Broken me and broken you.
What am I supposed to do?
Wait for you to fix yourself....
...while I go on like nothing's wrong
...before too long we're gone
and then, the chance has slipped us by.

You cry for you.
I cry for me.
We both cry for the wee ones.

Babies grow and mothers die.
What then my love?
What then?


Sumedh Prasad: Until we meet again.

A Delhi street is empty, 
where the music used to play.
Where flowers bloomed and his 
smile could fill the city.
Where he dreamed and loved and laughed
and nothing was impossible.



I want to walk with you
in fields of lavender
I want to polish stones smooth
and look for elephants in clouds

I want to read your favorite books
again and again, sounding out the words
in those funny voices
that you love

I want to help you wrap your baby dolls
with tender loving care
I want to show you that kindness
is beautiful and right

I want you to know that the
honeybee is important
As well as the crow
hawk and heron

I want you to find the artist
that lies within you
I want you to paint with
the colors that you choose


Paper Lanterns


tiny paper lanterns
fragile and warm
held together with
thin wire and glue
dancing in the night breeze
like painted stars
just within arms reach


Attention Span

Homeless veterans stacked like cordwood upon the city sidewalks
warriors sleeping on cement beds

Rats and roaches invade the schools
while insulation falls on lunch trays

Young men armed to their shiny gold teeth
all you are is all you know

Corporate suits hold black tie affairs
while sipping their chocolate martinis
and counting their bits of paper

"Margaret said the Hamptons are quite nice this time of year"


The Author

Don't leave yet, my friend
Don't leave yet

This is but the beginning of the novel
The first chapter of your life
And it's a hell of a long book

Did you know that the scenes are up to you?
You get to decide who plays the characters
You get to decide the fate of the leading man

You are not just a constant reader of this world
You are the author

Don't leave yet



Burning Shooting
Twirling Turning
Creeping Crawling
Numbing Hurting
Bruising Pulsing
Hiding Waiting
Taking Taking
Taking Taking


Bright Sides

Photo property of Meg Cape

already in their felt hat years
already making ancient history
when your boys can play the blues
there is always spanish moss
there are always wooden barrels
there are always bright sides


"Our Daniel"

We look into the past
with a longing in our heart
To find the man from Ireland
who gave us all our start

Our Daniel was a brave young lad
who sailed across the water
His blood, it runs through all our veins
and in our sons and daughters

And after he had tamed the sea
and conquered tangled land
He plowed the soil and cut the wood
all with his Irish hands

On a lush Kentucky hillside
where the Ohio runs right through
Our Daniel loved his Catherine
and raised his children too

While resting at night with his Scottish bride
what worries did they share
Where did he like to hunt with his boys
and where did he say his prayers

I'm sure that settling in that place
was like going home once more
cause the hills are emeralds in Kentucky
where no Irishmen are poor


When Mommy Leaves

can't believe you're running
and leaving the kids behind
just what do we tell the darlings
that mother's lost her mind?

how to console a little girl
who's crying herself to sleep
who longs to see her mothers face
but mother love won't keep

where can I store the tears I've cried
so baby doesn't see
and how do I wear a smile on my face
when baby is on my knee

not thinking about those left behind
just thinking about yourself
like mother love is something
that can be put up on a shelf

and taken out a month from now
like nothing's ever changed
like nobody's heart has been torn up
like no one's been in pain

all young mothers want to run
away a time or two
the strongest ones of all, however
are the ones that never do


Empty Nest

The clocks grew loud again
Their chimes echoing in the hall
No longer cloaked in the shrieks of children
the squeaks of toys
piano scales

The floors stay shiny mirrors
Although my secret always wish
I want to see just one small footprint by the door
or random flour drops
from rainy day cookies

Spray bottle on the dresser
full of monster-be-gone,
good for closets and dark hidey spots
Hurts could be soothed with a
momma song and five minutes in the rocking chair


Skipping Stones

There's a closet full of bones and
my mind is skipping stones
Random thoughts of a long long time ago

How you cradled him so near
'cause he was your baby dear
With a song, so tender sweet and low

There's a hazy distant place
where I always see your face
And death is just a word in a book

When I want to see your grin
I just travel back again
Skip some stones, close my eyes and take a look


new age poor

flat screens
rice and beans
designer jeans

new age poor
jersey shore
sorrow at the
liquor store

tap water
wall street fodder
tell it to the
junk mans daughter

raised fist
nation pissed
sell your stuff on

battle cry
people barely
getting by



I wish I was a pill

of your choosing

You could swallow me

and I could make you

happy instead



skin wrapped in barbed wire
the sky is surely falling
talons grab my shoulders
won't lift me to a higher plane


I need a chaser
Something cold and sweet
to mask the taste
of the bitterness
I've been holding



your fist is your courage
the pain is your glove
all day for battle
but no time for love


Lost in the Storm

i found a photo in the yard this morning
of an old lady with a kind face

the edges were jagged and worn
and it told a long story

carried on the winds like a kite
it came to rest by my yellow roses

it was kept in a family bible or a dresser drawer
an album or a shirt pocket

taken out occasionally
to caress and remember

I hope she finds her way home


parents of musicians

parents of musicians
are a patient lot
with a tender ear
and a soft heart

inspire, encourage
their children to be
makers of music
maestros of peace



Ra is glistening across the dunes

each grain of sand
of the others

each realizing
his own importance
her own potential


To my Australian friends...

