Saturday, May 1, 2021





Virus In The Air

 Spasms In My Back



There's a virus in the air, but I can't see it.


People are dying around me, but I can't save them.


There are spikes pierced in my back,


spasms, but I can't touch them.


Heartbeats, hell pulsating, my back muscles,


I covet in my prayers.


I turn right to the left, in my bed, then hang still.


Nails impaled, I bleed hourly,


Jesus on that cross.


Now 73 years of age, my half-sister 92,


told me, "getting old isn't for sissies."


I didn't believe her—


until the first mimic words


out of "Kipper" my new parakeet's mouth,


sitting in his cage alone were


"Daddy, it's not easy being green."




Leaves In December


Leaves, a few stragglers in


December, just before Christmas,


some nailed down crabby


to ground frost,


some crackled by the bite


of nasty wind tones.




Some saved from the matchstick


that failed to light.


Some saved from the rake


by a forgetful gardener.




For these few freedom dancers


left to struggle with the bitterness:


wind dancers


wind dancers


move you are frigid


bodies shaking like icicles


hovering but a jiffy in the sky,


kind of sympathetic to the seasons,


reluctant to permanently go, rustic,


not much time more to play.




Group Therapy



Wind chimes.


It’s going to rain tonight, thunder.


I’m going to lead the group tonight talking


about Rational Emotive Therapy,


belief challenges thought change,


Dr. Albert Ellis.


I’m a hero in my self-worship,


self-infused patient of my pain,


thoughtful, probabilistic atheism


with a slant toward Jesus in private.


Rules roll gently creeping


through my body with arthritis


a hint of mental pain.


Sitting in my 2001 Chevy S-10 truck,


writing this poem, late as usual.


It’s going to rain, thunder


heavy tonight.




Fiction Girl




Drawings, then poems flip over to fiction;


the flash girl rides this ghost of the invention.


Insecure in youth, switch girl from drawing


to poetry, extension flight, outer fiction space,


yours is a manner of words at work.


Mercury is a god of movement.


A new skill set, brain twister, releases 100 free plays.


Life is a version of old times, fresh starts, torn yellow pages.


I focused on you last night; I watched your head spin


in sleep, a new playhouse of tree dreams, high shifting.


Changes are leaves; I lift your spirits to the gods of fire,


offer you thunderbolts practice your shooting in heaven


or hell, or toss back to earth.


Change is a choice where your energy flows.


No computer gods will help this poetic journey.


May you cry out loud on route to fairytale creations.


You are the chemist, the mixer girl shifting gears.


Creativity is how the gallery of galaxies cement.


Flash fiction lines cross stars.




Cold Gray (V2)



Below the clouds


forming in my eyes,


your soft eyes,


delicate as warm silk words,


used to support the love I held for you.




Cold, now gray, the sea tide


inside turns to poignant foam


upside down separates-


only ghosts now live between us.




Yet, dreamlike, fortune-teller,


bearing no relation to reality-


my heart is beyond the sea now.


A relaxing breeze sweeps


across the flat surface of me.


I write this poem to you,


neglectfully sacrificing our love.


I leave big impressions


with a terrible hush inside.


Gray bones now bleach with memories,


I’m a solitary figure standing


here, alone, along the shoreline.





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