Gold Panning

Friday Night Jukebox

Mix together music, poetry, and angst and you’ve got? Friday Night Jukebox. A new bit where I write some free … More

As Do I

This is a Late Night Poet Art of Seduction write for a rainy Friday. I wade into her watery hairnude, … More

Book Cover Lover

Dear Readers, This is a late-night write inspired by the artwork of Vladimir Kush. It is an adult in nature, … More

NaPoWriMo #9 Lunar Souse

Calmness resides inan arched backnestled in sprouting grass,a full frontal relax. She is the egg,patient and full of care,waiting for … More

Death of a Public Servant

Behold, the crooked politician,a primate before the primaries.Swollen leg a map of all the placeshe’s trampled on then placated, pure … More

Queen Conch

Give me true love’s kiss.Climb inside my conch shellto live in melded bliss.

Watercolor Woman

Tell me about your first. But she was a pathetic palette, love,a watercolor woman withdrip-dry hydrangea bush eyes,over-saturated skin,sea sponge … More

They Don’t Mind

I hope you all don’t mind if I reblog today this little piece written in the park about this time … More

Winter Passing

The white releaseof a warm winter fleece,stitched across theface of the fragile earth,frozen stiff,tucked beneath the sheet.Laid to rest inpeace … More

Today’s Been Slaughtered

Underwater Rendezvous

This poem was written for Late Night Poet’s Art of Seduction Radio Show which aired on January 12th. Poets were … More

The Sistine Chapel of Soft Serve

This flash fiction is inspired by Fandango’s Flash Fiction Challenge #14. This piece has adult themes sprinkled in, so read at … More

White Skies

white skies
mopped up all other colors;
winter loves a good disguise.

#poetry #amwriting #poem

Blushing Pilgrims

You raked the surface of your lips with teeth,a wintertime lawn of leaves.At sunrise, a dewy surfaceof indifference.A benign offeringof … More

Drifting Away

Just as the moon is forever drifting away, so were my dark thoughts while writing this lunar, late-night poem inspired … More

Poetry Thrives

My poetry pays rent in a pop-up tent
under a busy overpass,
growing like marram grass by a brackish sea.
It dwells in the mosaic empty spaces left behind
by winter’s nudist trees.