Do You Hear Me…?

Do you hear me?


I can arrive in a blinding streak of light
A reverberation of considerable noise
Sometimes I’m just a hiss in the night
A susurrus lodged against the equipoise

Do you hear me?

I come to life with anticipation
Sometimes the rose, sometimes the thorn
I can die under the weight of trepidation
And thus never will I be born


Both wise and foolish in my own way
I am one and all of the muses and sages
A nocturnal refuge in the bustle of day
The launch and conclusion of many ages

Do you hear me?

I am the road less traveled or forged ahead
Choose wise and I can further your niche
But choose wrong or not at all instead
Then I can simply be a… stitch


A unit of immeasurable gauges
A mystery of infinite possibility
The door through all of life stages
I am the knock of opportunity


Do you hear me?


Hyde Park Poets Rally –  Week 77


Dawn the first light to sparkle on the water

Breaking apart the morning mist
Drying dew drops that gather in the night
Doing their part to add to the mystique
They land on top of the fine fronds
Of the snowy milkweeds
Turning them into small diamond bursts
In search of the rising sunlight

For three days I’ve tried to capture this
For three days I’ve failed miserably
Technical and yes, user difficulties
But today, today feels like the day I won’t blow it
Still, I pull out my rabbit’s foot and give it a smooch
Then my Nikon to check the aperture settings

And with one last kiss, I snap the shot…perfect!


Hyde Park Poets Rally Week 75

Triple A…

Some say I’m a nympho
And that’s quite all right.
And hell yes! I do love it so!
But only one fills me with delight

He calls me his Triple A Pet
Anytime, anything, anyplace I can get


Soft as the murmuring breeze of a new day’s dawn
When the evening sun is about to set
An afternoon thunder shower should the mood spawn
Or perhaps during a midnight buffet


Going out commando on a dare
With nothing over my shape but a very short coat
Then sitting open in a park getting air
While he presses buttons on that special remote


Members of several airport’s Mile High
In the nose-bleeds, for a Knicks game at MSG
The feast at The Great Wall still bring me sighs
The weekend in the brink for the stunt at Wrigley

And I know it’s just not my predilection
Anytime – Anything – Anyplace
For he suffers from the same affliction

In limos, in cars, in buses, in trains
In a taxi during rush hour, against the door
I think we’ve hit every state except Maine
In a hotel picture window on the second floor


Swinging wildly with our motion
Re-enacting the latest porn
At Macy’s taste-testing lotion
And yes, that cob of corn


The times the reason how they vary
It’s not for food when we go for brunch
One crooks finger the other doesn’t tarry
At my office 3pm, because I needed to munch


Anytime, anything, anyplace that he can
I call him my Triple A Man

Manual, anal, oral, it doesn’t end
With but a moment’s loaf until recur
To each me he’s the perfect godsend
That doesn’t mind if you call him a satyr


Hyde Park Thursday Poets Rally Week 73 (September 20 – September 26, 2012)


Across a crowded room, his eyes catch mine
Eyes half-hooded by mood lighting, half-hooded by wine
He’s careful not to glance, but for a moment pass
And I equally engrossed, by the drink in my glass

Our paths cross but briefly, among the dancers on the floor
We smile, have a polite greeting, step away and nothing more
It’s a moment over faster than a thunder’s boom
Before we’re back to hooded glances across the crowded room

But this time he doesn’t waver, he lets his eyes penetrate
I grasp the wall for some support, under the glare of its weight
Mesmerized by his power, I realize I am no match
Before I feel him deep inside me just as my breaths catch

I pretend to nod to music heard above the party’s din
But it’s really to the throbbing of his pulse felt within
Eyes closed my body tingles at the unexpected bliss
I feel the warmth of his breath release with mine in a hiss

Guided by steady flickers of strong and tender fingers
That flitter across points enflamed with a teasing linger
My eyes fly open in a flash, just all time slows
Across the room I see him nod and wonder if he knows

Has there only been a passing of a few heartbeats
That took me from the curious to the nearly complete
He stands with his smile knowing, while I stifle down a moan
And leaves me there in throbbing passion, ravished by his eyes alone


Hyde Park Poetry | Poets’ Rally Week 72 (September 5 -12, 2012)


The Perfect Poet Award Poetry Rally Week 72 – Ravished

Perfect voice in an imperfect world
Muse pulls prose from words swirled

I nominate the wonderful poet  Heaven.

