Can't Put the Pen Down

just as if I was in my write mind…

My Headache is a Madman

My headache is a madman tidying up my brain,

insanely sweeping up random thoughts and ideas with a snow shovel,

the one with the sharp, pitted edge.

He tosses them into a shredder

that growls and whines them into crosscut confetti and then

he tosses them into the air where they vie for importance,

first one image, then the next; manic flash cards daring me

to understand their origins and meanings.

The madman is dusting now, poking at cobwebs with a cactus branch.

Scaring the spiders that weave my thoughts, chasing them,

stomping rhythmically until all but one is left

who spins out an SOS, a thought of taking a pill or two or three.

I rise, shake out the extra strength, rinse them down

my throat with water, and wait for the blessings to rise,

the confetti to settle, the spiders to come out of hiding.

The madman is dead.



* Is there anything quite so lonely as waking up in the middle of the night with a raging headache? Well, happy to say I finally got rid of it. Then I thought – may as well make the best of it and at least get a poem out of the experience. To everyone out there with a headache right now – take a pill! This too shall pass…

The Scathing Nausic Lingle – the complete version

I’ve posted parts of this poem before, but finally decided I should finish it.

With extreme apologies to Lewis Carroll – I give you the completed poem of the scathing nausic lingle.


Punce a time whilst scambling
along a wendling way,
warbling nausic lingles
To parse the rhyme of day

I slivvied in a squishel
emprattling my pride
while splatlets on my nattiness
bumbled up my stride.

My peekers angled sighways
“Who bungled me?” I bay.
“Who skid this risky squishel
along my wendling way?”

T’was sillig for a second
then a brachy voice interth
“Your nausic lingles scathe me
gerroff and wendle firth.”

“Who peaches me” I gargle
“Who pratts my nausic lingles?”
but never nother slight is slewn
Twixt bramblers and bingles.

I finched the bramblers all aside,
for days I piltched the bingles
to cassigate the brachy voice
that peached my nausic lingles

“I’ll show him scathing” I decarte
“I’ll nimby up his yard”
“No scarcher slyths my warbling
and sconders very far.”

And gleering down I peer it
a simble squelchy splucker
splatted from the paddy paws
of a squelchy squishel hucker

“Come firth, you bonk” I gargled
“Come, peach me in the jowl.”
But all that driffs the sillig
is a far to farther growl.

I girt my sissels joculent
I wendle on my way
“I’ll find you, hucker mucker,
If it takes all bastic day!”

That was many gleams ago
And now my paddies ache
with every ratched bumble
they wendlingly make.

Forjesting all my prosted tarsks
I’ve spent my days bemooned
glimpsing for the mucker till,
Unsquiffed and  all untuned,

I cast upon the grasting sand
and tumbly to my nees
I keen the glint of splishy warbs
and of a subley see

That since I took to wendling
abarft brambler and bingle
I’d not worbled one slight note
Of my lubbly nausic lingle.

The hucker mucker long was gone
And I was daft and loneing
And lost my lingle to empty pratts
And pridding self bemoaning.

But the Hucker Mucker far ablout
Had scathings of his own
For the nausic lingle lingers now
Inside his ratching dome

Wormed in his unconsequents
It scathes him every day
And leaves him parching greevly
Mungst the squishels long the way.


Squirrel – a haiku

Insane squeaky toy

Ceaseless spasms on my roof

For God’s sake, Shut UP!



Yellow Clouds

The clouds have a yellow cast today,
smoke ridden and heavy
with ominous shade.
Pervasive, cloying,
reminding all who breathe
how precious the air,
how fragile our tenuous grip
on “the way things are”.
Like the day when everything seemed more real,
like the dream where you ran with legs of stone,
the yellow clouds remember the fire
and speak to us of the now.



(forest fire season)

Sweet Clover Year

“It’s a sweet clover year” he said
and I thought of you again
in that other sweet clover year when you came to visit.
My best friend thirty years and three thousand miles ago.
A smile, a hug, and the years dropped away
and we walked by the creek looking for fossils.

The sweet clover was in bloom
and you stroked the mustard yellow blossoms,
collected some to dry,
said they were good for something or other,
some sort of homeopathic remedy.
And then you were gone.

