Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
city of flips Feb 2020
all these I see, in realized eyes and whimsical musings,
in perfect silence, for the Sunday city morning
is worshiping the coming day in a church like silence,
where each patron fills in the empty sounds
with hymns of their own moving their lips
in fervent unspokeness
city of flips Nov 2019
I’ve Got A Guilty Heart and a Texas Troubled mind*

looks as if I’ve won the losing lovers lottery twice,
had me the bonus number, now my silver buckle,
getting an overdue shine-up, my heads getting full
of regret and wondering, so my Daddy’s Stetson 6.75 size
nowadays, fit real tighter over my piled-up cowgirl braids

got excuses plenty, none worth sharing, none,
that’ll change nothing, two hearts continental drifting,
and with all the lyrics I write, got not a one about
how we let each other get away, the jukebox playing
Dixie Chicks “Cowboy Take Me Away”

think I’ll cover it in my next set, he will be sad down in Brownsville,
me, be traveling-singing in a dive bar up near Amarillo, no body
will be sad for me, no cowbodys posting no videos, no telling then,
but I’ll chance it, he will never know, cause I don’t want to
make him swollen sadder than he be already

somebody says god made country songs so sad so the world
could knowing-nod, been there, done that, in case company
might make you feel better, but it don’t till I right the wrong,
till I write the lyric that won’t explain much, but me, taking
the rightful blame, living with a guilty heart & troubled heart

me, way up north, but not so far away, still in Texas that’s for sure,
for the heart has a range finder that knows the GPS  of where he be,
and the exact distance between us...


I've got a guilty heart
And a troubled mind
No matter where I go
You're never far behind
I'd like to think
That you've forgiven me
But forgiveness ain't enough
To wash my conscience clean”*

lyric from “Not Cause I Wanted To” by Al Anderson / Bonnie Bishop
city of flips Oct 2019
speckled cityscape compulsion


it is 6:40am.
the ending credits roll on a Hannibal horror film
that I’ve seen many times.
but it’s just an old rerun, familiar deviltry,
slept through it thankfully

the kitchen window gives up a sunrise,
but it’s just an old rerun, familiar deviltry,
a streaking swath of burnt and bright,
so oft described, the color commentary
previously immortalized by better poets
than me, easy found elsewhere.

the speckled cityscape in this pre-awakened urbanity,
it is their moment, these red flashes, all about,
tall buildings chanting “stay away from me”
to you sleepy pilots, looking for a strip to safely land
in a tumbled jungled of obscene density.

still, they highlight against a river of deep, bright oranges,
burning surrounded by the most beauteous array of shades of blue,
compelled against my will to thankful write,
for gifts such as these cannot be so casually dismissed,
cannot be willfully ignored, to do so, denies our genetic commandments.

a hopeless, thankless task to ask of oneself.
the perhaps intrusive. Sunday, maybe the babies
will visit, macaroons, pre-halloween bags of candy bars,
at the ready, pre-opened by small, tall inner children for sensory testing.
Milk Duds, Heath Bars, Whopper malted *****, Hershey white chocolate,
checked by adults for safety and quality control.

all these I see, in realized eyes and whimsical musings,
in perfect silence, for the Sunday city morning
is worshiping the coming day in a church like silence,
where each patron fills in the empty sounds
with hymns of their own moving their lips
in fervent unspokeness

the sky river reflects more modestly in the East River,
for a reflection is always a second best version.
30 minutes later the real and the apparition both,
disappeared, and a palest sheer blue, white streaked sky,
just an old rerun, familiar deviltry.

why is the sun rising
is so worshipped,
for there will never be a full day of
just sunrise colorations,
but the speckled reds still
a true color, still showing,
on perpetual guard duty,
bidding adieu to its
morning lovers,
until tomorrow,

in my city of lips.

sun. oct. 20 2019
city of flips Sep 2019
your children not to do what I have done

long has this phrase from that old song,
to wit, to which,
we all knew it complete,
that phrase

and this one too,

teach them well their father’s hell will slowly go by

any parent,
knows instantly their secret experiences
validating these pregnant phrases to
combination and definition

our looking face down
on the children unafraid,
our looking back
at the mistakes we ourselves made,
that no one could have warned us of in advance

can we warn them well,
dare we tell,
make our lore their history,
make them
too careful and too afraid
not to repeat our mistakes,
but be not fearful to
make their own?


I am a young woman, and pappy says all parents have eyes in the back of their heads, and it still don’t help much
city of flips Aug 2019
The raindrop whispered to the jasmine,
“Keep me in your heart for ever.”
The jasmine sighed, “Alas,” and dropped to the ground.*

(237 Stray Birds by Rabindranath Tagore.  Rabindranath Tagore was born in Calcutta, India, on May 7, 1861. He is the author of many poetry collections, including Gitanjali: Song Offerings (Macmillan, 1913), which received the Nobel Prize in Literature. He died on August 7, 1941.)



some words of note get overlooked,
their usage to the wayside,
this is life, forever updating its profile


none of us, do not lie,
issue this all encompassing sigh,
this shaded heart rendering, un cri du coeur

this, to remind us:

a single warring word,
falls wounded, forgotten,
telling of impossibilities
lost love, a broken conjunction,
what was that can never be,
what never was and yet not impossible

Alas! Alas!

a single word poem,
that answers so many things,
and still in its regretting
is a niche of untold hopeful perhaps

write me a word like that
your fame, if that’s all you desire,
is assured...

city of flips Aug 2019
pretty words for pretty girls

courageous caress of a send key pressed,
after practicing  
speechless up to the assumed,
up to assured point of perfect,
flawlessness, visible in each invisible breath,
pauses full of poignant stories unspoken
but eye cleared visible for seeing the future

pretty words for pretty girls

intuition incorporates superstition,
unending, intending infatuated moon gazing,
but not pagan worshiping, no it is love worshiping

your hiding cave places are moon apertures dark spots,
impenetrable to my eye’s naked telescoping,
but heartbeats spring my unharnessed love poems to you

me and millions whisper in full certainty of our
lost but beloved presences, moon stored for us,
my darling dares the light shine upon my bay,
here to me, our path, a moonlight waving hand
provides on many nights, a clear direction to follow,
pseudo-thrills of continence that my vision uncovers,
but my body knows is but a poor substitute

pretty words for pretty girls

my disease has a diagnosis.

your body attacked,
your body reacts,
defeats the infector,
remembering the next time
that disease comes round
how it got beat prior
and how to do it again

so how come I’m falling love once more?
Next page