A Little Poem  

Once and twice
the pencil slipped

with creative intention
the curvy marks dripped
out of a brain
through a stick
to the page

arranging themselves
in order
upon their new stage
from the dark to the light
once hidden, this sight

now here for all the world to see
a little poem that came
from inside of me.

Not A Grouse

Writing and fighting most every day
Crying from trying to find my own way
Searching and lurching around the house...

Wondering if there’s meaning to the word “grouse”

Believing it might provide me some clues
to help me move forward and clear out the blues

So I’ll take a time-out to look it up in the book....

I’m back now – and glad for the effort I took.

Turns out that a grouse is a “round and plump bird”
But there’s a more apropos definition of the word
A grouse is a “person who complains – like a grouch”
I’ve been that way lately  - in a slump as I slouch
around the house – head low with a frown
“To complain”, “a complaint”  it’s a verb or a noun

A most useful word of poetic discovery
I pray it will help me on the road to recovery

The lesson I’ve learned through the pen on this page
Is that complaining is seldom the trait of a  sage.
For even when the path takes a turn without meaning
With patience and effort, there’ll be wisdom for gleaning.

Take time to pause, reflect, search your soul
Look it up in the book – set a new goal
Whether plumber or painter, actor or bard
You’ll succeed at your task if you keep working hard.

Thing a Thang

Thing a thang e
whackity clack
ping e ting e
flat on me back
cap in me mouth
wit de pen in me hand
writing and flighting
flick ity flack

wordy li fli ti do
don't eat beef stew

( I don't think there is meaning
in words strung this way
and the time spent to write 'em
is a waste of the day
But once in a while - it makes sense to make none
For even a  poet
needs to have him some fun.)

I Wonder with a Pencil

Sitting in my yard
I try to comprehend
the song
of an accomplished feathered vocalist
perched on a telephone line
“Perhaps she is commenting upon the
converstaions travelling through her feet.”
I wonder with a pencil.
It seems the best I can do.
And for that, I am as cheerful
as her song.

How Many?

How many days are left in the age
shadowed by ignorance, hatred and rage?

How may people will continue to fight
while their efforts seem futile to bring out the light?

How many flowers still yet to bloom
will find honor when passed to a bride from her groom?

And how many hearts in need of a mend
will be healed by the poems yet to be penned?

No matter how many days remain in our lives,
blossoms will bedeck the trees on the hill -
and the poet will continue to craft boquets of words
in a bid to bring healing and peace from his quill.


Just allow the process
as if there was a choice
tapping out the letterforms
attempt to find a voice

Running round in circles
can’t seem to find the tale
Master, can you help me?
I fear that I will fail

“Worry not”, is planted here
inside my stumbling mind
I set it free with tempered glee
and hope that I might find

A lesson here some balance there
and hope along the way
Yet once again - these fresh picked words
a harvest reaped today.

Words and Birds

Words of wonder confined in a drawer
I liken to the caged bird
Bodies of Beauty only yearning to soar
Freedom denied by a master.  Absurd!


Write what you feel,
Write what you see,
Write what you taste
Write what you smell,
Write to the wind and the trees.  

Write to your friends
Write to the world
Write from your heart  
Write from your soul
Write whatever you please.