Til the day that we die.

Fireflies flutter, and lightning sputters
around midnight
as sweet dreams glide effortlessly
into my brain.

Passion's a river and my innards quiver
without a sound
while fantasy and reality switch sides
and board my plane.

My uvula twitches, and my viewpoint switches
from dark to light
as buried longings, once lethargic
prepare to soar.

Caution's neglected, and safety's rejected
upon the ground
while delicious morsels, poetic in nature
finally begin to pour.

welcoming grace, dignified and true,
blooms passionately, brilliantly from the
glorious heart of this earthly angel

crossing an ocean, like royalty and then
crossing a country, like a pilgrim leads to
friendships that no earthly power can demolish

the queen of WDC

Searing torrents of molten asphalt
swelter inside my chest.
The catalyst that sparked
this raging inferno,
your words
still pound inside my head.
Blank-faced, devoid of emotion,
you offer an embrace.

Hands off!

Desire for reconciliation
mocks my pain.
Dreams of a white picket fence,
grandkids gathered around,
a collection of priceless, dime-store baubles,
dissipate in smoke.
Adorned in ignorance,
you reach to touch my face.

Hands off!

Comfort and pleasure,
desire and fulfillment,
memories of contact,
enjoyed,
burrow into my mind.
Herculean temptation,
overpowers my will.
~ Almost ~

Hands off!

crawling up a mountainside,
filled with certain dread.
knowing that a misstep,
will probably leave me dead.
that’s what writing feels like,
from inside my head.

falling from an airplane,
a pack upon my back.
in love with total weightlessness,
without a single lack.
that’s what writing feels like,
when everything’s on track.

I love watching Susan write.

She puts every ounce of her being
into coming up with something wonderful.
Her nose twinkles and she purses her lips.
A glance heavenward
when she needs the right word or phrase
is rewarded by new inspiration and
transforms into increased vigor
for her writing hand.

I love watching Susan write.

There’s no such thing as writer’s block.
Muses don’t exist.
Water boils when you watch the clock.
Nothing lost is missed.

It’s better not to love or lose.
Time’s not medicine.
Saxophones don’t cure the blues.
Beauty’s not just skin.

I don’t believe in any myth.
Legends are not true.
But if you want to know my pith,
I believe in you.

Artistic charm surrounded us.
The seven of us read our words.
And only one put up a fuss.
We talked of *** and bugs and turds.

The seven of us read our words.
Although one did put up a fuss.
The conversation turned to turds.
And laughter then surrounded us.

And only one put up a fuss.
It wasn't though about the turds.
For laughter is what stayed with us.
The whole night as we read our words.

We talked of *** and bugs and turds.
And nothing seemed to bother us.
For as we read each one our words.
There was but one who caused a fuss.

"I'm smarter than you,"
says the fool.

"I won't need your help."
"I already know it."
"I've done this before."
"I don't need you to show it."

"And besides,"
says the fool,
"I'm smarter than you,"

Gestures of kindess --
"I don't need that, no thank you."
Offers of friendship --
"Get away from me, will you?"

"I'm smarter than you,"
says the fool.

Only the kind
are afraid of nobody.
Only the lazy
mistake spotless and muddy.
Only the wise
realize that they're not.
and only a fool
feels free when he's caught.

"I'm smarter than you,"
says the fool.

"I don't need your help."
"I already know it."
"I haven't done this before,"
"but I don't need YOU to show it."

"I'm smarter than you,"
says the fool --
to themself.

I wash the dishes.
You rewash them.
"You're worthless!"
Said without words.

Beautiful bouquet of
Bright, fall flowers.
Sent just because.
"Who the HELL arranged them?"

"I love you honey!"
Scribbled on a note,
Hidden to surprise you.
Your hurtful words surprise ME.

The lawn's mowed.
The kitchen's clean.
The clothes are put away,
Yet your anger remains.

Focused but maudlin,
I rummage through
My meager belongings,
As I pack them to leave.

