Poetry Workshop Bluesad

Call it a workshop
Call it a class
Call it group therapy
Sitting there waiting on the
Resident Guru to impart his wisdom
To bestow on you the
Magic of the muse
Go home, I tell you
Tend to the garden
Water the plants
Make love masturbate
Then you’ll have something
To talk about


Nameless Woman Blues

Train unoccupied boxcars
Left unattended
Rot from the rust of time
A game of liar’s dice becomes craps
Where the losers are declared the winners

You saw what I was unable to see
You reached for the sun
And the moon hid behind the clouds

You turned solitude into music
As if you were a magician waving
His hand at a mad man wandering the Halls of an abandoned insane asylum


Early Morning Poem

In the haze of early morning
death lurks in the distant shadows
mocks the photo of my father
playing his violin
turning soft notes of life
into chalkboard screams of death
each note falling like hard rain
in the cranial guitar of my brain


Early Winter Poem

Chill of winter in the air
Misty fog gives way
To a light rain
Cars spew deadly exhaust fumes
Windshield wipers flap like
The wings of birds in migration
Stone faces hide behind steering wheels
Give no quarter yield only
To the red traffic lights
Pedestrians scurry across the street
Board the morning bus
On their way to work
Pressed together like preserved butterflies
Between the pages of an old
And frayed book

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: