Again (For Olive Garden)


Your walls are tall,

too tall to fall,



My bones bray bruised,

too bruised to loose,



Our sun sets lone,

too lone to groan,



Again, is my new friend;

wise, concerning walls too tall,

bruised bones,

and suns setting lone.


Your walls are tall,

too tall to fall —

the end,



An Opinion on Lost Love (dVerse)

I play a scene, at sea in mime,

Alone, notwithstanding your scent,

One breeze coughing yesterday’s dawn,

One quote from a raindrop’s comment.


I sense your shadow on stage left,

Cloaked in black, a silence of voice,

The show as I, as I sing eyes

closed to choice, eyes divorced of choice.


Close the curtain on love – Broadway,

Unplug dim lights and birth your black,

I walk away as one – no one,

A quote from a tongue, in my back.




An Opinion


Her pine box sits on the left side of the cobwebbed

shadowed mansion’s white sheet furniture covered dining room

in the middle of Urbania,

high on a hill overlooking poor, non-working, yet capable, “victims”

with canisters of food stamps and $300 cell phones.


She sucks their blood dry and keeps them all high by blaming the rich


 manufacturing cell phones and making old folks cry with tales of


Aunt Care and Uncle Caid, and reading poor orphans fables from,

Marx’s Concept of Man.


“Vote for me,” she howls at the crescent shaped pot-faced moon,

“and you won’t have to work again

because we are going to steal all the money we can

from Mr. and Mrs. Pharmaceutical that keeps you all alive,

and then spread their wealth among us.”


“But let’s keep the Iranians uranium rich,”

she whispers with blood trickling from the left side of her

bluish lips and stained fangs,

“and pretend we don’t see the dragon and tiger playing war games


as they count billions of debt 

and smoke opium from fields watered in western blood.”


She licks her lips, living in Urbania, high on a hill, overlooking her

blood drained slaves.





I see your clock roll over my shore,

I see your hands haunting art;

I see my skin shrink to touching,

cocooning ’round my heart.


Ouch, sharp, when you tell my time,

Poe-ish as the poet’s punch;

cold, wrenching, your fist clinched fright,

when I hear my ribcage crunch.




One morning, when storms birthed you,

and thunder vibrated my name,

crows fell from black cumulus claws,

hail echoed my one lone blame,

you just had to write me, plainly.




I see your hands haunting art,

you just had to write, and blame me;

I hear your hands haunting art,

you just had to write,

and stain me.


I see your clock roll over my shore,

and I repent,

for what it’s worth,

if I still have time.


For dVerse Tuesday.


Refugee Hero Zero


Refugees rafting on river’s crash,

Seventeen escaping whips sharp lash;


Cigarettes can burn in madman’s hand,

Picturesque mem’ries erased by dams;


Understanding lost in mountain stream,

Recommending mercy gone in screams;


Magazine’s gloss lay mired in clay,

Volunteer heroes at rest in hay;


It doesn’t make sense you freekin’ “bleeps!”

Why today, today, today, you sleep?

Love, Uncategorized

Love Within a Love

Sarah Joncas

You make me breathe

I seek shoulders wanting touch, in silk sheets dreaming

that I can love, love again



Did we lose heart in desert storm

fighting off the dream?

Arm in arm in harm’s cold hearth

were we a we, or me, sleeping again?


Was it your face facing mine

as we twirled a twirl in battle end?

Did I pray in screams to Mars

that I could love you beyond the dawn?


I know

I don’t have to dream to love you


I know

I don’t have to



I love you


You make me live

I kiss lower back’s soft skin, in sheet’s silk dream

that I can love, love again



Did our sight cease seeing life

fighting fights of dreams?

Harm in harm with arms gone cold

were we a we, or me, sleeping again?


Was your death’s dead whisper

dancing a dance in day’s surrender?

Did I scream in prayer to Mars

that I could love beyond the dawn?


I know

I don’t have to dream to love you


I know

I don’t have to



I love you




Random No Name Poem Not Posted Nobody Will Read #2

The played plea with the strong black band;

and the bellow staff strewn splurge and blow;

and the marbled fiddle plays that weep

in diary sting sweats from their deep,

as I play the groove with bursting brow,

and stretch its bleed in the rusty land.


Then the rhyme of worn steel scented screech;

Three arrows aflame flew a far frontier;

A cap on the plane, the sick dark blast

And flutes squirt in a blighted snatch,

And a choice-less crowd, through their toys and tears,

Felt the twin hearts bleeding beach to beach.


The Day Began – Again




The day began

upon my first alert

of shifting shadow

in my shaded room.


A shape, familiar

a breath, heavy,

weighted with whiskey,

and whisper,



A muzzle, stretched,


belched a blast,

a whizzzzzzz,

a raspy curse,



The day began

upon my first alert

of a blazing hole

in my shaded room.