I truly can't imagine
   how dull life must have been
      before the art of writing
         gave advent to the pen
How did the hapless poet
   recharge his weathered soul?
      What outlet had the writer
         stuck in that bookless hole?

One more time.
Just one.
Just one more chance
to remember
how it felt
and I'll never ask
for anything again.
Ever!
Except for one more time.

You say you really want me, but then you treat me bad.
You vow to show you love me, but all you are is mad.
You want us to continue, to give it one more go.
Oh man you almost had me; prolong this?  Yeah but No.

It’s true I’m not Prince Charming; my faults I know quite well.
But sharing life with someone, it shouldn’t feel like hell.
When two hearts come together, the two should be aglow.
So now you want commitment?  I’m sorry, yeah but no.

Do you recall our first date?  The night seemed to zoom by.
A movie and then talking, your porch under the sky.
I thought you really wanted, to cause something to grow.
But since you don’t respect me.  Continue?  Yeah but no.

To fall in love is easy.  To stay in love is hard.
Two must maintain a vigil, and always keep on guard
Or in the early hours, a tragedy may show
Since I alone am wakeful, Combat it?  Yeah but no.

I told you that I loved you.  I promised with a ring.
I said that I would write you, a song that I would sing.
But I have lost my balance, and you have left me low.
So cry your precious eyes out.  Affect me?  Yeah but no.

eyes barely open as minutes
pass for seconds on a tiny
corner table where I scribe my poems
subdued lighting and neutered
calls from over-caffeineated
teenaged chefs surround me
recycled-paper brown napkins
filled with intelligible-only-to-me
scratchings rest under my tired hand
fifteen second-minutes later I return
to watch hour after tedious hour
slither slowly from the clock
the big hand finally points toward
salvation and I take my coat and gloves
and poems home to read what my soul has spilled
a smile makes a rare appearance as
the tenuous words on the napkin take form and
bring meaning and relief to my tired heart

Soft and silky on my lips.
So warm and smooth my heart does flips.
Only one thing can bring such bliss:
The sensual touch of my baby’s kiss.

Her eyes are pure and deep and bright.
Her arms a cocoon that holds me tight.
Between the two, nothing’s amiss.
But they can’t compare to her hungry kiss.

I have seen Paris by day –
Walked the Champses Elysee
I travel there when I reminisce.
But I fast return to my baby’s kiss.

How can a story
be devised
from just an idea?

How can a complete
novel appear
from just a thought?

Can something small
like inspiration
be buried into the
ground of creativity and
with the patient watering
of diligence in writing,
grow into a believable and flowing text?

I (a seed) that it can.

Little, tiny face slaps dominate my world,
Ever since the moment you became my girl.
The swats are mostly painless – so I just turn my cheek.
I guess I’m way too timid – I guess I’m way too meek.

I take you to the movies – you always choose the show.
I’d rather watch what you like, and see your face aglow.
Oops, I spilled the popcorn – it’s all across the floor.
So now here comes the eye roll that cuts me to the core.

We pass another milestone – I send you a bouquet,
Of lovely, bright, Fall flowers – perhaps a bit cliché.
In eager expectation I sit down by the phone.
Instead of adulation you call just to bemoan.

I’m not quite sure you notice. I’m not quite sure you see,
How much your little gestures have emasculated me.
I beg you to examine, implore you to observe.
The pain your actions cause me if our love we’re to preserve.

miscommunication based on fear
destroyed the fragile buds
of friendship
or more

what was once a smile
so bright and so warm
is now a look
of sadness

losing the opportunity
to show the depths
of my sincerity
physically hurts

so I pretend like all is well
like nothing happened
and save my tears
for when I'm alone

Listen to the lullaby,
Let its rhythm calm.
Leave your problems far behind,
Love its healing balm.

Listen to the lullaby,
Loiter in the song.
Let the music make you high,
Live where you belong.

Listen to the lullaby,
Linger in its peace.
Lose the reasons that you cry,
Let your sadness cease.