And the years flowed by
but the sweet clover never seemed to bloom so profusely.
Never sent its scent into my open window.
I called, sent a letter, but somehow
I lost you again.

Then one day I typed your name into a search engine
and there you were,
smiling from your obituary page.
Seems you died of cancer not long after our visit.
Did you know?
I think you did.
Thank you for the moments you shared.
It’s a sweet clover year again
and I think of you.

If a Tree Falls Down

If a tree falls down
and it hits the ground
does it make a sound
when I’m not around?

The woods are filled with many trees
young and supple  gnarled and old.
Their leaves all rustle in the breeze
even if I stay at home.

If a tree falls down
and it hits the ground
does it make a sound
when I’m not around?

And when the snow lies all around
winter winds make branches moan.
They crack with a most alarming sound
even if I stay at home.

If a tree falls down
and it hits the ground
does it make a sound
when I’m not around?

I know that trees still make a noise,
caring not who’s there to hear.
Though I may not have heard their voice
I’m not the only one with ears

If a tree falls down
and it hits the ground
does it make a sound
when I’m not around?

The bugs in the loam,
the coyotes that roam
all told me so
and they ought to know.




It’s Green Again

It’s green again
and the grey thicket springs to life.
Tall spear shafts that rattled to Winter’s keening
festoon themselves with garlands of green
as they quiver and applaud Spring’s every whisper.

It’s green again
and the parched hard ground thaws.
Icy paving that Winter licked and polished
melts to mould that slakes its thirst with dying snow,
and woos Spring with a flower for every tear shed.

It’s green again
and the longing heart beats faster.
Dark days of Winter’s bullying and blustering
recede into green shivers and the scent of leaf mould,
drown in the sigh of Spring’s embrace.


Non linear time lines tangle
merging into one time,
the now time.
All things happening at all times
in a shoe box of photos and keepsakes ‘neath my bed.

Photos of children as they grow,
of weddings doomed and weddings blessed,
of loved ones gone and of times before
loved ones came to be.
Smooth skin, bright eyes, dark hair,
sapling and tree and firewood
phoenix and flicker
into and out of being.

There is no old, no young,
no tomorrows, no yesterdays.
All live in the shoebox amid the newspaper
clippings and children’s first teeth,
letters to Santa and letters from lovers,
curls of hair tied with red ribbon,
and a broken watch.

We Learn Differently

A little prosy piece of encouragement for my dear friend.

Young minds absorb like sponges sucking
all available data into a seemingly bottomless vat but wait for it…
soon life will apply the filters, the experiences, the pain, the memories, the joys
that imbue each new packet of information with a network of connections,
with shadings and a depth of understanding that the straight sponge method cannot apply.

Young minds become older minds and new things are learned but must traverse the filters.

Which is better?
Learning with no filters is faster but
learnings that come after the filters are tempered,
have frames of reference that a younger mind cannot impose.
Learning with no filters may last longer but only instinctively,
not viscerally,
not with the same depth of understanding that happens when the filters are on.
And if, God forbid, learning that happened while young must be rewritten,
modified… it is a difficult task – changing the instinctive is like dropping a bad habit.

So, my friend, if you are learning with an older mind
don’t even bother comparing it to the younger minds around you.
We learn differently.
If you are learning more slowly, or seem to have to work harder at it, remember
you carry a lifetime of wisdom with you into every learning experience
and although it might make the journey longer,
it will inevitably make it more rewarding.


With love to Cynthia.

The Amalgamation of My Many Selves

Dear Reader,

Today I am going to make a concerted effort to begin the reconciliation of  art, word, and music on my blog.
As some may know, in addition to being a writer I am also a musician/songwriter and a visual artist. Finding homes on the web for my different selves has been a challenge.
This writing blog has been such a happy place for me; easy to manage and with immediate contact to readers, that my music website has probably suffered from neglect. However it is a good website for a musician because it offers widgets that work for a musician, including streaming music and a roll over schedule of upcoming events…
The art has been uploaded to Flickr.

But I find myself wishing it was all in one place and I find myself liking this place the best (it could be because it doesn’t feel so solitary here – what with all of you popping in and commenting)

So please forgive me if the site looks a little disjointed for a bit as I am working towards amalgamating my many selves on this one piece of internet real estate.



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