Remember Prayer

So just, come to me, for anything at all,
Call my name, it is yours to call.
Feel my faith in you, when you can’t find your own,
And always remember, you’re never alone

Freddy Jackson featuring Najee / All I’ll Ever Ask

Yes, sing My praises in hymns when times are good
But it’s the hard times where faith is truly understood
When you’ve had a brush with life’s shortfalls
Some offer prayer, every chance they could
Others are too afraid when they know they should
For all succumb to the curve of life’s pitfalls
So, whether you scream for My name out loud
Or kneel to Me in the quiet, anything but proud
It’s never too late to rise from a downfall
So just, come to Me, for anything at all

Reach out for Me, just reach out with upturned hands
I know the forces don’t always let things go as planned
And be not ashamed if you’ve never before prayed at all
Come to Me now, come to Me, I will understand
Remember it is My footprints that are seen in the sand
When the die lie still and you’re pressed against the wall
When you fear you have finally lost it all indeed
A simple prayer is the liaise to all you need
And never feel any request is too great or too small
Just call My name, it is yours to call

When your skies shift from watchet to gray
And a torrent of troubles come your way
For you’re worn, you’re tired – weary to the bone
When you feel you’ll never, have a say
In all the cruel games that life can play
When the darkness invokes your heart to moan
When you’re convinced without a doubt
That your end seems like the only way out
In the times when it feels your faith has flown
Feel My faith in you, when you can’t find your own

“In the beginning…” starts The Word’s first page
“…Christ be with you all. Amen” marks the final stage
From the first fillip of light I’ve ever shone
That setup the first of a Seven-Day age
Words that still have the power to assuage
Words that can inspire, words that help to atone
On those days, when you’re lost as what to do
Remember “These sayings are faithful and true.”
My love is reaped in reward as all love sown
And always remember, you’re never alone


dVerse Poets Pub | OpenLinkNight – Week 58

Hyde Park Poets Rally – Week 71

the fall

i watch as the world dresses in hues
of goldenrod, carnelian and fawn
shades of reality harden with dollar wine blues
then again, maybe it’s the sixth beer i’m on

refusing to believe the revolution, its been 365 tonight
the encore of champagne promises spilled among burned biscuits
and buns hard enough to make martha stewart cry outright
as i drained bottles and tears over the possible end of us

thrown off kilter i pleaded give me time, you gave me until fall
and seasons of dancing pixies floated atop my vodka on the rocks
waiting for the warm liqueurs to answer the call
but eyes glazed, would i have known if opportunity even knocks

my friend bill w knocked several times but i turned my face
thinking i still had time for you and him after my next beer
i never noticed as i fell from all my close friends grace
i had new friends in a variety of bottles colored and clear

straight faced i refresh my promises
to sailing sober no matter what it took
charm bought time with the doubting thomas’
but it wasn’t a trip I was ready to book

a year of a thousand little cases of dying
slipped by without fulfilling even a shadow of your desires
it’s once again smoldering in fall flair and i’m trying
but all i can smell is the burnt rubber of departing tires

class is over, but for me the lessons yet begun
it took two for conversation to engage
but the play had reached the end of its run
and you, the main thespian had left the stage

the job, the flat, the wheels left too, but still life’s sweet
with a flourish take a sip to autumn in the park
lying on the grass stretching out my feet
and take another sip to life in the growing dark

i note that dry leaves make fantastic kindling
thinking maybe i should extinguish the flame
my mind drunk in suicidal spindling
but i swear dropping the cigarette is not the same

damn i don’t know, did you kiss me goodbye
would i have even noticed after all
my ocean of tears can’t make inflamed kindling dry
i never did recover from the wagon’s fall  



Hyde Park – Thursday Poets Rally – Week 70

Hyde Park Purfact Poet at Rally – Week 70 – The Fall

I accept the award and nominate – Bohdirose

I Fear

I fear a love which fills my heart is slowly draining away
But taking the next step is one that hurts far too much
Now I have given up in believing in dreams that come true
When the secrets known to capture time are beyond my grasp

I am so afraid that someday there won’t be anything
That his caress will not be even a distant memory
Let alone the minutiae details of just our daily living
I fear a love which fills my heart is slowly draining away

I dared to dream I’d remember every aspect for all time
But what hold have I a mere mortal against all eternity?
I know this slow erasure is part of the steps in moving on
But taking the next step is one that hurts far too much

I need his kindred touch to remain locked deep inside me
Always a part of my soul as I believed with each breath
When our every want and dream seemed just a day away
Now I have given up in believing in dreams that come true

Yes, I need his kindred touch to remain locked deep inside me
For I dared to dream I’d remember every aspect for all time
Now I am so afraid that someday there won’t be anything
When the secrets known to capture time are beyond my grasp


You know me and forms, today it is a Cascade.

In a Cascade a poet creates the initial stanza then takes each consecutive line from that first stanza and makes those the final lines of each stanza afterward. If the first stanza is sextet, then the complete poem will have seven stanzas. A tercet results in four stanzas and so on. Beyond that, there are no additional rules for rhyming, meter, etc.

