Category Archives: Writing Collections

a library in process holding collection of my writing projects including expository essays, articles for counter-culture magazine, sudden fiction and freeverse poetry – organized by form or collection

New again, waiting

I can write my name
in Japanese
and in gramma’s garden
i can name all the weeds

But i din’t mean much
when it all sucks
cause you are gone all summer

the other girls
they don’t thrill me
i’m a wreck
since you went
to your gramma’s house
all holiday

since that night at the fireworks
i’ve of you mostly
but i must admit
if your not back quick
i’m gonna find another

when your back, we’ll have a blast
we’ll have a blast
I’ve a trick to teach you

All those times
at the bus stop
copping kisses
stealing feels

I want more now
& I’ve grown impatient
you’ve got to ride the greyhound

Run away from summer
got on heading this way
i’ve got two weeks left
to getta know you

we’ll never be this new again
so don’t tease me so dammit now
just hop the hound and
make it here before the snow

Henry at the Edge of the World

Why Henry,
Why Henry,
why did you leave the tranquility?

Navigating into nowhere
speculating on something
better than perfect
prince of confusion
or driven by pride?

Please tell me it wasn’t for greed, spices or pope
just to go!
The cove protected heavy ships from plunders
the point at the edge of the all anyone knows at this moment

Why didn’t you turn right
dancing with Galacian girls
or left into well enough

Now it’s the ghost of you and Cristobol
me and two earnest Germans
watching everything heading into somewhere
no longer new

The wind blows the same
sometimes we wait
in Aljezur
patching holes.
sometimes we make it nowhere

Navigate elsewhere Henry
maybe draw me a line
to divide something
and don’t compare hard

Temporary Lighthouses

Beyond the aspens
three of us
together fast

Please let me go now
the tension is just
a bit too much
to last

No no she says now
let me go he goes
just wander
into trees

There you say now
go on together
twos easier
than we three

Into the aspens
disappeared
white birch maple
and mystery

The three of us
not too soon
she sang again
riding free

Swerved around right
can’t bump the road
on the empty cold
desert night

Chorus

Windy days
and beach front fires
lighthouses calling
you away

I don’t mind
suppose it’s better
i’ll keep a mind
to remember
nights together in the aspen grove
before foothill evening
turned into today

Cemetary Afterall

Terraced footsteps
hills for wooden stairs
cobbles arranged by someone
slip slip into graves
candles burning flowers wilting
an empty space next by waiting
averting gaze from blackened hood mourning someone
for 30 years
or maybe el Papa since yesterday

Napoleon’s Caskets

Oh Napoleon in your caskets
why did you hafta mess it up?
It’s not that i’ve reason to care
here on top of your Arc of Triumph
celebrating the farmers, dead bastards
buried cold, scattered families told to feel pride
as your consolation prize

Did you feel unloved or just condescended?
You under willow tree squared up in St Helena’s rocks
Was it ever enough?
When did you plan to stop?

Perhaps in your next circuit
we have a baguette and talk about the good times, you know them all
listed in marble next to your heaving pompitude
over wine on the Seine
tell me when the fire started –
when did you know?

Just a couple answers for me because i’m greedy too
thirsty for life
questing for quiet and paints over battlefields and
coerced congratulations
did you not realize the power of restraint?
the art of deflection?

Now on Champs, i’m not sure
your reflecting face
at odds with the dereliction
now, where you are
do you room with Caeser or the saints?

Beers in Bruges

Drinking beers from Bruges to Paris
“ah you like good beer”
he says in halted words
punching ticket in boxy hat
winking, “i’ll be right back”

Six small cans of Stella Artois
“They fell off a truck”
gratis
not as good as Grimbergen
but free

He said, i am French but i haven’t a plan
just a guy doing what i can
i’ve been to the forests and plains
and i like my wine and friends
i wonder what is like to be there
a little envious perhaps
but not ready to trade

Mona Atlantico

Si si si you’d say
and disappear through a door
me looking –
finding you alight
and aflitter
anxious to avoid your iodine stare
its not i that i try to please you – i just do
something always new

Interludes and anecdotes
from Florida or yesterdays’ shorelines.
you pull the blanket over
over your shoulder
in the aftermath
vanish into dreams of olives,
mountainsides &
Manzanita sunsets.

Yes indeed i’ve found you
and you are my Andalusian girl today,
Catalan girl tomorrow

Si si si you say
in another terrace cafe, another beer with another name
sure enough, you’ve met a new friend but are
always half of me

Tell me Mona
how did it make you feel?
That time in Esposende?
was it more than the night train ride into Coruna
all night blowing smoke from the only open window
from time to time
red wine with strangers

After sleepless days
and forgotten nights
sandy strolls, missed turns and just caught trains
April palms and cascading church bells,
crumbled castillos and fields of the cows

Inspired by your tenacity
stunned by the honesty
confused by the intensity,
Mostly thrilled by your smile from Malaga to Granada
through tunnels, over bridges
and crossing waterways from books

Portuguese Snapshots

Red roofs falling cliff high
into foaming waves
the signs say no tractors
or this way to ferries

Old man watches sheep
who don’t seem to mind
wondering where atlantico
turns into the inland sea

Brick stoves & clay ovens
widely shown
the man with the donkey
wanders by

She’s happiest when moving fast
and straight
or eating small tasty thing
with sauces

“You are saying these strange things to me but i don’t know why”

Concrete poles
houses thick and white
red clay courtyards
wrapped in blue tiles
guarded by saints with forgotten names
protecting palms and blue fired tiles
melted bold yellow walls
churrasqueira in empty yards
wood cut even, stacked in jumbles

Posters of singers and toros
workmen piling into tipico
early lunch, dried cod
chicken blood, sardines

Waving, she doesn’t watch
crossing shady lane with tiny cars
the dog with the shortest legs

Adieu Karol in color
Cerverjai dark, vino blanco
she opens it cold & hands it
sits down.
obrigato

The swarthy one points us
Saint Virgilio of Figuero de Foz
who we call Jack for Joaquin
Patron of wanderers, spicy clams and cold sangria
eyes like grutas of secrets
grottos holding reflection of monoliths
and winters lasting into spring

If i recall from the haze of the sangria night
Virgillio of the soulful eyes,
the fatima awaits
maybe we’ll see it past the horizon
clambered up the gates of treachery

Like the nice boy told us
use the Sud towards the 15th of April
i’m not sure they might be trees for figs or nuts
squat on fuzzy gnarled hills

I’m not really sure
just keep the ocean to the right
i’ll watch for antelope or impalas
past the grutas with
the piney amnesia smell

Santiago, April

Skin of bright olives, quizzical eyes
reflection flashing on a bike with bread
or books
cold on rocky step ledge
three spires fade into drizzly twilight
the bells ring again

Walking sticks clunking into a square
via sacred stairs
the bells ringing in discord
and grief

As the Galacian girls laugh
down a impossible alley
twisted with greens and orange
where Las Templars hunkered
hiding three sets of bones
through generations of darkness
now in a silver box of seashells.

Secrets Intact

We’ll die apart
with secrets intact
you winking to the end
me twitching my nose

an arboretum afternoon
english bay interludes
second beach under feet

driftwood delivering anecdotes
caught your hazel eyes last night
moonlight reflected from two-thirds
a world away

you told me about the hidden cafe
burning spoon and sugared rim
we both hold pencils and
somehow remember to breathe

our lives are fiction of
what we dreamed might be
but you must remember these moments
are sequestered
not imagined