Category Archives: Poetry

Do not deadhead evil flowers     nor pinch their potent buds for wrong is ne’er so strong they say     as when new growth is stressed. ’Courage in stead the neigh’bring good     with rich enfertiled soil, with careful pruning gently wise,     with … Continue reading →

I sit by a gentle smoldering fire in the glow of morning Methow sun which has finally scaled the crest of Silver Star’s hunched shoulder—

Only two types of people exist:

that literary construct designed to clarify otherwise shoddy prose by sandwiching morphemes between em-dashes, commas, or pairs of actual eponymous parentheses

I. Leaving my air- conditioned digs I drove half an hour hiked a quarter mile

They of course caught Bulova red-handed. He had more hands than one, naturally, but it was the bloody one that mattered— the third hand, the one entitled second,

Joan Wicleff it was from whom I learnt: art is a verb.

Once upon a time in Memphis, I consumed 300 films a year; what would I ever have done in a ghosted town like yours,

inspired by the film of that name i. You want me to turn out the lamp. I linger on your face a little longer.

Perhaps you should stop reading now. Continue and you may determine whether this poem begins to live today or if it be dead when read, as said.