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The stream (all workshops)

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Winning Moments

below the carpet
lie loose threads
obscured over time;
but for me
it's my past
gathering dust

I turn it upside down
only to notice
a collage of
weathered storms
tied up in knots;
a mute witness
to what I was then,
but for which
I wouldn't have been
what I am now

I frame the collage
captioning it
"winning moments"

The Power of Silence

She was powerful
For the words
She didn’t speak

If she opened
Her mouth
You knew
It would be

A rudder
Or a cleaver
A stitch
Or a glass of water

She chose
Her words well

And her silences
Even better


Restless is the storm fed ocean
where she has left a bounty
there upon the shore

But seagulls will not venture
knowing where the danger lies
if the truth be pure and simple
they'll be no need
for alibis

The wind is high and wild
fires sweep the land
as I stare out of my window
my coffee cup in hand
a wry smile upon my face
for now I understand

The story is from times of old
over and over it has been told and
oh by the way
my coffee has gone cold

Losses and Findings SEPTEMBER CONTEST

I only now recall ere the fall
come all human losses after all
I lost my pop in summer
my mom a year earlier
but rainy 'twas

my siblings too
decided to follow
mom and pop
but then I recall
I came along a summer's eve
so all ought to be happy
in summer none would grieve
as I won’t surely leave

but wait for a minute
I soon discovered
those who are born
in October an Air sign
rarely die
in December a Fire sign

PARADISE LOST and regained (Sept. contest)

I've walked these trails too oft before
throughout so many years
and never considered it a chore.
Why now do I fight back tears leaves above lose summer's green?

Around the next bend, I remember,
that huge deer that my brother shot
on that cold day in November
from that stand I used to hunt a lot.
....Both are now gone through that final screen.

The Pleasant Mess

First, it was a glance from the corner of curious eyes
sent to a woman walking beside me.

Then, it was a flock of falling unwillingly leaves,
leaves of the color of linnet wings,

and a girl on a bicycle learning to ride
with her brother running behind her.

I look at the clock, only one minute gone by.
How many of them did I miss and where was I?

I don't remember. But my hands
feel pleasantly heavy from carrying

the weight of my years.

My Memories

Last I remember
was the setting sun
but last night I awoke
today some years away
in coma did I stay
they say

'twas a long sleep
the world had forgotten too
now no one knew me
sad but twas that's true.

tears of sorrow dripped
my heart a beat skipped
it assured me
wait there is still hope
a knock at the gate

The Web.

The slow progression of a spider
up the dusted window pane
hauling his booty lady bug
pre-cocoon, and way too large
She resists this tiny spindly vein

Hard to focus on the brilliant phosphate
green of all that lies beyond my hand
hard to see the hills and rust sheds
making up this silent land

All I can focus on, is this
struggle in minutiae, nature’s hand
all that life is, and seems to be
is bundled up in its webbing strands

Appropriate Tattoos

like a fistful
of jagged stones

holding on to
these memories
so tightly

has kept me from

for newer names
and negotiations

I’m not even

that my hands
are bleeding

if I wanted
blood and permanence

I should have just
gotten a tattoo

they at least
are hands-free

let you live
then and now

a clock
and angel wings
on each arm


Is poetry a mere form letter
just fill in the blanks
merely form and nothing better?
if it is, no thanks!

I'll leave perfection to professors
in their sterile lecture halls
let them be the art's possessors
if they have the balls

All poetry straight from the heart
has its own type of grace
it's time the perfectionists start
to wipe the smirks from their smug face


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