his bliss

this affectionate guy created at the Jersey Shore while I was in a lovely morning mood 😘 – thank you

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how to find a lover

The portent outside Bell’s glass is reflected here in the doorway–
where the welcome mat is soiled glum grey
Dead leaves mimic the worn out bar’s foot traffic–
they blow in lost but looking
There is a staleness to the light that no one seems to notice
But me
I’m either special or nor drunk enough
“…you’re just too good to be true…”
Background mocks everyone in the damn place
The only thing too good to be true–
matching Powerball numbers or getting free refills
I opt for the latter
They tell me the kind of money that frees you from worries–
never alters the conversation an earthworm might whisper into your blue ear
Pour me another and double the double
The barmaid’s hair shines like the missing sun
My hair lost its luster when I lost other things
Three stools over, a shapely glass hits the mahogany
I’m watching cream liqueur swirl into a “Lady Luck”
I might just be observing someone who is worse off than me
I don’t need luck
I need a break
Don’t you, I mean when does the shit part end and the good crap start hitting the fan
That’s all I’m waiting for
Nothing too complicated
Like pouring a drink, or two, or three
I hear someone chatting up, Billy Eckstine
Maybe this poor soul is more lost in time than me
Well, something has just cheered me up, inexplicably so
There on the wall–
a seascape, its lighthouse back-illuminated, and I see him–
he’s behind the window–
a dark, handsome man wearing a sea captain’s hat
He’s waving to me
Finally, someone I can talk to who will listen

five cent pump pencil

five cent pump pencil

 

goddamn peaceful

5 am
wishing ’twas contented spirits
who dusted winter’s cement grasses
with sparkling pixie dust
my little dog’s lone paw prints
sweet as a postcard one might send a faraway lover
I linger in this miraculous quiet
let the moment warm
the silence of this morning
as beautiful as swimming beneath water
where sounds of despair are drowned
swept away by bubbling filters and light-dancing reflections
fondling liquid ballerina toes
there I often dream
there, I can only dream
in the silent spaces away from mouths not my own
‘the’ planet, when we’re cruel
mother earth, when we’re kind
I don’t want to touch the frozen front door knob
twist it and go back inside
rather
I’d love to freeze out here
5 am
with the sparkling pixie dust
and all that glitters
in the beauty of this miraculous silence
when the world seems so goddamn peaceful
rest
“ye merry, gentlemen
let nothing you dismay”

Rudolph Hug

Rudolph Hug

lotm-screen-shot-amazonhey, what do ya know, monster clawed its merry little way to #9 position this past week on Amazon’s little list of, hot new love poetry releases

may she sparkle

Caroline detail

Caroline detail

Didn’t think much about it. I seldom do. Heard it was difficult. It is. She’s going off to become whatever it is she wants to become. She will be a student of sustainable agriculture. I ventured into Mad Men territory while in school. We are different that way. The best way possible. She will try to effect agricultural change. Make an earthly impact. Walking our Dachshund this morning (still miss my Shepherd) gazing down at the road thinking back to those days–trying to remember lessons for her. The rocks and tar rolled out then rumbled flat. There are cracks and joint fixes. Sparkles of glass and dull-faced stones. Her life will be like this road. Combinations of things adhered together, splitting sometimes, getting fixed or not, hot in the heat, icy in the cold–dangerous at times. Her feet will walk as she destines they should–barefoot or booted. She will be smart and she will not be smart. Go off to study abroad. Maybe fall in love or at least what she thinks is. I pray she will be happy. I know to ask for ‘always’ is unrealistic. She is so much more confident than I was at that age. I’m hoping enough to keep her out of situations. When one doesn’t like who they see each morning in the glass, trouble follows. I didn’t think she would be teary-eyed. She is. But she is also excited. Imagine, it’s all shiny right now…may it glisten for a long while. This place is more raw than ever. And they all know it. Let them enjoy the sparkle in a bubble while they can pretend.
caroline largerphoto detail-Caroline, age 18
above, painting detail, from a larger portrait-Caroline is 8

happy hour

ponytails and night stars
a guy in a panama shirt singing old southern rock
bamboo tables and blue icy drinks
I’m only swallowin’ red
it did cross my mine to switch to a clear beverage
but wine has been a decent friend lately
the counter is soaked in the last round
it’s sparkling like the sky
amazing how the moon hangs up there
while we’re below waiting for it to do something
spectacular
there are girls walking around in shorts
that make me blush
there are guys watching them
I blush more
what the hell
I don’t belong here, I’m too old for this shit
that’s how I talked the bartender into giving me receipt paper
and a pen
to write this
I’m leaning on a bar with a clock that looks like it could be in my kitchen
one of my gal pals is searching for me
(I learn this later)
doesn’t know what happened
I told them all, I only think of words now
a verbal disease on the brain until something else real gets me
my mind is a boring trap of oxymorons and merlot
maybe they’ll believe me now
singing in the background, a man with hair color in between middle-age and a few extra whiskeys
but still respectable enough to be strummin’ a guitar ’cause he does it really well
the bartender is sweet, a young girl with long dark hair like I remember being long ago
she’s laughing ’cause she’s not sure what to believe
the other bartender guy is quite certain I’m writing my phone number
like I said, I’m too old for this shit
I’m only writing words
capturing this night
struggling because I forgot my glasses
I’m not sure if I’ll even be able to read this later
if I get it down
I’ll write it here when I return home and everyone else is sleeping
’cause I’ll still be wide awake

