Poem: In the Butterfly Room

I pay $5 to watch hundreds of
shape shifting wings flutter and soar 

towards the sky. A ceiling painted 

pale blue with a crooked yellow circle 

lurks in the distance like a sunflower 

birthing deformed seeds.

A stray moth searches for the light, 

while life glows inside paper lanterns 

surrounded by purple ivy. The room
is uncomfortably humid, a small pupa 

with no windows. The decoupage forest 

is wilting on my shoulders.

So, I sit alone with the butterflies. 

Contemplate how to set them free 

while carrying my basket of dreams 

through the narrow exit.

* This is a poem I wrote many years ago and it appears in my latest chapbook, The Night Garden.

Cherry Blossom Days Chapbook Free on Amazon

~ My poetry chapbook, Cherry Blossom Days will be free from Feb 2-6 on Amazon Kindle Reads.  If you're in the mood to read romantic or Spring poetry, please consider this book.  Also, if you read the book in it's entirety, please leave a rating or review.  Every bit helps as it's so hard to get reviews anyway.

~ If you click on the book cover for Cherry Blossom Days on the right hand column of this blog, it will bring you to the book on Amazon. :-)

Poem: San Marcos

The San Marcos caught our eyes
and our hearts, pulling us in
like a magical spell upon first glance.

Our first apartment together
as a young, married couple.
My dream of living in vintage

architecture soon a reality.
A fine structure of old world skill
and dark, bewitching wood;

a forest transformed into a home
with wooden floors that creaked,
oversized windows that looked out

upon a fire station with circular
apartments to the left. We were
downtowners; street noise was the norm.

The bathroom became a refuge
with its claw foot tub and pedestal
sink. It was all so charming and rare.

We slept on a futon the first two years;
not once did we yearn for a bed.
After all, we had each other for comfort;

A fairy tale to relive each day.



* This poem can be found in my chapbook Cherry Blossom Days, available on Amazon.com.

Poem: Ever Umber

 

Image courtesy of Pixabay

A storm is brewing,

overhead, the rumble of thunder,

smoky-brown clouds.

A woman with long dark tresses

scent of sandalwood and wild apple,

barefoot, dances and twirls

with arms reaching out

kicking up dirt and havoc.

Her umber dress

flailing in the wind

like a tattered sail.

She is more than wildflower 

and warm honey.

One more turn, one last glance

towards the village

mired in rot and decay

as she eyes the abyss,

a meandering path 

ever cloaked in mystery.

Poem: Winter Roses

Under the pristine Winter sun

a December melody plays 

cool blue notes gather 

and traipse

into frozen footprints

Robins forage for earthworms

and ripened berries

their crimson chests 

resemble tiny roses

sprouting up from the snow

with grey wings 

wrapping round like leaves

Feathers float from the sky

a neverending pillow fight 

each flake twirling towards 

its own issued fate

Bowls of twig and mud

prop themselves patiently

atop tables of Evergreen 

cradling pale blue eggs

snuggled deep in new dreams

Cups of cones overflow 

with icy dew

fragile, no longer sticky

nor traces of past residue

Soon, new songs will echo

from this familiar landscape

of chirps and whistles

melting the tired earth 

with promises of green

Poem: In the Autumn House

a dusty, hand-sewn quilt spreads its wings
like monarchs gathered on broken bark.
Soon, it will greet the sun
through weathered, cream shutters
that no longer close.

Wood beams dangle from the ceiling
as leaves flutter like moths
into the dead room below
layering the stained tile floor
in a crispy carpet of decay.

Broken teacups tilt towards the table’s edge
atop tea-stained doilies
beside a porcelain plate of mouse bones
while the old television screams
the white noise of static yesterdays.

An urban explorer rifles through old photos
searching for lost history.
A sudden chill. Goosebumps appear
as whispers float in the Autumn breeze
under a sky of falling leaves.

