Proud, strutting peacock, bilious scream.  Your noisy scene affronts my ears; then my brain. If chatter your device for breaking ice,  then your attempt for cool now goes astray.  Sarcastic jester, fool upon your stage. As partner in your play,  I’ve  disengaged.

Photo Credit: Made Hery Santosapeacock

“The Hoarders”


We’re tripping at the thrift store before lunch.

Compulsion is a noisy swarm of geese.

We wear the surgeon’s mask to stop the dust.

We’re rescue angels wearing pale, pink gloves.

A Louis Vuitton leather purse; a gown

for fifty cents.  An old Mark Twain is found.

A ghostly pall hangs over all debris;

their carted carcass soon to burning hell.

We’re mourning hoarders called to love again.IMG_000344_edited-2photo:Michael Bartlett

“The Game”

 “The Game”

Faint amber glow remains to haunt
their fiery past.
Her slumber stirs.  His candle cast
and with its burn, her snuffer there again to taunt
but not to trim his light.
His wick still wild with passion’s flight.
dreams emboldened; reckless delight.

nightmare-300x245Painting by Henry Fuseli (1741-1825)


Photo Gallery WallpaperPhoto: National Geographic


The setting sun now breaks my drifting dream
and threads that needle to my passion’s flight
resplendent in its dignity, our scene
compels imagination with delight.

The fading sun now cools to lighter air
and calm, our camels rock the dusty swells.
A steamy haze along horizon’s flare
where desert’s dying colors cannot dwell.

Sahara haze, mysterious and stark.
Intrigued, I hasten to his silken tent.
I hurry to my soul in evenings dark.
We coast in caravans of eons spent.

Slow burn and then the quickened, bold desire
as when Sahara sands alight with fire.