The dappled light
Through leaf and blind
On wall and bed post
Proves the broken morning
Swift is becoming
the new fall day.

I breathe the cold air
While the dogs roam
Sniffing up the loamy scents
And watch the golden glow
Rise above the treed horizon.

My warm breath mists.

I have seen…

I have seen shredded vapor
pulled back across skies bursting
into flames. Orange burning pink
and purple smoke dousing all
into blackened night.

I have seen stars bursting forth
into fiery array from solar systems
distant and galaxies far
from our own smoldering world.

Night flowers shower
aromas gentle, deep and sweet
which drift me off to sleep.



A little light flickers
(behind triangle eyes)
in the ghoulish grin.
He illumes the pumpkin patch,
beck’ning little ghosts home.

He promises cocoa morsels
(and hot apple cider)
for little witches and zombies –
child monsters of the night!

They throng through corn fields
and down golden avenues,
entreating against tricks.

A Few Poems

In a bout of creativity, I wrote a few poems. I thought I would share them with the world.

First of all, a tribute poem, in free verse, about the death of AOL Instant Messenger, a program I used for many years at the beginning of the internet, in the long ago times, to chat with friends and family. Just today it was announced that AOL has shut down the service. Wow. Never thought I would see the day.


Little yellow person
Running ’round the world
Me to you to her to him
To talk
Life, and everything.
Until the twenty year rotation
Killed the connections
In favor of more tenuous tendrils:
Texts and time for faces
Time to run no more.
Rest in the graveyard
Of future things.
Did you leave an away
Message: R U there?

Next up is a little poem contemplating nuclear holocaust. It came to me in a moment at work the other day as I was watching a bubble of water skim across the dishwasher surface. After a brief moment, it suddenly popped, and there was a miniature shockwave that rippled across the water beneath. I live in fear that our stupid president might attack North Korea and start a nuclear war and no one will have the guts to stop him. A silly fear perhaps, but there it is. Here is my poem, also in free verse.

Push the Button

One should not
Push the button
Until one has under
The cataclysmic collapse
Of a water bubble

Finally there is a poem about the dignity of manual labor. Usually I don’t go in for that sort of thing, but as I was mopping the floor at work the other day it struck me that there is dignity in accepting what we have to do in the current moment and doing it to the best of our ability. As I said, I don’t think manual labor in and of itself imparts dignity or creates a work ethic that is worth anything, but I do think that doing one’s task well is worth, well, something. For better or worth, here is that free verse poem.

Quiet Dignity

Quiet dignity resides within
Back and forth
Back and forth
Simple mop and motion
Back and forth
Back and forth
Sweeping away yesterday’s
Crumbs and beet blood stains
Back and forth
Forth and back
For a change of rhythm
And pacing
Back and forth
Back and forth
Fan dries clean floors
The blades whir
Back and forth
Back and forth

A Haiku and Other Poems

Here follows a few poems I wrote over the summer, just for fun.

The first two poems I wrote while in traffic on my way to my summer job. I composed them in my head from a few images that came to me as I merged my way to my exit and wrote them down once I had safely parked. Of those two, the first is about a supercar in traffic, a concept I find endlessly amusing and a little bit sad, like a caged animal that deserves to be running free. I give you

Pent Up Rage

TwelV horses
Nowhere to race
Supercar in traffic

The second is a proper haiku about brake lights. For your consideration

Brakelite Haiku

Blinky red asses
Off and on the grey freeway
Little metal ‘flys

Next comes a poem that I wrote while in a local coffee shop called The White Rhino. I was struck by the seeming hipster-ness of it all, and was also contemplating the social justice warrior movement. Included herein are a play-on-lyrics, a reference to a video game, and well, here is


The White Rhino watches
Over mocha choca lattes
And lonely hipsters who first
Saw the waves breaking over Dawn
Rifles clutched tightly
Ready to battle the better beasts
Of industry and backward progress
As if they themselves had come
From another era, man buns
Wound tight to ward off the right
A new wave
Of social justice warriors

And last, but not least, a baseball poem based on a William Carlos Williams poem about some rainwater, chickens, and a red wheelbarrow. There is, above the infield, a

Pop up

So much depends upon a white baseball
In the blue, blue sky
Plopping into


So there you have a few poems. I love them, like fragile little butterfly children that I release into the harsh winter air. Be kind to them.

