Current 2018-2020

Hello, My Current Friends

If you’re wondering why I haven’t written and posted new poems, it’s because I’m saving them for a collection that will be free to read as an e-book and to be decided for print on demand on Amazon.  Thank you for being patient while I compile and focus on reworking old poems and include new ones.  It will be released later in 2020. I still have all my poems (good and bad) in blog entries. Some of these are my more current ones I like the best.

Sky Time

Planes fly high in the sky,

And insects fly far below the clouds,

But horizontal rain slicing through the air

Smells better than thunderous crowds.

The lightning rods on the houses,

Are decorative as can be,

But not as pretty as the crows,

That sit on the edges of the magic tree,

Buildings loom in the distance,

One solid color to the eye,

And looking for another way,

Time to release it to the sky.

Know Yourself, Know Them

Know yourself

what you will do

for others in unrest

who call you a shrew.

Know them

what they do

for they are lost

with much to eschew.

Sweet on Butter’s Bottom

That sweet butter,

melted that drips from the corn,

onto the chin, and onto the napkin:

the non-descript white one

placed carefully in your lap.

There’s no way it will hold

ten or more drops.

seeping through it.

They claim it should suffice

and after you are done eating

the kernels like a typewriter moves,

there is a different outcome.

The stains on your pants

are every which way, you should’ve worn

darker pants or short,

the richness of the butter isn’t so noticeable.

That sweet butter,

I’ll have another cob,

lather it on every kernel surface,

the best part is the bottom and that’s why

it’s called sweet on butter’s bottom.


It is not you I have failed

But the minutes that have prevailed;

Cut into the deep wounds, red,

Scars opening again, shall soon go to bed.

It is nighttime wrapped inside,

As a cocoon does fully provide;

My heart cannot take much more,

Lean left and stare wide at the open door.

That is certainty hugging the ceiling,

Had I not looked up, the walls revealing:

The eyes and nose and mouth protruding.

Imitations not bothered by frequent excluding.

By the supreme law and controlled thoughts,

Bound together to those who fiercely fought;

It is not I seamlessly visible as I wait

But an unfurling of you at the closed gate.

It is not with disappointment we travel and pass by,

Because what is heard will be a broken lullaby;

It is not I sleeping right below,

And one more minute until the overthrow.

I Give You a Promise

Show yourself to me.

You wicked one who hides behind the trees.

Hear my words, I give you a promise.

My sword shall not be drawn until I see your yellow eyes.

I will slay your ugly face in the bellies of the shadows.

We will battle once more when they appear.

Beast and man as my father did many times before.

Let me see your battle scars under the blue sky.

Hear my words, I give no respect until I see your yellow eyes.

Don’t delay your revenge for those who killed your kind.

Let our encounter speak for itself.

Your wickedness has tormented my heart long enough.

I don’t desire to slay your ugly body anymore than you do mine.

My hand is on my sword ready for battle.

Hear my words, those yellow eyes of yours will soon be mine.

Basket Case

Weaving a basket takes time,
in and out,
out and in.
Fingers working the fiber,
back and forth,
forth and back.
Little rest in between,
up and down,
down and up.
Less time with food,
bite and swallow,
swallow and bite.
Moving basket to another place,
one and two,
two and one.
Overcome with many baskets,

Innocent Jello

I saw the red drops left behind,
making sure it didn’t slosh too high,
the jello in the tray,
little cubes that were cut when solid,
four across and three deep.

I scooped them out with my fingers,
swallowed them whole,
not knowing the gelatin inside,
the stuff once belonging in bones and skin,
animals long dead and not buried.

I remember the delicious taste,
cherry red tongue and fingers,
this was a special time,
time spent with my loved one,
much older than me but wiser,
a mixture of different colors in her hair.

I know age makes a difference,
seeing actions through a wider lens,
knowledge gained during time passed,
awareness of the red jello today,
still remains a highlight.

Past Tense

You owe me more time,

I was that minority,

the one the world saw on the street.

