Just before she headed down to

Get Lucky Tonight

she dabbed on makeup

that later would get smeared

out in the parking lot.

She had been given a nickname


which she earned almost

every night.

Beat up pickups

Mercedes Benz

her legs knew no difference

even with the handsome twins.

Just before daylight

she was discovered dead

in the parking lot face down

in a pool of red.

Some said she deserved it

others moved on

the local headlines said

Delight is no longer available

at Get Lucky Tonight…


Wednesday & Wordless


She hasn’t spoke a single word

be it Wednesday, or not

so why should I remain wordless

when I enjoy harmonizing with birds.

But just in case this should upset

those who take wordless seriously

I’ve included Wednesday & Wordless

in the title and above line

and as a footer disclaimer

that does not rhyme

it’s not Wednesday, yet!!

No one else does

No one else does

leave unquenchable

thirst for art

straight from creativity heart.

No one else does

find hidden gems

wandering down vacant streets


No one else does

hear the voice

feel heartbeats

placed on naked page.

No one else does

scatter words



no one else does

Pills Chills Thrills of a Tin Man


Addicted to restless nights

endless fights


has given me lost memory

I can no longer steal

moments spent in empty rooms

nor can I catch a glimpse of

what I cherished most about


I miss the beauty

your sigh

now, I struggle to share

my vault

of deep emotion

for fear others will know

I am human, a fault

hidden so many years.

I often speak of you

to the birds and trees

they seem to understand

thankful am I

my vision of green and blue

does not void my tongue

of thee.

Pills give me chills

my skin crawls

my breath short

yet I write from my heart

pleased am I

it has not used abort.

At times I penetrate

the paper with my pen

not knowing my strength

seeking to place me

on the page

while my pills curb the rage.

Sometimes I am lost

on a stretch of forbidden highway

where truth is not spoken

nor do friends ride along

where minds of old

collect verses

to discard at a rest area

where they belong.

Sometimes at night I drown

in my own sweat

get chills

as a breeze cools my soul

giving me back words wet

with tears.

Addicted to medicine

to help me cope

sometimes I get curious about

where my thoughts have been

and was I really awake or

merely dreaming again.



I’m a stranger

yet known by thee

my life still unfolding

growing like a willow tree.

I’m a mystery

between the lines

of rhymes

a kaleidoscope

perhaps to glance into

see beauty within.


Each darkness makes a heart


of promises broken, kept.

Makes a mind release thoughts

lost in secret dreams

hoping they come true.

Each darkness intently listening

for an owl, a loon

heard years ago.

Makes a mind remember

tears, ecstasy

births, deaths.

Each darkness awakens



Obscured by clouds

Long forgotten conversations

silly misunderstandings

obscured by clouds

along with wonderful smiles.

Changing tones of voice

soft caress upon skin

grip of hand revealing

never alone.

Nothing left analyzed

answers became peace

hearts knew when to


Obscured by clouds

in love


Obscured by clouds

Words, like Aliens, exist


Words flying round
like aliens from space
from a vacant planet
landing on pages
barren of life
now breathing ink
fighting off fatigue
as the battle rages on
to connect the blots
into human form.
Take me to your leader
one would suggest
would be the battle cry
as words are now caught
in the crossfire
waving a white flag
retreating, retweeting
to reach the people
who gaze in wonder
as the heated exchange
lands once more
on pages of hope
with sounds of thunder
roaring across the sky.

Words, like aliens,



A rhythm
like heartbeats
no other sound
the night begins to speak
with a voice of it’s own.
This is where breathing
takes on a new meaning
as translation unfolds
repeats itself
so the night controls
the listener
swept into a trance
hears hidden rhymes
begins to dance.
Mystery awakens
from its sleep
pulls memory into view
the bard of old
begins to speak
with tongue of gold
captures the reader
off guard.
A celebration
followed by precise readings
allows the night to stir
illustrating more than stars
as words portray
what once was a blur.
The ghost writer injects
the scope of the craft
leaving words to stand
on merit alone
after all, that’s the idea
to imprison the night
the reader
with delight.



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