For fun, Uncategorized


By T. P. Speer






would they sound like crushed purple grapes

pouring out of a misty bottle into

crystal glasses clinking together before they fall

to tiled floors,

shattering into hundreds of shards

slicing Bruce Wayne’s bare left foot, who, by the way, looks a lot

like Batman in the eyes and the way he walks

with that quick confident step that echoes, “I am bad,” with

each strut down a long rich mahogany hallway I hear

has Van Gogh paintings never seen by anyone else in this century?


Or would bluebirds singing



simply sound like a


singing the wrong songs like Madonna’s Hard Candy album?


I mean fake as


on a strawberry.


Or could


actually sound like


in a bluebird kind of way?

Because we know bluebirds could

NEVER, seriously never, really be a


I mean sounding like a redbird

would be as close

as a


could ever get to a

redbird’s nest.



Some of my best friends are

bluebirds.  But

I don’t understand why they want to sound like


Bluebirds have their own

cool little sound; simple and clean.

Granted not as sophisticated as the


but then, who is.

Why not just sing your own color?


Have you ever heard a


try to sing like a


It’d be like a southern preacher quoting Poe.


Do you really think Bruce Wayne and Batman are the same?

By Howard Hodgkin


Dinghy Named Desire

Christopher Shay

Surrender’s prissy white flag

    doesn’t fly on my mast, nor is it

        mentioned, even conjecturally.


Sharp swords sheath in stone.


Tongue’s metallic flesh

    dripping red, rest at battles lull.


Retreating? Ha. Its strategy,

    red colors still fly above head,

        bright and proud, even in a dinghy named Desire.


I’ll be back for my ship,

    no magistrate will have me half it;

        mutineers never prosper properly.


Love!  You know not the meaning,

    or the blisters of toil,

        nor bruises on brains from beatings unbearable.


I’m going to be somebody.


I sent you red roses,

    you send me packing, heart pricked,

        with a red flag flapping in foul wet wind.


It is a dreary night, deported off my own plank,

    but the sun will whistle on the morning

        when my ship is mine again.


And you,

    ha, you’re stowage I could take or leave,

        but you can sail with me still as mate.


But you didn’t have to toss my roses out to sea.

    I see them floating,

        red on blackened swells, mocking and laughing


I’ll tattoo your name on my liver tonight, ha,

    but I’ll be back,

        and we’ll sail again, you’ll see, you’ll see, indeed.





Yet Still

yet still

Sweet perfume stains and pains

      memories dancing across our bedroom


Pink sunrise sighs and cries

      when your cool pillow whispers secrets blue


Black coffee steams and dreams

      when your brown eyes orbit around my gloom



Dead leaves crunch when

      I walk

            placing flowers by your grave


I hear tenors wail

      but know

            you’re still singing to be brave



Sweet perfume stains and pains

      memories dancing across my bedroom


I can’t see you

      yet still


I can’t hear you

      yet still


I will always feel you


            my pillow whispers something blue



Yet still …


Unitl …





Poet’s Reach

Note: This is a very poor attempt at a Sestina for dVerse (and late at that).  It has no iambic pentameter, but it does follow the repetition scheme.  I hope you find some pleasure in this feeble arrangement of words.


Within a willow’s weep

Inspires a poet’s soul

Outside a world’s reach

Inside a church’s song

Bridging a desert’s thirst

Attached to children’s’ hearts


Within a willow’s heart

Inspires a poet’s weep

Outside a world’s thirst

Inside a church’s soul

Bridging a desert’s song

Attached to children’s reach


Within a willow’s reach

Inspires a poet’s heart

Outside a world’s song

Inside a church’s weep

Bridging a desert’s soul

Attached to children’s thirst


Within a willow’s thirst

Inspires a poet’s reach

Outside a world’s soul

Inside a church’s heart

Bridging a desert’s weep

Attached to children’s song


Within a willow’s song

Inspires a poet’s thirst

Outside a world’s weep

Inside a church’s reach

Bridging a desert’s heart

Attached to children’s souls


Within a willow’s soul

Inspires a poet’s song

Outside a world’s heart

Inside a church’s thirst

Bridging a desert’s reach

Attached to children’s weep


Within a world’s soul is thirst

Inspires a poet’s heart to reach

Longing for children’s songs that weep

lil dark but fun


By Sarah Dolby

This poet’s eyes
shall see in dark
blackest shadows
to prowl in parks

This writer’s nose
can smell fresh death
starving ravens
vie for sparse flesh

Her bloodless heart
beats smooth as stone
lips cannot speak
but only moan

A blackened quill
ink from the moon
she weaves a yarn
from Edgar’s loom

Stark raving mad
she screams at night
ranting tantrums
for lightning strikes

She named her art
a Franken-poem
like Mary Shelley
in neon chrome

Creating life
from breathless words
A newborn verse


Textures of Love

Leonid Afremov

Unblemished and reflective

like the smooth passion of an August morning’s lake

— sleek-n-sheen


Silky sheer moments

water logged kisses

drenched in soap foaming moments

rinsed in passing cloud bursts of steamy refrains


The texture of our love


Toned skin

full lips


the beat of our hearts whispering yeses


Our being in the season of the sense of touch


Unblushed complexions









— of us




Red Petals (Revised)

Red petals float as wings of thorn stem

  fluttering down slow

  love’s darkness den


Six feet measures eternity depth

  bagpipes do vibrate

  memory’s breath


Red petals float as wings of thorn stem

  arranged in shadows

  by past kinsmen


Six feet measures eternity depth

  my span as a man

  no bridge to death


Red petals float as wings of thorn stem

  the last flower tossed

  a whispered amen


Six feet measures eternity depth

  bagpipes drone faintly

  echo love’s rest


Proud of Me

Swirling swells on amber seas
Roll in rhythm
With autumn’s breeze.

I thought it a dream. I saw her standing in the middle of our wheat field. She was just as beautiful as I remembered; if it was her. The sun’s rays had my eyes in a strange way. Heavenly light held the image I wanted to see, wanted to hold, wanted to live again.

Kindred kings of kernelled gold
Seek to sever
From nature’s hold.

Maybe God just allowed her see me off to start my freshman year of high school? She didn’t wave or speak. She just stood; erect and proud-like. It felt better to make someone proud. I always wondered if she could see. Dad said she could. I believe him now. I think I know why some evenings he would come in from the fields with red eyes. I bet he saw mom too. She always loved the wheat; wrote a poem about it once. Dad read it at her funeral.

Single seeds in sunken earth
Their death declares
A new rebirth.

The school buss honked out on the road. I turned to see it wait for me. When I gazed back into the field she was gone, but my smile remained. She was proud of me. I cried.


For Short Story Slam Week 8

For fun

I Just Dream

Painting by Eugene Ivanov (Prague)

Sometimes I burn to chance some money gamblin’
Sweat with fever for some ocean travlin’
My heart don’t beat for all this cello handlin’
Sometimes I long for some guitar samplin’

You know what I mean

I just dream a lot
‘Bout those big chip pots
And Angela’s long brown locks
And slow dancing in bar — parkin’ lots
Playin’ guitar ‘till the mornin’ drops
And kissin’ my angel that I miss a whole lot

Kid Denver can win some gamblin’
When seein’ Angela is in the cards
I just dream a lot
I just dream a lot
I just dream

I know I can’t sing, but I just had to do something with this Antoine Dufour funky lick. I couldn’t help myself. It doesn’t need lyrics, especially mine, but this poem just seemed to fit. And to reiterate, I know I can’t sing, but I love having fun with it 🙂

For Open Link Night 5 / dVerse~Poets Pub