Mad Max: Hard Rockatansky

Beyond thunder the road furls full and long
a white line nightmare twisted black so wrong
so long ago in the way back a cop
under the dome of V8 power drops
fury so hot upon the rock and roller
the fuel injected out of controller
that he became a terminal crazy
out into fire and blood under hazy
dust kicked up by rubber and the chrome
of war and boys so young to die un-homed
but how the world like wheels it turns so fast
to hunt and haunt the dead alive to Master
survive revive again the wasted land
Ho! Ho! Here comes the mad Immortan hand
to crush the steel steal back Valhalla’s souls
she’s meanness set to music sweet and cold
a carburetor bitch guns born outruns
ev’ry thing shiny, blazing under sun
this maelstrom of decay black fueled death
the Ayatollah of rock and rolla wrests
a tune from metal wire two men enter
for dyin’ time is here to take the venter
well ain’t we a pair a ragged man
and imperator who rides eternal van
oh what a lovely day! to die historic

A poem inspired by the Mad Max films, and drawing on the imagery, dialogue and themes of each without specifically mentioning the titular character or the titles.

The Last Poetry Roundup

Hello all. Today was a cold, cold day as I made my way to Barnes & Noble. Such is fall/winter in Wisconsin. After I had got inside the store and warmed up, I sharpened my pencil and began to write. Today’s last two chapters were on the sonnet, that grand old form that served Shakespeare so well, and other miscellaneous “forms”.

I must be honest: I don’t like sonnets, and I’ll tell you why shortly. But, they come in two varieties, the Petrarchan sonnet and the Shakespearean sonnet. They both have fourteen lines, but the Petrarchan sonnet is differentiated by a rhyme scheme of ABBAABBACDECDE whereas the Shakespearean sonnet has a rhyme scheme of ABABCDCDEFEFGG. Really, that is all the difference I can find in the form, though each, perhaps, has its uses and themes that are better suited to pairs of rhymes or what not. I wrote one sonnet of each variety. The first, a Petrarchan, could also be called an ode, as it is written about a personal object that I so love.


The little man with yellow face and smile,
he stands upon my desk to greet the morn.
Though well he has been played; little worn
is he. His legs could walk a million miles,
his arms could lift a heavy plastic pile.
And should an arm or leg from body shorn
with careful reattachment he’s reborn
to last again some many little whiles.
But this tiny person is not too real:
he’s molded plastic, a child’s plaything,
minute and pallid, this man is but a fake.
Yet I like him and he has great appeal
to me. He and his kind, though small, are kings
of the playground. For him a world I’ll make.

The second sonnet, a Shakespearean, tells, at last, why I hate sonnets.

I Hate Sonnets

Though poet I am and poet remain
some forms of po-et-ry I do disdain
and try, as much as I can to refrain
from composing: the sonnet I abstain.
It’s overlong, and I don’t like the rhymes
Which come in separated pairs of ab
or cd or ef. And did I say the crimes
include a steady beat and meter drab?
Why it’s enough to drive the poet mad!
That is, if the poet’s me and not Bill
Shakespeare or, uh, Petrarch who both wrote scads
of poems in sonnetical form at will.
It seems, to some, like them, it’s easily wrote.
Apparently I got in the wrong boat.

Ha ha. I thus amuse myself.

The final chapter of my book, The Ode Less Traveled by Stephen Fry, as yes, I have at least reached the end, was on miscellaneous and sundry forms that are not, really, proper forms. There are the whimsical non-forms of ee cummings that seem to do whatever he wants them to do to fit the theme, and there are other poems by poets that make a shape to illustrate themselves. Finally there are forms for forms sake, such as the rictameter, which for no particular purpose is in the shape of a diamond. Here, I’ll demonstrate:


They say
that a diamond
is a girl’s very best
and that to win her heart you must
buy one, ring one, set upon her finger
but I find it crass and capital
to buy love with a rock
white, sparkley
and cut.

See? Diamond themed AND diamond shaped. How bout that?

Lastly, I took a stab at an ee cummings type poem.


From here it






sp     sh

And there you have it. A dripping faucet.

I have very much enjoyed my poetical foraging, and for now I’ll put down the pencil. For one, next week is my sister’s wedding and I will be quite otherwise entertained, and for another, I’m done with my guidebook and must now think how to proceed without a set structure to follow. As always, I hope you enjoyed reading my poems.