bleed true


would it not be better if my blood could form words
that my brain fights to conjure onto the page
a pricked finger or at times and opened vein
releasing the tension of emotive pressure to be told
building the abstract obscurity of who and why we are
like Picassos and Dalis, where things are out of place
and the distance between lunacy and reality are measured
by the heart

Poignant words describe the view in the mirror
sometimes an anorexic reflection revealing half of me
if I could bleed my perception, perhaps it would be truth
a photograph of emotion, rather than this criminal sketch
coming from the eyes of a traumatized victim




At what moment is it official?
When does the title follow the name?
Having been assigned homework
or when friends share text
silly rhyme and prose,
does that make everyone a poet?

Perhaps it is more like an affliction
of words bubbling over then formatted.
Maybe it is a photographer’s eye
with a pen to capture essences
rather than a camera.
How about offering a prolific effort
writing incessantly and filling tombs?
Do any of these make a poet?

Surely it is not the ability to conjure
beauty in written form!
Talent is subjective and sometimes accidental.
When we are paid for words, is it then?
Is poetry a popularity contest
wherein you are a poet only if read and accepted?
If I were one, I suppose I would know.

It is a good thing the pilot has not gone out
there have been people watching
should my muse have tilted her wick
and found nothing but noxious airs
well then my fortune would run dry
having nothing more to impart
the pen would have stopped its scratching
and the keyboard lost to the internet
so thank you to you good stewards
for keeping the light on to come home to
this midnight oil now burns for you
to the keepers of my muse

a right life


It is easy to live
breathe in and out
one step at a time
regular feeding sessions
intermingled corporal maintenance
it is easy to live

life is in between the lines
friendships failed and found
employment and responsibility
childhood, the first cliffhanger
to salt and pepper hair grinders
spicing up the story, then
decades fall into generation gaps
as each chapter thickens the plot

It is easy to live
but don’t rush through the book
throw out the cliff notes
enjoy the character development
and write your own novella
be it dramatic thriller or romance
it is easy to forget to write well

words, notes, drawings
any fool has the ability
creation implies no skill
composition is an art
talent makes it good
memorable among others
like a good pinot noir
or simply fresh air
some have worked on it
others have it naturally
but the distinction is there
and thank you for sharing



when the stale winds of death finally call
beckoning you to the great beyond unknown
the esoteric things will all begin to rust
memories and flesh will fade, by generation
time eroding our legacies leaving a unseen chasm
like an air pocket in a breeze
a phantom in the shadows of a new family’s house

the pictures will remain, but not the flowers
tales of malice are hidden and die with their keepers
though heroism and philanthropy cascade in blood
the selfless are carried and mourned by villages
while the greedy end up paying six for show

monetary inheritance is squandered and unappreciated
given the wisdom of a lifetime, one can teach to fish
offering mastery and a chance to improve from trout to bear
or you can take your mistakes and triumphs into the hole
leaving future blood to start from scratch
with no recipe to follow, leaving life bland and homogenized

and so I write, so that my children will know me
surrounded by friends, camera always in hand
my words and the images of my existence will tell the tale

there is grandma and uncle George
uncles Billy and Brian, they are not related
that is how he got this scar and this is where he married
this is mommy when she was carrying you
Luxembourg and Lithuania are beyond the East River
towards the lands where Mociune and Nonna came from

there will come a time where I will be no more
a memory, if I’m lucky
let my words tell my life of my fortunes
and the pictures be the movie to my novel

life’s muse


on occasion life’s muses hide
like high noon shadows underneath
the lethargy of apathetic self pity
mucus filled eyes roll as
go-getters encourage the search

come out and show your face!
an eel of hidden hope peers out
inaction strapped into its child’s seat
on the road to find life
and coax it from its hole

citric acid spills from a split fruit
into the new cut in a finger
the rest into a tropical libation
spiced with rum and chilled on ice
the pain tastes good, in feeling

dilated pupils soak in the essence
from a lover’s hair flicking the breeze
a child, or nature and ordinary life
the muse was never silent
knocking, even scratching at the door
locked from inside, yearning to be let in