I hope all are safe from the terrible flooding. Please check in if you are able. My prayers go out to the families who are suffering in this.


Silent Monks

Outside the walls of rhyme and meter
Smiling at sunsets
Calling for crows
Waltzing in the dew
Using the good crystal for orange juice and
Soaking in hot baths...
But here in this poetry place
We miss you

Here, where we huddle at long tables
Heads bowed, shoulders slumped
Scratching ink onto paper
Worker ant scribes
Striking a match with our words
A candle to light the way...
Into this poetry place
So we can miss you

Like silent monks we're in this dream
Plucking words out of the air
Putting them in maniacal order
Rinse, Repeat
Glance down hallways of light
Must summon and conjure, magic wand style...
Inside this poetry place
Because we miss you


as the coyote clan howls
a smile sweeps across
inside the screens
i am a safe observer

they creep to water's edge
crunching leaves
tracks in the sand, for us
to find in morning


the widow

shadows like a dusty tomb
lace and cobwebs fill the room
widows tatting fills her hours
perfumed wrist gardenia flowers
husband in a silver frame
never coming home again



set the clocks back an hour

use the time to dot
my eyes and cross my tea

talk with old friends who
had left the room

tie knots in silk ribbons
around my waist

gypsy swirls and
floating tresses

dance until the future
catches up with me


maori love song

dark plaited hair
moonlit and shining
slid down her back
in beautiful repose
watching the haka
men bravely dancing
bodies loud and
showing the strength
of a maori love song



it wasn't our fault
the two of us
we followed the rules
obeyed our elders
said our prayers

it wasn't our fault
the pair of us
we tried to forget
the torture
of the every day

it wasn't our fault
childhood duplicity
no one
picked us up
and ran

it wasn't our fault


The Clover

Momma screams in silence
for the granddaughters
that filled her heart
and these rooms
with laughter

The pain of separation
is too much to bear
so she lies in the clover
and goes to sleep with
pennies on her eyes


Blue Tuesday

The elder died
the people cried
ringleader of the poets tribe

Collective gasp
he'd lost his grasp
his words belong now to the past

If we had known
the seeds were sown
that he was only ours on loan

Just one more day
more time to play
before he had to go away


Paul Squires Tattoo

Paul Terry Squires
November 19, 1963 – July 27, 2010

His mark has been left

raging on

We hope for
one more
scrawled line
of infinite wisdom

Gingataos battle cry
shouted from the four corners...

Rage on!
Rage on!
Rage on!
Rage on!

2 glasses left on the table, kind sir



Fly into your sunset
baby boy with eyes of gold
Don't forget your momma
and the things that you've been told

Don't forget whose arms have held you
when the storms grew near
Don't forget the ones that love you
...them that hold you dear


Boot Camp

Your days are full
of climbing
and shooting
and crawling
and sweating
and crying
and counting days

My days are full
of watching
and waiting
and wondering
and pacing
and crying
and counting days



Watchful eye and
nervous nelly
Clothes are washing
Satisfied belly

Folded arms and
get back here
Baby songs
in the rocking chair

Smell the scent
of infant skin
Because of you
our lives begin

Drops of joy and
drops of pain
Sliding down
your cheeks again

Love so wide
so big, so deep
Tuck the children in
to sleep

Golden cord
that reaches through
Keeps your children
close to you


The book is here

I'm happily holding in my hands, the first official 'book' that has my poetry in it. My complimentary copy arrived today. A beautiful book titled, Psychological Poems : Journal of Outsider Poetry - issue number one - Richard M. Patel, MD & Raquel Miller. They have included 2 poems: Depression & Bottle Tree.

