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All her love...

She found me...
out along the path.

I was barely clinging to life...
stuck between the cracks.

Her soft hands so gentle...
as she carried me here.

She set me in fresh soil...
now many years have passed.

She waters me still.

Occasionally she sings to me ...
turning my pot on the sill.

Often she turns the blinds...
that I may bask in the sun.

But would she ever believe?
that I could one day bloom...

I wonder if she ever thinks...
that there's beauty inside of me?

Seasons of the past... ( Mind storm )

Opening like a flower
only to catch the rain
that falls like tears
from blood soaked eyes
releasing swells of pain

Sorrow fills the callouses
the cracking and crumbling grasp
as outstretched hands surrender innocence
from fingertips to the wrist

Reflecting an unbearable image
back through the window pane
in a valiant attempt to resist himself
he curses his own name

New hope briefly birthed
like a sprout and a bloom
only to give way to thirst
overwhelmed by impending doom

Not the same...

I was once filled with darkness
like the "tail side" of the moon...

I lived behind all the lights.

Like sharpened fingernails raked down my face, grasping for someones concern...

only to be bloodied by the desires
and addictions of my youth.

Then like a flare set up from the ocean
hope burned in the night sky...

as I watched my imperfections turn to dreams, dancing upon the sea.

Revealing that perfect ghost, calling me out upon the waves...

and I've never been the same, since that first step of faith.

My best friend

She stands in the mirror
Beautiful and strong
I couldn’t see her clearer
She’s what I wanted to be all along
she’s so perfect, even every flaw
She loves herself to her very core
when she passes, they all stare in awe
but something in her tore
she became insecure
her thoughts all seemed to be deranged
she hid herself and every curve
every day she urged to change
she didn’t know why
her only priority was her weight
all she could do was sigh
while she counted every calorie she ate

The Abyss

The Abyss is tame
I do not fear the abyss
And it does not fear me
Many times,
We drink whiskey together
And talk about old times
I've watched the abyss bury my friends
Such talent
Such remorse
One day the abyss will come for me
And I will welcome it with open arms

CITY SKETCHES Sixteenth in the Scuppernong series

Two men walk by, animated
each having their own sight in the moment
they are bringing vision out of dreams
putting possibilities into practice.

Japanese women, a dozen or so come out of Scuppernong Books
look uncomfortable in the heat, perhaps wishing for Tokyo
speaking in their native tongue
one is angry speaking in body language only.

One man of color walks by, preoccupied,
his thoughts trailing like balloons behind.

Peach Poem Recipe November Contest

I envy the prolific poet
who can whip up a delicious dish
of twenty lines (or less)
and present it
like a perfect peach pie;
warm, topped with ice cream.

Words woven in an intricate lattice;
buttery, they melt on my tongue;
taste buds tantalized by the
succulent, brown-sugared mound
of fresh fruit imagery, juicy
and lovingly intermingled

That Innocent child

She seems so distant, so far away
It is strange to see a genuine smile
Ever stumbling along day by day
The zombies are here, our souls in exile

We are the demons the source of privation
I am polluted and defiled
Has earth become my eternal damnation
I miss her, that innocent child

I see the decorations, ornaments and frill
This malignity should be forgotten and estranged
Their cackaling laughter and mischievous shrill
My agony labeled as mentally deranged

Mother's Boy

A man, so proud, so strong so tall
One i'm afraid to even talk to
As if one out- of- place word might
Cause anger or even hasty blows.
Yet he cries at night and..
I pretend i don't hear him;
His shameless whimpers and whispers
Tell me who is behind his tears.
The mornings go on, each one the same,
And i always know how unhappy he is without his mother.
Eight tearful years have passed,
You'd think it time to move on but...
He still clings to the hope that she will return


Soft on the neck of either dove’s love, beyond such a beauty, there hides a haze. A hazy patch of blacks and blues, where ashes lay, woke. The nightlight from an open candle sits in silence, trapped in lifeless motion, as it awaits the sun beyond its metal feet. A frozen door handle, covered with moldy moss, acts as the dawning memory of a lock intended to close, but always remains open, as a child’s laughter re-paints flowers along a bedroom barrier.


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