* Published in my chapbook Autumn Wonders

Poem: Flaming June

 

(an interpretation of Lord 

Frederic Leighton's painting) 

The sun watches you 

from the top balcony

admires the way your long, 

auburn tresses resemble flames 

burning around your dreams 

falling, floating, swirling, 

vivid as the dusk

holding secrets in its

hands 

Your pale body 

delicately swathed 

in layers

of orange rose petals

each scented with words of

love and hope

every touch of your hand

a love note 

The patient sea 

waits for you

to recite your sonnets

enamored waves dance 

at the sound of your voice

an instrument only the Gods

could have bestowed

sweet as ambrosia 

White marble 

kiss your feet

promise to hold you up

when you are feeling down

cool your temper 

when you have been lit

by passion's ire 

But tonight 

you will sleep in peace

knowing 

in the soft light 

of your intrepid heart

you will always have respite 

in your dreams 

New Chapbook: The Night Garden

~ I'm so thrilled to announce the debut of my new poetry chapbook titled The Night Garden.  This is a collection that I've been wanting to put together for years but just wasn't able to work on for various reasons.  Most of the poems revolve around dreams, finding one's muse, and of course gardens. There are also two flash fiction pieces included which I think will delight those who are into magical realism and fantasy.

Peruse The Night Garden 

Catacombs, Paris

Over 180 miles of tunnels
traverse like snakes through dirt paths.
Some will lead to wine cellars, large murals,
mushroom farms or faces of death.

I am one of those faces
in this chaos of bone and memory,
just another skull in a crowd of six million
piled atop broken femurs and tibias.

It is always midnight cold here
in this garden of limestone;
the moon will cast a beacon of light
when it tires of a quiet, starless sky.

That is when the voices grow louder,
when the moaning becomes endless.
It is an opera of the dead
with no audience or standing ovation.

New Chapbook: Autumn Wonders

 

My new poetry chapbook, Autumn Wonders, is now available at Amazon.  It's a small book with just 20 poems/haiku but something I've wanted to put together for a while, to celebrate the season of Autumn.  

Here is a short blurb:

"Autumn Wonders is a chapbook of poetry and haiku centered around the season of Autumn. Venture into a world of falling leaves, ghost apples, magic, and of course, wonder."

Nightingale & Sparrow

My poem Medusa is in the current (poetry) edition of Nightingale & Sparrow.  Check out this enchanting literary magazine.  Link to the online version:  https://online.fliphtml5.com/tpuo/ldlq/

I don't normally submit to online journals anymore...been there done that years ago but I have always enjoyed the content of this magazine.  Just happy that one of my poems was accepted there.

Yellow Butterfly

It is early September
yet the days still burn
memories into the skin.
A yellow butterfly
flits out of nowhere;
is it looking for someone lost
or trying to find its home?
I follow the golden silk wings
with my eyes
but the glare of the sun
blocks my view.
The butterfly has disappeared
on the same path
as my yesterdays.

* Published in Houseboat, October 2014

Wild Poppies

sprout up along the precipice of roads
and empty parking lots strewn with garbage.
Their crimson, crepe petals turned upwards
as if reaching for salvation.
Something that will take them away
from this overgrown junkyard
of rusty tin cans, animal carcasses,
and pungent odors whose origin is unknown.
An elderly woman with spider veins
crawling up her stout legs
reminisces in a rocking chair on the porch,
admiring the view through cloudy eyes.
Thankful each day for the abundance
of vibrant red among the dirty grey
of the discarded and forgotten.




* Published in Red River Review, Nov 2010

Poem: Poet as a Magician

Magic drips from your slick
fingertips like Winter water,
quickly freezing into crystal
stalagmites as you wave your
hands in the air. The audience

sits transfixed, their diamond
eyes twinkling as you perform
on the cavernous stage where
the moon filters light through
your illusions.

They leave the feast
satisfied and well fed
while you fold your secrets
away into a deck of cards.
And quietly vanish into the night.

