i decided

to come hear you
whisper discreetly in my ear
moments that matter

let dominoes fall
let me keep you
in the hard things

let me fill you
with words that
half way start to bubble

like hope, ~
like something true
will come of my life


a 44 Quadrille for dVerse

Going Away

2 eggs,
1 teaspoon salt,

i do not see

still my heart
will rise above

this leaving,
though I age badly

i will re-
make this cake

and be happy
with chocolate icing


for QKJ #16

On a Tuesday

don’t know when,
or where the light switch went
who, or what grabs the unquenchable flame?

how do I stand if I can
among desks, dead concrete,
smoke and loose leaf limbs?

it’s the way he said it,
in a red badge moment
i wiped away blood from
the inside of my glasses and rose;

for everyone who can stand
stand now, if you can
help others, do so.

-The Red Bandanna by Tom Rinaldi
a 9/11 Tribute to civilian Welles Crowther

for Real Toads

The Pen That Is You

There, in the meadow
we stole the world, our whole
childhood in a stick
off the side of the road.

We bat down history re-
scaping ground South of town,
whittling away the sharpest years
by slowly growing out of them.

The pen that is you, – tucked
in a craftsman hinged box
still croons to its tall grass sister
softly singing,  all flesh is fleeting,


a nod to my brother Shawn,
who whittled me a Sunflower
wood pen, to remind me
of home; of then. QKJ prompt

Reading Your Letters

Friday & Sunday in March.
Pass slowly. Step back,
Understand what I’m saying.
We’ve never seen her so weary.
April. A unicorn & a girl.
Dear. Hello dear.
You fell asleep, sweet girl.
Auf Wiedersehen, –
Always the same suspense in different,
More arrogant costumes.
But the unicorn, –the flattered ani
– mal bridles and rears and leans
against her lap. It is a mirror that she holds.
See! She is showing the unicorn its likeness-
Are you not poetry I understand?
Everything, forever.

Rilke’s words (italicized) for Real Toads & QKJ #13
He was a poet and hated the approximate.
Rainer Maria Rilke
The Journal of My Other Self

Accurate : Jan. 12

The Christmas tree the trash man refuses
to pick up is really starting to piss me off!
As is one of my broken kitchen drawers.

Harold, my former casting director, is drunk
or at least tipsy … his blurry eyes size me
up for the contemptible role of Cinderella.

Harold and his Duchess Barbara may take up
residency in the house at the end of my
cul-de-sac, which just went up on the market.

I’ve trespassed undetected in the living area
to have a look-see at the gorgeous rock work,
the vaulted ceilings, beams, and lamp lights.

The dreamy landscaped backyard, Barbara can’t
even put into words for me as we talk on the porch.
Trash items are tucked beneath my crossed arms.

I act … as if it’s perfectly normal to conceal
detritus … to wear liberated short-shorts
and Converse shoes which help me hop away

In ten feet high bounds in the hopes of landing
in the eruption of one of their yard sprinklers …
But! Buoyed is not written in the script for me,

So I schlepp off two houses … down … down
to my own, only to find that the old dream house
owners strew their throw-aways all over my lawn.

Old soiled carpet, a broken-down baby
crib, and other psychological shrapnel
now block me from leaving my track home.

In the corner of my drive is that despicable
tree still standing a little too indecently
in the can. I look for a prince or a hacksaw.

[a Dream Poem for PAD & submitted to Real Toads]

In a hospital,

near to pass,

Marge calls

Angie ‘an angel,’

and pats with

an age old hand,

Angie’s hand.

A parting,

a re-naming,

a far away swan.

[the letter ‘A’ for Quickly]









On a small digital camera

that means something, –
I wake up at 50 in a
cryptic body costume
squeezing my soul.
I haven’t done a damned thing
in 20 years.
your wild imaginings, –
we all want the beauty
when the music
doesn’t like us anymore.
-so now you understand
the shoeless, the smokers,
the instantly smitten.
Predators and prey we catch
in one day, – on a small
digital camera.

[an old prompt from Izy at Real Toads
Watch this Leos Carax clip from ➡️Holy Motors]

Dear God, It’s January

Therefore, it’s Saturday & I’m home.
My fingers are electrically quipped,
but I’ve not much to say about the wall
clock & its battery constantly running low.
Rain funnels steady through the back awning
gutter. No one else hear its pent-up expression.
I respectfully remain quiet as can be, robed
and sitting cross-legged on the floral dining
chair I will name Lydia. My feelings deepen
about why I’m here. What gives with all this typing?
Why this derangement? And if I’m being perfectly honest,
what’s the real reason I pull my feet up off the floor?
O, – I’m cocooned in a refrigerator hum and a metronome
{tick, tick} as I peck out a life in unexplainable, unimaginable,
and more often than not … unintelligible clicks.
Dear God, you know how much I’m ardent for visionary composition,
per chance, per chance. Sacred words saved for another time or day.

(day 7 “time” for Quickly)

Wake Up

I want to give you a good time today.
I want you to be awake and soundless.
A free bird coasting over peaks and valleys.
I want to give you life air-brushed
across your cheeks, give you the comfort
of clouds so close, so close, so close.
I want you to be the tallest, retrieving
articles from hide-away angels. I want you
to keep walking along my exquisite spine
of green ridge, stepping aside all other thoughts.
I want you to lay eyes on my chiseled sky Mountain
in soft cobalt blue. I want this so bad for you!
A bare-boned awakening.

(day 6 “brush” for Quickly)