Screaming Shame #Quadrille

screaming windscreaming wind-tree-asitcomes

Foul words on screaming winds
attach to me vicious lies.
Soft in approach,
loud in defiance –
suckers lavish wounds
already frayed –
betrayal saps my strength.
Let its scorched touch
be enslaved by innocence,
and mercy unknown to me,
drop gentle from heaven.

A Quadrille is a new poem form consisting of 44 words.



fig110-700x336                                           Picture: Los Alamos National Laboratory

As dark nights prevail and stars
make you ordinary, you will yearn
whilst you struggle outside of me,

caught up in heaving times
pressed close to chest.

I am made up of hundreds
and you knew who I was –
till I married him –

worship me still
amid cold comforts lost –

pray, come back inside,
leave naivety at the door
lest you succumb, but beckon it not.


Frivolity, My heart


Wouldst thou call
on love’s embrace
and its clumsy cuffs
of flimsy lace
to wrap warmly
and surround thee

when spectral lights
adorn the sky,
and snow ghosts,
haughty, loom at night
only to come and haunt thee,

and if thou were touched by such
as she and her lustrous trumpery,
wouldst thou still forswear
under this black maire,
our undying love, but yet vow
to leave me?

Wouldst thy call on it?

Chamomile Tea V Coffee

Coffee Cup Coffee Foam Coffee Cup

Dusk settles like fine dust
when streetlights escort
evening into hallways.
Nightfall has attached itself
to the shoulders of ordinary people
carrying stories and news,
usually exuding on inhalation
of ritual warm kettle steam
through herbal nostrils.
Tonight is different –
his eyes still have big, black
dark circles underneath.
Just write poems for me.
Don’t tell me about your day.
She knows he’s secretly
hoping cupped china
will somehow soothe the aftershock
of his news as it wields its blows
like sledgehammers,
nailing her heart against the chipped
plaster ceiling;
its throbbing veneer draws his eyes
which bear cross-hatched shadows,
subdued and worn from penumbra tears
that fell only a few tea breaks ago.
What kind of woman is she
to make you want to do this?
It was by the coffee machine
that the sun began to fade
on all their stories
and memories; yellowing pages
turned into ghosted
fragments when shot to flames
under florescent tubes
only to dissipate with the aroma of coffee –
meanwhile, her aroma happily swirled
inside lipstick and white froth.
She sips her chamomile, redolent of betrayal –
Don’t tell me about your day.
Don’t shed the dust.

Strange Arms

tree twisting

Picture source:  Strange…tree.  Thanks Paul Militaru.

wrap me in strange arms
not sinew’s calm unity of muscle to bone
but like before when molten flesh
was writhing, malleable, lasting –
not like now with intangible flame
shot from an archer’s crossbow –
with quick precision

writhe with me in twisting turns
not rolling ambiguity’s speech of tongues
but like before when deception unraveled
to suffocate me with a slithering hiss –
do not place your wreath
in the space where the cobra stabs –
with quick precision