Poem: Blackbirds

Have you seen the blackbirds

soaring through the sky, 

little "Ms" scribbled on 

chalkboard by a child's hand. 

They would search the entire 

alphabet to find the perfect 

letter. Their wings clean dust 

from the clouds where love sleeps 

when the earth removes her

from tangled vines and misery. 

The birds can only watch and wait,

as she floats upon her pillow 

of dreams. Meanwhile, lovers pace. 

Hands shoved in deep pockets 

where words disappear like coins.

Wondering where love went 

and if she will ever return again.

Poem: Victorian Mourning Bracelet

~ My poem, Victorian Mourning Bracelet, has been published at Black Poppy Review this morning. Won't you give it a read.

Poem: Wilted

He could have left her a note.  

A simple "I don't think we are

working" would have sufficed.

The aloe vera in the clay pot

was wilting.  He never watered it,

even when he knew it was thirsty. 

Instead, she came home to an empty

box.  Cardboard rooms inhabited

by ridiculous plaid curtains. 

His pine musk evaporated in her 

arms; they twitched and shuddered 

like a drug addict's withdrawals.   

On the radio, the weatherman

predicted a heavy rain storm.

"It's already hit" she whispered.

Her mind dripped questions 

that shattered as pellets 

into her heart. 

Wiping the flood from her eyes,

she walked over to the solarium.

The creeping ivy and dwarf palms

thrived beneath the glass ceiling.

With plants, she always had a 

green thumb.   

But little luck with the human species, 

particularly males.  They required 

something more than water and sunlight.   

Published in Tipton Poetry Journal, Summer 2007

* Included in the chapbook, Petal Storm

Poem: Violets Are Blue

The sun tried to kiss me 

today.  He didn't succeed.

My head drooped, eyes searching 

the earth for smiles lost.   

Bruised clouds cling to the 

space for rent beneath my lashes.  

The previous tenant evicted for

punching holes into frail walls. 

My arms quiver beneath the 

smoky-blue dew, unable to bear

the weight.  And violet fingers 

once dipped in sunshine hide

inside shrouds of black denim. 

Purple silk covers the pale

of melancholy like a spider's web

adorning the gloom of withering

meadow.  

The poppies down the row  

have always envied me--if they 

only knew.  There were many times 

I observed their spicy demeanor, 

baring red amidst the bite of 

their black eyes.

When the moon arrives I will 

sleep. Comforted by the light 

he shines in my dreams.  Dusting 

away the blue that sorrow carries.

*Published in La Fenetre, Spring '07

Poem: The Hoarder

Celeste is a hoarder,

has been since she was

a child.  A collector of

life she likes to say.

She knows the language of

squirrels. The panic of 

losing her stash.  Her attic

like the sanctuary of an old 

oak tree.  Buried inside; 

dried roses, movie stubs, 

condolence cards, letters 

she never mailed, and many 

other reminders of love.  

Death. Everything in-between.  

But what happens when Winter 

never ends.  When there aren't 

enough acorns to sate the ache 

in her belly.  The insatiable 

hunger of time.  Gnawing on limbs 

of bone to reach the marrow 

where sustenance thrives.

* Published in Leaf Garden Press, Nov 09

Poem: Violet Bottles

She imagines Paris, the Eiffel Tower, 

drinking coffee in an outdoor cafe

while people watching, strolling through

lavender fields on a Sunday morning.

The outdoor flea market spreads itself open 

like a pair of butterfly wings, 

inviting the curious and creative

a place to inhabit if only for an hour;

remnants of the past to reinvent, 

treasures for the present tense.

Perched upon a white-washed wooden table,

vintage bottles of light to dark hues

of violet, mysterious yet translucent.

Her starling voice barters for their beauty

and for the first time she is not afraid

to sing in front of strangers.

Paris, one day, mon ami,

but for today the bottles will do,

carrying dreams of travel and escape

deep inside her shy violet heart.

* Published in The Blue Hour, 2013