One second more turned to death,

one more minute brought upon arrest,

and privacy no longer mattered.

You spread the fires,

flames burning across the lands,

outrage and frustration not dying out.

You made it so clear,

counterfeit cops in the open,

in the spotlight again.

You can’t proofread the published,

opinions already written in blood,

and now my voice has gone.


With everything I said and did,

you misunderstood me, yes, you did.

Yes, you did, you cross-eyed kid.

Blaming me for things you had control,

it wasn’t me that laughed at you,

it wasn’t me that broke your precious bowl.

I’ve thought back to how we evolved,

split apart, came back for more,

it’s funny how you hoarded your precious dinosaurs.

Once it was clear we were a myth,

countless nights over ridiculous thoughts,

we came to our senses but then all was lost.

With rights not caring about the wrongs,

when the door closed, my dear kid,

it was no longer about your favorite songs.

One of us knew it wouldn’t last forever,

I had to let you go and one of us remained

despite the lost bird feather.

I understood the rain and thunder too,

even though you’re not a boy.

Things are different now but still

I look for you when I hear the name McCroy.

The Belly

I have outlived you by a few years, at most probably five,

maybe even ten, but no more than eleven.

As I sat waiting to reach my destination,

I had time to think about you in the silence, imagining what

aspirations you had, and when you realized all was lost.

You went back to nothing again and again because the path you followed was

the wrong one. It must’ve been a revelation hitting you in the face

when you reached the dead end.

I’m not sure what I would’ve done in your shoes,

but I know the tears you wiped and the revenge you should’ve had

was all for one thing and one thing only.

I should’ve asked for you sooner.

I never imagined I would pick you apart, only to try to tape you back together

again year after painful year.

I never knew why you were gone even though I knew what had happened.

There’s no more needing the answer.

I have it, and so do you now.

There’s freedom for both of us, and while this feels strange to say,

it is reality I’ve accepted because

without you there would be no me.

Of Knuckles and Perfume

Dear lady of the night,

I applaud you for all the things you haven’t given me,

And those things you will yet give me.

Thanking you enough for your hospitality cannot be done,

For you keep giving me something I shouldn’t have.

The hallways of your home have become my pathways to freedom.

Don’t worry, I’m never there long, just enough to reap the benefits.

You have nothing to fear. I never mean you physical harm.

When you stumble upon my happenings, take a breath or two.

It’s not the crime of the century.

Remind yourself of the perfume you dab on your neck,

The color of scarf you wrap around your head,

The handmade shawl you bought at the market.

These things I have no use for, and what I took shouldn’t matter.

Let them bring you comfort in this time of loss.

Be open about our relationship not hopeless.

The time to know my name will come soon enough.

Dear lady of the brick house,

this is only one reality out of many.

Don’t cheapened the process with your tongue.

You hold onto possessions during the afternoon, knowing they aren’t enough,

and you cannot take your eyes from them when you should be sleeping.

Your denial entices me.

I see your body is broken. It isn’t that you can’t have it back.

You must persuade me in some way to return those things you claim to love.

Find a way to let go because your knuckles are not the color I want to see.

Your Turn

You ask what my tongue would feel like,

but I don’t have a suitable answer.

No, not now.  Maybe, never.

These games you play, alone at night,

I hear about them the next morning.

Let me know when they stop.

You ask where my hands would rest,

but I can’t tell you.

The lights are on and the wall is up.

If I swing a hammer to it,

you might see I do care for you beyond

what a person should.

You ask why I resist looking through,

fiercely without thought.

Face to face with whispers.

If I stay too long in this indulgence.

I might lose my way again,

and we need control.

You ask why I don’t turn away,

after the accumulation of dried tears.

It never erased our future.

This brief pause of loneliness,

and growing patient with unkempt promises,

I still wait.

You ask about what I’ll do next.

I dare not give any hints, even if you beg.

No, not now.  Maybe, never.

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