~"Stephen Dunn in "Walking Light," predicted how Outsider poetry might look today: "Outsider poems once were wilder than their historical moment, like 'Howl' in the fifties, or extravagantly resistant like 'The Waste Land' in the twenties. I'm not sure what a great outsider poem might be now. My guess is that it's tenor would need to be more subtle and more delicate than it's historical moment, that it would be most astonishing in what it addresses yet refuses to give in to. It would not be the poem of outspoken complaint or rage; that voice would be too much like the voices we regularly hear on the evening news." - Richard M. Patel, MD

Also received word this week that another poem will be in Our U.S. Magazine. : )



stagger in a straight line
and row the boat to shore
twist some lemon in a glass
pick sand up off the floor

waves will lull you, tides will pull you
brown skin lustre shine
do some magic, life is tragic
take what isn't mine



difference makers
risk takers
fathers of the beat
cigar box guitars
smiling hands
dirty feet




split, quartered, halved
stretched, compacted
shared, stolen
longed for, wished away
ticking, ticking

sun shines on monoliths
gears turn with precision
lines scribbled in a cell
pin-up birthdays on the wall


The Gallery

rain streaked picture window
frames the Dali street lights
with neon Warhol vacancy

umbrella toting Monet figures
glide past hurriedly
under van Gogh's hidden crescent moon



Take away
all the sorry
and the
what did I do

Take it back
all the worry
and the
can't tell the truth

Box it up
all the ugly
all the mess
and the lies

Send it off
to a sad place
that I know
in your eyes


something in the water

a childhood rite
to swim with friends
splash and play
dog paddle

miss lily white attitude
i don't like
to share my water

skin's too dark
too many of you
don't come back
here's your refund



Ceramic dogs eternally sit upon the mantle
Lustre prisms dangle in the air
Overstuffed everything with lace pinned on
53 glass birds roost on a table

Victor sits confused
on a fringed stool
playing the piano
bisque babies
covering the top

She wants the right to vote
yet to live
in her feminine world
of velvet curtains and velvet cake



Acquainted with suffering
shoulders hold the world
Bent with their worries
no room for her own

Searching for exit signs
above doorways
And trapdoors
in hallways

She came in somehow
There has to be a way out
of this
and that


Sea of Green

Green Green
Sea of Green
Silence stretches
Miles between

Where is fairness
Where is truth
Marching bravely
with our youth



Up in arms
and out of breath
Running, skipping
cheating death
They'll unlock
the iron door
Cross the line
and kiss the floor
Feels the heat
upon his skin
Never to
go back again



(For Louise)

She stays with him
on a familiar path
The trees are the same
just slightly more bent
She climbs the hickory
and surveys her horizon
Upon descent, she curls
her fingers around his
Finds her footprints
from before she cried
and keeps walking


Bob Church

Our friend Bob Church passed away on April 29th. Bob was an amazing soul. My heart feels hurt. Hard to write right now, but I plan on a tribute to him in the near future. Please keep his wife Louise and his family in your prayers.


Calling Chiefs

I am old skool rap
and faded jeans
Trolling the beach
and gathering things
I am worn too thin
I am walking proud
I am desert dust
I am screaming loud
I am looking out
I am looking in
I am calling chiefs
I am rusty tin



Sisters stroke the violin
Embroidered in their crinoline
Whalebone hoops enforce the cage
Adding to their quiet rage



What do they call you
smiling glad lady?
And who breaks your bread
for the feast?
Minstrels see your
eyes twinkle and
your throat purr

Who will claim your hand
and your heart?


swimming in the now

and in the end, we hold our heads
and fly into the blue
a solo flight, of pure delight
magnificent and true
pain is left on ocean floor
and as we take our bow
the final act, is what we thought
we're swimming in the now


Snake Eyes

A memory comes out of the shadows
Her father shooting dice
on the checkered linoleum floor
Ivory cubes bouncing off of the stove
Landing by her knees
Baby just got a
new pair of shoes



Bronze fountainheads
cannot go back home
and dance again with the others
on sunshining days
in the Summer Palace


2 week hiatus

I'm off on a 2 week hiatus to gather with family. I'll catch up on all the poems when I return. Happy writing all. :)


Big Brother

Big brother TALL
Big brother STRONG

You protected us
Stood up for us
Comforted us
Loved us
Made us feel safe
in a world out of control

Now I want to stand up for you
To comfort you and love you
I want to tell you that it will be okay
That I know how you feel
The pain so deep, so raw, so burning
you just want it to end

Big brother TALL
Big brother STRONG
I love you


Quieting of the Soul

The hawk is piercing the air
while a bitter wind blows leaves
across the water
Yellow and orange floaters
cover bloodroot patches
Pockets full of wild licorice leaves

November palette makes one think
of wool coats and quilting bees
The smokehouse is full of venison
The shelves gleam with jars and crocks
while herbs hang from racks
Quieting the Earth and the soul



Strolling after supper
down porch lined lanes
Mrs. Malone is laughing
her apron discarded for the night
Swings creaking and
teacups in saucers
Mr. Johnson is pulling weeds
from the cracks in the walk
Children fresh from their baths
put fireflies in pickle jars
A gentleman in a wicker chair
waves a transparent hand
The scent of Gardenia
welcomes us home


corner market

running down the hot sidewalk
2 coins jingling in his pocket
anticipation of orange soda
his own bottle, just for him
shaved head reflects the sun
shoes slapping, coins jingling