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)

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



The first day of his smile

Banishing the chill of a late frost

Thus my love comes

On the dawn of the first day

of the first spring

To tend my garden, till the sacred soil

Where the silky folds of my flower blossoms

Gently, widely

As my summer sun also rises

When he gazes past the twin hills

To the valley beyond

Offering the sweetest of nectars

Thus my love comes

To reap that which was so deeply sown

On a harvest moon divine

The fruit of his labor stretched out

Across a starlit ravine

Call him yet home again

Thus my love comes

On the last sunset of the last day

of the last fall

Stoking the hearth warmth

And we rest

The seventh day of my smile

Poetry Picnic Week 37: Peace…

A Leaf / A Life

Drifting in the wind,

            a leaf.

            Aged. Hardened.


Not here.

            Not there.

Each gust of wind blowing.

            Taking it away, to bring it back.

Only to start again.

Until someone comes.

    Carries it away.

        To a different place.

            Where it is left.

Broken.  Shredded.  Crushed.

Just enough left to notice.

What it once might have been,

When it was still green.


Not taken for granted.

Or left forgotten.


Written after a trip to a nursing home…

Poetry Picnic Week 34: Plants, Creatures, and the Cosmos!!

The List

Them! She turns and points out to the ones
Sons of a son who once harmed her young dear
Years paid with glee at her blatant lying
Sighing, I check her on the list with ease

Please help! My child dies! A mom screams and begs
Dregs! Responds the suit ignoring her needs
Pleads we just can’t fund this, now close the doors!
Scores the suit on my list for lies, the fool

Cool water sprinkles her newly done face
Placed perfectly by the surgeon’s hand
Grand, she still wants a little done right there
Unaware her name has just been marked down

Frowns cross his brow as he simply just stares
Dares himself to leave her, just walk away
“Staaaay” purrs a voice not his wife and he smiles
While I write his name to my dossier

Beware! Fists comes down on unaware face
Trace the tears that fall along with his goal
Rolls the jewelry he’s craved so deep inside
Snide for a moment, I check off his name

Same old, same old she says with a sneer
Leers at the ones who can’t afford her styles
Smiles as she plied with even more trite things
Brings her to my list with renowned due haste

Waste best described most indolent ways
Staying far from hard work Oh she’ll try
Dry her nails is the most effort given
Livin’ as though, I can’t check one more name

Blame? I have none the choice made is their path
Wrath, Greed, Pride, Lust, Envy, Gluttony, Sloth,
Cloths my claim for the dark souls of theirs
Care not on the cause for their deadly sin
In smiling silence, add names to my list

Gist? Your name could be added next, ahem!

Anagram of Sin

Did anyone notice the pattern? This poetic form is called a Rime Enchainée. The pattern of the Rime Enchainée is very simple – the last word of each line rhymes with the first word of the following line, and the last word of the last line rhymes with the first word of the first line, bringing the form back full circle.

Entered in:

Poetry Picnic | Week 26 – Seven Deadly Sins

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

Take Me Home

The surefooted sun smiles upon us
In summer evening’s sweet dream
Where we heaved ourselves into the willows
Not that far from the bubbling stream
Aye, it has been so long a time
Yes, time’s spent many a day
Since dandelions crowned my hair
As a precocious child at play
It seemed from the moment
The golden sun starts to show
All the way through ‘till the fireflies
Light the night with their soft glow
Counting cloud daring to dent the sky so blue
While lying in the back of Grandpa’s cart
Letting the sun fry me to a nice bronze
During those weekly treks to the mart
Oh the lush green hills stretching forever
To these once young eyes it seemed
Became closed walls over night
To the teenaged me, now steamed
At how there just had to be more
Than just a life of living on the farm
Thought I travel a little and come back
What could be the harm?
How far a road I’ve journeyed since
I first loaded my things and started to travel
Yet found I’m searching for home in foreign places
All sense of such starting to unravel
To lose touch with those lush green fields
What part of my soul was so easily sold?
To make my way in this dizzying swirl
Of concrete hot and skyscrapers cold
How to regain the small wonders in my life?
To re-enjoy all the small simple things
Like how the crocus by the shed blossoms
Before the calendar says it is spring
It took decades to find that balance
I’m still a country girl at heart it seems
My plans were true to all but me I learned
But shattered plans don’t shatter dreams
Aye I’m an old woman now, seen many a thing
Among the highways and byways I still love to roam
But now and then I get a hankering for quiet, for peace
And my mantra becomes “Take me home, take me home”

For Poetry Picnic – Week 10

The Only Thing…

The scratch behind the record playing
Hear it on the radio?
That susurrus? What is it saying?
Is it your mind about to go?
The ragged chill running down your spine
On a most warm and sunny day
The nagging feeling in your mind
That takes the words you want to say

What’s in the shadows,
   in the shadows,
     in the shadows…

What’s in the shadows,
   in the shadows,
     in the shadows of the light…

What’s in the shadows,
   in the shadows,
     in the shadows…

What’s in the shadows,
   in the shadows,
     in the shadows of the night…

A sense when you walk in a room
That simply rubs you the wrong way
A sense of an impending doom
That turns the swiftest feet to clay
A little sense of something strange
That remote something not quite right
A sense that danger’s within range
That makes you turn on all the lights

What’s in the shadows,
   in the shadows,
     in the shadows…

What’s in the shadows,
   in the shadows,
     in the shadows of the light…

What’s in the shadows,
   in the shadows,
     in the shadows…

What’s in the shadows,
   in the shadows,
     in the shadows of the night…

A feeling raises your neck hairs
It’s one that shakes you through and through
The touch you feel, when no one’s there
That makes you wonder is it you?
The tap, the tap upon your pane
That starts to freak you to your core
The tap that’s more than simple rain
You’re on the fifty-second floor!

What’s in the shadows,
   in the shadows,
     in the shadows…

What’s in the shadows,
   in the shadows,
     in the shadows of the light…

What’s in the shadows,
   in the shadows,
     in the shadows…

What’s in the shadows,
   in the shadows,
     in the shadows of the night…

The creep who lives,
Across the hall
The one whose look makes your skin crawl
That tiny bug
Oh! Does it sting?!
You’re scared of every little thing!
The door that slams!
The glass that breaks!
The sudden loss of breaths you take!
The terrors!
Won’t just let you be!
What is the reason?
Can’t you see?
The only thing to fear

Is me!

Fear’s in the shadows,
   in the shadows,
     in the shadows…

Fear’s in the shadows,
   in the shadows,
     in the shadows of the light…

Fear’s in the shadows,
   in the shadows,
     in the shadows…

Fear’s in the shadows,
   in the shadows,
     in the shadows of the night…


dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Poetics: POETICAPHOBIA