“Adrift, Upon the Lee”

free-wiki-Max_Jensen_Großes_Marinestück-seascape-640-pxAdrift, Upon the Lee”

My soul’s adrift; her spirit lost to wind.

I’m tossed and vainly seek a safer lee.

I pull the anchor chain and with it send

my heart a-flutter, full-blown, out to sea.

My boat has ample weight yet she is trim.

She dreams of color and a high romance

with sun and wind and frothy water’s brim

across a deck that cherishes the dance.

But I am ghostly silent.  Lethargy

and fear within my muggy heart resides.

No compass; no direction do I see.

My stern into a darker water glides.

Oh, save us from that whore; my soul set free,

or else this landlubber; this poet, bleed.


“The Gladiator”


Epitome of male stupidity

when warriors wage they have control as thus:

He stands, alone,  amidst bloodthirsty Roman crowd.

Our hero waits to see what will emerge.

His metal mail, his honed and sharpened sword

no defense for his host behind the door.

A buzzing crowd of bees he best explore

than meet this group of ladies he’ll implore;

his harried HAREM full of female views.

“The Great Llama Drama”

The Great Llama Drama

Yes, Llamas on the loose!
Thelmella and Louanne.
They’re on-the-lamb down I-95
as fast as llamas can.
Headed for the Grand Canyon
with fearless, careless abandon.
They’ve slipped their surly bonds
for the land of llamas beyond!

“Holy Hands!”

John card playing(John Casey) Photo by Jacqueline Casey

I dreamt last night I attend
the Church of the Holy Hands!
Firm fanatics, believers brew;
a congregation of Fifty-Two.

“Have pocket aces in your stew
before you receive your due;
before glory rains upon you, too!”

I genuflect, bow and find a pew
as the devil shoves his chips my way.
All my Hold’em followers chant: “Tsk-tsk.
It ain’t ‘gamblin’, you fool!
Just a calculated risk!”

 (write a 66 word piece.  Include the word, fanatic.)




You’re rolling out to sea
You’re waving me goodbye
Yet I am not set free
this seagull cannot fly.

“Goodbye”, the buoy tolls.
“I’ll miss you more and more.
Release my restless soul.
Adrift, I cannot soar.”

I’ve learned one certain truth:
there isn’t any death.
There’s only your last words
where I am left bereft.

Don’t ask a ‘pardon me’;
I’ll free you in advance.
I’ll let your kisses go
forgetting our last dance.

Love is a kind of death
like giving up and in.
Don’t ask me not to share
as boundless heartache mends.

Goodbye, goodbye, my heart
your sins now have reprieve
as I forgive your part:
your love did not deceive.

So waves my hurt from shore;
Your wintry face is pale
as I will love you more
as soft now sets your sail.

Love is a kind of death
like giving up and in…
But once the moment’s gone
Love’s promises don’t end.




She pushes, coaxes, presses needle through.
With labored love, the handsome fabric glows;
the heart, remorseful, with it thus imbued.
Her stitches mixed with tears, the fabric knows
she makes her mourning coat from their love nest.
Resounding chimes the tolling bell
that beckon all to see his final best:
that coat of many colors where he dwells
as, lovingly, her thimble now may rest.

 Thimble W_T_star_mark_embroidery-AT-9-10(prompt for Chimera is “thimble”. Write your story in  exactly 66 words.)

“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)

“Dead Man’s Hand”

“Dead Man’s Hand”

Until the day I die,
I’ll never forget
those glassy, un-blinkin’ eyes.

Old Bill, he stared;
no devil denied.
Across the table,
I saw them eyes.
Surprised , he glared
at the cards in his hand.

Oh, the Queen of Spades
was his low-in-the-hole
‘neath Aces and Eights.

Yeah , Aces and Eights
now drip, drip, drip
in a dead man’s grip.

Left a drop of blood
on Bill’s Queen of Spades.
Left his business card
name of one called “Krel”;
(Some say from Hell)
but a Devil with his
unblinkin’ eyes.

“The Angel in the Cobweb”

original fabric figure designed by Jacqueline casey
original fabric figure designed and handmade by Jacqueline Casey. Photo by Casey.



“The Angel in the Cobweb”

My mother; such a patient soul in ways;
an uncomplaining vigil does she keep.
From nursing home, she spends her later days
yet longing to escape and be with me.

My life and work is in another state.
Our separation makes it more than tough:
she counts our visits when we may embrace
and cheerful is her face though she’s a bluff.

Her final visit to my home, sublime
for her, she sleeps upon my ‘princess bed’
and said she hoped to visit other times
‘the room with lacy pillows and the spread’.

My mom received her wings; left earthly gloom
and from the guilty heart my grief  would flow
until appeared in corner of that room
a message in a space with transient glow!

The beauty of an angel thus appears.
She flies within the spider’s web it seems.
Assures me love comes from another sphere
where hope and true forgiveness always beams.