Thursday Poets Rally Week 69


They Won

She locks them down deep in her heart
The pains that are much to hard to bear
Not knowing pains are living things
They too have a need of air

She paces back and forth
As her soul rips at the seams
The pains try to find a voice
But she suppress the urge to scream

The pains search in vain
Desperate for way to be heard
But not computer, pen or paper
Is touched to give her pains words

But pains are a force of nature
Pains finds a way to succeed
As she picks up a straight razor
And in little cuts starts to bleed

And but for a short moment
The pains do ease inside
Covers the cuts in long sleeves
A whole new way to hide

For days, weeks, months, on end
She and her pains do this odd dance
She suppressing the cuts of evidence
As pains sneak out when they gets the chance

And all the lies rapidly collected
To give her scars a blame
Only cuts deeper than the physical cuts
That can’t quell her personal shame

She refused to reach out
To those offering her their hand
But she just wasn’t ready
Wasn’t prepared to understand

That to accept help was not a weakness
On the strong who reach out survive
But in her head only pains say she’s living
That only the pains keep her alive

Over a year on a late summer night
The clock ticks about a quarter to four
And finds that’s she’s still cutting
Alone on the bathroom floor

And for the first time she sees her arms
The crisscrossing along her inner thighs
The fresh blood trickling from her wrist
And for the first time she truly cries

The avoided mirror reflects all her hurts
Only as painful as the eyes can see
At last her pains have found a voice
And now owned will not let her be

It suddenly felt like so many hands were on her
More than what could possibly be real
It was heart reaching out to all who touched her
Desperate for a chance to finally heal

For the heart’s not made to hold pain for so long
And her pains no longer had the patience to wait
Freed at last it gushed through every avenue
She’d finally reached out, but it was too late

"THEY WON" carved into an arm.

Entered in:

Thursday Poets Rally – Week 65 

Poetry Picnic  – Week 30

The Mystery Inside

Yes, enter this orchard of distinct cherry
I believe I am more than ready
To place all my trust in you to let
You handle this orchard’s precious get

Yes, I grant you access to my colorific wonders
But please, do not embark inside to plunder
You must be gentle, don’t brusquely grope
Slowly ferry your intent, along the brief slope

First press yourself against my door gently,
There will be a sound, which grants you entry.
Listen for the gasp between a moan and a sob
As you place your fingers on my mansion’s knob,

With a kiss as your token to be on queue
As I take you abreast for proper homage due
Wooing my passion with your tongue,
You’ll revel in just how my gem’s bell is rung

Being gentle does not mend to being meek
When I let you in to all that you seek,
You’ll find my resistance wearing thin,
As I deeply ache to let you in

Heat that cooks when you come in from the cold
Ancient sacred treasure, that somehow stays gold
The blaze of an epiphany, behind solid advice
Euphoria’s loss in a Fool’s Paradise

Access granted, you’ll find me a gregarious host
As you decide which lips you enjoy most
Exploring beauty redefined for the something I hide,
For my mystery changes each time you’re inside

The Chanteuse

There were the songs she sang for lovers
There were the songs she sang for the souls departed
There were the songs she sang for dreamers
This is the song she sang for the brokenhearted
Joshua Kadison / Vanishing America – El Diablo Amor

She’ll parcel out her song as is her right
But they come to see her every night
To listen to her words in the smoky light
Audience of eight or a hundred and one
Captivated by whatever music is spun
For all the pain, all the joy she uncovers
With an opus of her choice
To the last trill of her voice
A soft lingering note that gently hovers

There were the songs she sang for lovers

With wail of discord or a comforting tune
Her voice shrieking notes high or the low of bassoon
Her words soft in true tribute or mocking lampoon
Be it last year, last week or just the other day
From the memories of love from those passed away
Full of the hope from sage’s last wisdom imparted
Whether the brief friendship or the closest of kin
A personal memorial from her to them
Who now walk paths only the heavens have charted 

There were the songs she sang for the souls departed

Just believe love will come all bright, shiny and new
Or your craziest wish will certainly come true
From her song, nothing is impossible to do
Twinkle with the moonbeams and become a new fish
Or savor the flavor of a favorite dish
From a childhood feast full of rambunctious screamers
We’ll have naught of ye olde stodgy civilities
Take a chance with infinite possibilities
Life is a parade complete with shiny streamers 

There were the songs she sang for dreamers

The audience’s mood takes a moment to gauge
Before setting a tempo designed to assuage
And all from the comfort of the dim, smoky stage
Whether an upbeat tempo or sad notes that swooned
Pure heartbreak is heard no matter what song is crooned
She always seems to know when love has been thwarted
Each table has candles lit in a glass that’s clear
Maybe the soft light glistened off my single tear
One look at my face and she knew that love had parted 

This is the song she sang for the brokenhearted


Glosa poetic form

The Glosa is a Spanish form that also works well in English.   Glosas open with a quatrain from another poet, called the cabeza, followed by four ten-line stanzas terminating with the lines of the initial cabeza in consecutive order.  The sixth and ninth lines of each stanza rhyme with the borrowed tenth line and is the only required rhyme of the poem. There is no set meter or syllable count for a Glosa, however, a good flow is always recommended.

Entered in:

Thursday Poets Rally Week 61 (January 25-Feb 3, 2012)

Poetry Picnic Week 23: New York Times Headline Topics
Inspired by NYT article: Sounds That Come From in the Head and on the Street