glow little glow worm

peace to you


may peace find you this season
merry and bright hearts love one another
compassion in gentle wrapping for all

Spitfire – a little Saturday fun

I rarely post videos. When I do, they’re musically driven.
I adore Helen Humes, spitfire R&B diva’s version of, “Drive Me Daddy,” a ‘let’s-go-let-it-go,’ song.
Through this song, Miss Hume’s captures a fearless, life-affirming style!
I can’t help but smile, smirk and sing along.
Happy Weekend!



pounding Djembes

blistering fingers thrum chords of fire
are these the burning hands you know
the soul’s tempo like a copper pendulum, does gold resonate there
this virtuoso mouth of yours, has it stolen arias in vacant symphony halls
when lights are low and days have dimmed
has the rage of your wanting lips fingered around a contrabass anaconda
do motivations fade inside bitter notes when the maestros falter
is your wary body allegro when a feisty partner plays
do you weep for the swelling of spring songs upon winter’s death
written across sheets of white are ink spills to be erased
goat-skin Djembes thrust exotic cadence into hearts unprotected
does this pounding journey move along its own rhythm
or do lovers create your solos

Upright nude trio/charcoal

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


piano bellies

there was this kid
long ago
she liked playin’ piano bellies
from beneath their wooden hulls
didn’t follow
couldn’t follow
pointing fingers
her little brain
had its own direction
above her eyes
the strings
pianos and buttermilk
churned in glass jars
along the highway of years
loaded with orange cones
white lines
not creating
but moving
just the same
just the same
she was no different

peace wish

peace wish


locked outside my diary

Pardon the use of I and me, waxing rather sentimental these days-

I’m not one of those fortunate people who began penning prose long ago. Words floated around my little world, surfacing when needed most. I used words as I was used–to catalogue a hurt on a silent diary page. Along the way something changed on my planetary ink spec. Not sure exactly what. Or exactly when. Words began bubbling up the back of my throat, beyond my physical ability to remove them. Maybe letters were always there waiting for me to grow and meet them head on.

Today, I write in too many directions. I answer whatever settles in the back of my throat. When the words don’t make sense to me, I let them exit and fall anyway. Heavy ones hit hard. Sometimes I’m able to build better looking piles, like an over-involved Scrabble board when everyone is cheating. If I’m lucky, a rare paper maché tree blossoms. Seeds might be sown or roots might unearth and rot away.

Some spin angst in their writing bubbles with or without realizing it. I’ve never needed excessive force to let go. My brain takes me all sorts of places. It always has. Crazy–yes, a little bit–I’ve been told more often than I care to count. I’m quite the chameleon now. I suppose it’s why I’ve owned several iguanas throughout my life. I wouldn’t own chameleons for fear I’d lose them against paisley curtains or checkered floors. Writing can be this way. Putting painted words out there and occasionally losing them.

The more I go at this writing, the more questions amass. Too many queries mounting on my traveling donkey. Should I get my challenge-load astride a mule, I’ll be but one steed step away from getting a few things figured out as I scale that ominous writing mountain. What has come to bother me most about writing, is not so much the creative part. It is how my words sometimes have the ability to hurt when they were always my healers. It amazes me, how I so often manage to be the kid locked outside of my own diary.

on the way to nostalgic-heard this song today in the car-I believe I sang this one million times when I was 13-thank you