He rests all the winter long

Beneath an icy cap of snow

Silently he keeps watch

Over all the slumbering creatures

Burrowed beneath his sheltering thatch


Spring melt wakes his green grasses

All over his round old top

Bright colored flowers greet

Young creatures on their first days

Atop the sleepy old bluff


Summer days are greeted by sparkling rain drops

Birds bath in his tiny streams

Dancing along on their journey to the sea

Curious bees visit each flower

While the sleepy old bluff dozes


Twilight shows many curious colors

In the lavish trees, autumn has arrived

Their sweet fruit and hardy nuts

Provide a bounty for the winter burrows

And the sleepy old bluff watches over all




Is there a high school year book there from Paul Ryan’s class?
If so, maybe you could look something up for me? I think he was listed in there as Lyin’ Ryan, see I had this dream the other night, and I am sure I recall that he has this huge phobia from all the way back in Junior High. All the kids began calling him Lyin’ Ryan, as he was always making up stuff about his dad being really tough, and how his sister knew all these cool tricks, and how he got this bum to show an old lady his willie for a smoke…stuff like that. Well he couldn’t stand the heat, and if anybody would challenge him, he would break out in a sweat and pee his pants. That’s when the nick name came about, it sounded something like, “Lyin’ Ryan, stop your cryin, we all know your pants need dry’n”. Well anyway, look it up, because it was just a dream you know, and I don’t want to smear anyone unnecessarily.

Thanks, Jd

We are all if us strange

It’s only a lack of keeping up appearances
That ruins it now and then
Just… for some of us,
it’s a lot more consistent.



Buttons from a Teddy
Impressions of sound safe sleep
Sleep wrinkles speak of my last nights
A pen, on pages wet from a weep

Once, the lacey blouse
Of a great date
Then, beer soaked laces of a football
In the mirror, heading to work, late

Sleep wrinkles may say
If I had a good time, or not
For the guy who sold me this lovely grave
He’s cussing those sleep wrinkles
Two days old, looking like a 38



She closed the book, placed it on the table and finally decided to walk through the door. For her, a lifetime of corruptions were then dispelled. You were suspected. I was an implement. They would do nothing.

             The book could encompass what otherwise impossible thoughts might carry the imaginer away in their dreams. Delivering that final comeuppance, the journey of a lifetime, or simply to re-exist, one need only cast their thoughts into those pages. One of the romantic verses could revive a lost love. And who wouldn’t pay the price?

            Over the past one hundred years, the lift car had been serviced dozens of times, and none could circumvent its curious course. Some whispered “curious curse” when it arrived at the lobby with no one onboard. All weren’t lost, indeed, many returned after fabulous adventures or a miraculous cure.

Always there, lay the book, often a token. Hers was a baby shoe. This decision might be her last. With breath held, her trembling hand punched her date of destiny into the numbered panel. The gate slid shut and the elevator cage dropped like a rock.

No need for a doctor or mortician. The elevator would work fine for any wishing to see if she had gone to the penthouse corridor, absorbed those pages and placed something with the other items collecting there. Photos, and rings, the detritus of loneliness, tear stained kerchiefs, calling cards, crutches, whatever came from the heart. Most knew this to be a place of sorrow and loss, for hither to, minds had long pondered the bitter cast of death’s transfiguration and how that played out. Yet, none would know whether her selection from the book was as a child longing for its parent, or the mother in search of a missing child.  None could know her intent, since this excursion in the Elevator de Fantasy may have been a wish to simply depart the planet, or new-birth in another time and place, with whatever parents the shadow of the pendulum might choose.

Long before the serpentine acanthus foils and inlaid granite floors were complete, La Plaza Taress was the greatest ambition of a sorrowed father. For his inspiration served as distractions from his remembrance of her. His every heartfelt pain went into the minutest detail of the Art Nuevo murals depicting her favorite stories. Marble balusters encircled the entrance, capturing the flow of her silken hair. Enchanting chandeliers resembled her crystalline ear rings. Most importantly, his greatest design, the heart of the structure was the fantastic elevator. Gloriously the brass cage, wound in twining ivy, appearing to be lifted by doves. Clockwork gears gleamed and spun so smoothly the cables literally sung like angels. Cut glass panels cast a rainbow of light enchanting it all. So dazzling was this facet that all agreed it to be the most beautiful building in all ofParis.

But on the very first time the cage rose to the top, he would let no other inside, it fell instantly, arriving empty and intact. He could not be found. It was suspected when all that was left behind was the Book of Secret Desires, poetry he carried always, that he had been taken away by her heart and his great love for her.

Today, those with no luggage, who cross the grand lobby, aren’t questioned as to their intent. This pair of lovers or that ageing widow yearning to relive an afternoon beneath a weeping willow. Her book remains on the table, near the Elevator de Fantasy, at which sweet Taress did last recite from the book for her murderer/betrothed.

Saving Words


I love saving words
Spending them like money
Finding the right one
Happening upon a really splendid
Succulent whopper
On tiny slips of paper
Put in a safe place
Letting them steep
Saving them for a rainy day
Discovering the perfect moment
Sends me to the page
When I need that thrill
Like an ostentatious
Commingling of reverberations
Into prescient concoctions
To defibrillate my mind
Into the astringent gethsemane
Of word gluttony
Too full of wordiness
To even move
I purr and rest
All worded out

Practically every meaningful word which I have uttered is wrong.
How can I say this, don’t I know what I am saying?
It is exactly because of what I have said and not ment,
That I can now say my words are fiction.

Had I known what was most true, that is what I would not reveal.
Somehow we are like frightened children, scared of the truth.

All my secrets have made me a Liar, you and I are not alike.
The cat and the dog hold nothing back, save for indifference.
We speak in guarded undertones, hoping not to annoy.
We save our feelings for when the time is best.

But we have missed the mark, time has had its way.
Another thought another day, and we are busy with fresh denials.