Angie cover, Kelly Jones,Stereophonics version. Scheduled to be in New York soon. Check him out if you can and give him a listen. His original lyrics are excellente!

Now that the mood has been set… my post for dVerse.

For Angela:

When fluffy white clouds lay flat and gray
and stretch from dawn to dusk,
time puts on a black sweater,
stops rocking on my porch,
and listens to its fading ticks,
and silence inside trees,
as green stops working;
shuts down.

There is less air to breathe;
leaves brittle
break away
try to outrun winter’s wind
across the browning ground
only to be captured by a rotting wooden fence.

Time in a black sweater listens
to a train whistle’s scream
in the distance.

A fading sound.

The last sound.

The time has come.

And I am sad.

For dVerse.
Note: I love you!






I don’t

feel like

these bricks should

be tied to my feet.



I don’t feel like

this rhino

should be ridin’ my back.



I don’t like

acting like

a trained seal

tricking for fish.



my life shouldn’t have to rhyme,

free verse would be just fine.


So what if I want to take off my Costas

and cry for innocence slaughtered,

and fly to Colorado and hold a mothers hand;

free verse would be just fine.


Though we walk through the bloody

shadows of violent senseless death,

we need to be free to calm the screams

and wake the world from this dream on meth,

and know we dont walk alone,

a little free verse would be just fine.




A freed verse.



For dVerse


Merci, Matt!


Tvaroh Piroh


Smooth Argentine hands, old Czech recipe, a Spanish summer song, meld inside an English mission cabin of polished wood, above a river swelled with mountain rain, all for a Slavic son so young to savor, a last time; the flavor of innocence.


Sparkling eyes twinkle above the slight mash of cottage cheese.

Elegant lips sing as eggs mix with milk, sugar and the juice of lemon’s sour.

Love’s light laugh drops raisins in one – by – one adding the sweetness of heart.

A fresh pie shell waits to be filled with ingredients never to be tasted the same

A simple memory bakes at 375 degrees for forty minutes until a knife can return clean.


In French quarters of re-birthed lofts above a river with no flavor it’s simply a cottage cheese pie;

simply a cottage cheese pie,

I bake every July.



A bear alone, without her cub,
no sight or sound, no love to give –
no sight or sound, her lonesomeness,
some nights she spills her will to live.

A bear alone, (as though we’re one)
in the steepest vale ‘neath tall dark green,
around (us) bowing arrows wait,
around (us), hunters aim unseen.

‘tween graves in fog, and angels in mist,
and only (our) hope breathing life
in faith for sons who dwell with those
with sight and sound, ‘tween day and night.

Let arrow fly and strike its mark,
let blood flow free and breathing cease,
let hunters cheer they felled the (bear),
whose cub romps free, ‘tween man and beast.