Love is like a spark:

            a flame,

            a beacon

            of hope and refuge

            from a frigid world.

Sometimes it NOVAS

            into exciting life:

            lip red, gasoline fed,

eager to light the world.


Hot as a woman's passion,


            dancing.            y!


            Sparks that f


A bonfire lasts all night,

            But leaves

            Dying embers

            In the morning light.


It takes a little longer

            to start a fire

            with kindling;

            kind words,

            a gentle touch,

            glances that compliment;



Save the logs

            for later --

            build a bed

            of coals;

            glowing, growing,

            bot too fast,

            but meant to last.


These flames also


            le    and d a n c e

and I sit here


            in front of my fire…..


Cloud Cover (with nocturnal emissions?)


The thunderheads curve in grim grins

above my bared head; their laughter rumbles

and booms about

like a cheap flask passed haphazardly throughout

a soaks' convention:

filled with false spirits,

bloated with insubstantiality,

towering with depression.

Ah! they are risible,

while i, deflatable,

cower beneath their scornful derision.


"Where is she now,

that bright star beneath which you basked

so blithely,

while we,

darkly imbrued with mundane stains, cowered away

lest gratuitous beams

vaporize our dark dominion?"


In  deed.


And I, in need of sublunary consolation

(o moon of my delight),

regret, ah! deeply, the passing of the light…

which is somehow related to my lack of sight.

And in the night – the long, Stygian night –

how they drip their viperish might!


Autumn Bomb

It was in the late fall that I truly fell;

when the leaves were turning the

       color of unfulfilled promises,

and the skies were mottled with

       overly-ripe clouds,

ready to deliver much more than

       the weatherman had promised

but not nearly as much as a lover hoped.


My fall was as silent as those leaden

       drops from weightless supports,

       and as heavy in their impact.

In the meanwhile, the ground soaked up

       their moisture and mine

       with equal uncaring thirst.


Fool’s Gold


Alas, Chrysostrom!

That you did love in vain is lamentable;

that you did love without reason is tragedy.


Were Dulcinea in truth Aldonsa,

or Marcela the image of Medusa,

would you still love her?

Sacrifice for her?

Die for her?


Et tu, Brute?


Morning light

When I had you

I became a king,

and built a castle

by the sea.


But you left…


The tide came in

and crumbled my dreams





leaving memories

      like bile

in my mouth.


The morning light

dispelled the night’s

opiate darkness.


Once again,

I am the court jester.



sexual revolution

tell me,

ms lillywhitebody,

does living

in your ivory tower

provide fulfillment

in every sort of way?

when you sing

the lovesong of j. alfred platonic,

should i

just hum along,

touching your mind

in an ososensual sort of way

that transcends the bawdy,

and disdain such course plotting

as a neanderthal past time?

but how free thinking

can i get?


Song of Freedom

Just as the sun does not stay in one place,

I wanted my freedom, and left with no trace.

I asked for this (not wanting to give):

No strings or commitments, and thus I now live.


Let loose the Furies; to anger give vent…

Each time I cry “fool!” it’s a wasted breath spent.

No good to yearn for what is now gone;

Can one turn back the clock or undo the wrong?


So all I can ask is what you will give

In the way of solace that might help me live.

Sign me a song that’s gentle and sweet,

Of meadows where sunlight and cool breezes meet.


Whisper a poem that is noble and kind,

Where the searching soul sees what he longs to find.

Cry me a tear in ironic praise:

I’ll get what I asked for the rest of my days.



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