features

features

thought this sort of worked since there were many eyes at happy hour, wonder if they were all happy eyes:), sketched so very long ago-thank you

harnessing passions

I’ve been storing my passions like solar panels
harnessing energy, converting urges

I’m ready for you
don’t know
if you’re ready
for the ‘lights’ of me
I was many years in the shadows
until the spectrum generated by your proximity
burned away the blackness

I’m not quite myself
turning on and off as flippant as a switch

you are the only one
I can drink alone to in a darkened room
for now

bittersweet cocktails are a conduit
to your skin cells
I
unload my impulses in liquified amber
swallowing the static burn

but
I can’t keep losing power like this
in fact, I’m quite sure
if I don’t take you by storm and soon
there’s not much time remaining
before my charged bolt fades
and I am forced to fumble back into
some dead fold

Warrior Lashes

Warrior Lashes

entering inside the entryway

Clinging/sculpt

once you rise
there’s no more playin’
balls to the floor
legs emoting ahead of the brain train
the sun has already yanked itself up
beat as you are, you must do the same
but with a lot less heat
now
there was heat
not in this room
not this morning
but last night
against the vestibule wall
you know, the entryway
where there was most definite entering
and heat, lots of spectacular heat
didn’t make it to the bedroom
did you
did we
the moon for all its cool talk
was mighty steamy last night
damn that sun
forcing away the silver sultry circle
like you did to them
after the small vestibule got smaller
there wasn’t the space you needed
to sleep
the big bed to yourself
the sheets cold
the way you like them
that’s why they had to go
after one last Godly-deep kiss
so you could close your eyes
then the curtains
and not witness the night’s disappearance
because every time the moon falls down
the dreaming stops
you’re so much better at dreaming life
rather than living it
but the sun doesn’t give a shit about your dreams
and at this moment
its bringing that other kind of heat
the bad sweat
when you play dress up for the day and desire nothing
but to remain wrapped in your cool sheets like cotton skin
on the big bed
dreaming
reliving every delirious moment
when the cool moon was hot
in that small front room
where they gained entrance
into your armor
and possibly your heart

this is my all time favorite Glenn Miller tune if you’d like to take a listen – I adore it:)

the other side of the rainbow

“we’ll find a way of forgiving”
is this true
wouldn’t that be beautiful
not to end
in hatred
but to persevere
in love
“somewhere over the rainbow”
because we can’t stay on this side anymore
we learn to cherish

internal not eternal beauty
of children
of people
of humanity
that rainbow keeps looking better
on the other side
green lush, pure blue

conflicts end with handshakes
not burning holes
what color there would be
what a brilliant world we could live in
we’re but one side away
if only

SImon Says Peace

Simon Says Peace

Created last year for a dear blogger friend–Simon Tocclo, a man of action trying to affect genuine change in Liberia. Among his many social platforms, Simon can also be found through his blog, Liberian Me

“We’ll find a way of forgiving,” borrowed from, West Side Story
“Somewhere over the rainbow,” borrowed from, The Wizard of Oz

American Gothic-My Peas and Carrots Nightmare

Last night I was soaring though the blogosphere and happened upon an article about dreaming by Ghazal of sparkonit.com. The article got me to thinking about a reoccurring dream I had as a child. I’ll try to be brief:

Two old farmers bearing resemblance to that Midwestern duo in Grant Wood’s famous painting, American Gothic stand atop a steep, dirt hill. Both the man and the woman grip shiny shovels. The environment is devoid of anything but the couple, the hill and a bright azure sky. Then from behind a giant tin can appears. The can’s arrival goes unnoticed by the elderly farmers. The monstrous can proceeds to fall on its side and out pour its contents of peas and carrots.

The round peas immediately begin rolling downhill. The square-cut carrots cannot. This is where things turn gruesome. The seemingly sweet farmers smile wickedly then begin running down the hill whooping and yahooing as they flatten the helpless carrots. The farmers’ boots squish and squeak as they trample over the diced orange cubes. The carrots are screaming.

Andrew's Monster/acrylic

Andrew’s Monster/acrylic