Want

Craving hits
The kind that spits
until satisfied
unjustified
Just there.
though I am unaware
as to why

Desires strikes
shooting spikes
into the soul
never leaning to lull
numb, or dissipate
changing the fate
of my direction

Continue wandering
to tunes whispering,
me to you
among the throngs of 2x2
in persistent perfection you sit
as I clamor to fit
through the eye of a needle

Revisions after a Published Work

Tonight I’ll pray to dream of you
so we may ponder a verb or two
in eleemosynary silence and still 
cursing final edits in the Bill
Then noticing after some reflection 

lines that needed editorial protection

with abandoned  schemes of rhetoric and rhyme 
awkward metaphors that weren't given the time
fragments everywhere grammar damned disgraced
Your words. Mine. They all were laced.
Despite the dream, heaven's hosts may be bold
our drinks will be plentiful; black and cold 
When the reading's over Act II will have yet begin
That work is still ink and quill the author has to pen. 

Steps to Productive Writing

Creative Writing Step 1: (with kids, if sans kids Congratulations! Skip to step 2 and replace the word "movie" with words: doorbell, over-sharing gaggle of women in coffee shop, etc..) Find a good movie for the kids on Netflix.

Creative Writing Step 2: Find good headphones that will drown out said movie.
Creative Writing Step 3: Take a picture as evidence that you are indeed ready to start writing by completing Steps 1 & 2.
Creative Writing Step 4: Post picture on Social Media sites to prove that you are productive.
Creative Writing Step 5: Write witty status
Creative Writing Step 6: Open document, type 1-3 sentences.
Creative Writing Step 7: Check Social Media sites to see if anyone appreciated picture with witty comment.
Creative Writing Step 8: Repeat steps 6 & 7 until movie is over OR kids are revolting/setting house on fire in order to get your attention.

Twirl, Love, Twirl

Once before our time--when the moon stood still,
the sun whistled when lowered over the hill,
there lived a little girl named Twirl, Love, Twirl.
Home was land where even weeds would not grow;
landmines were the only seeds men would sow.
Despite a secure 12 inches of land,
Twirl, Love, Twirl knew it would get out of hand.
Sonny Baby lost footing, Listen Sweet
lost her mind, and despite all his gloating,
One And Only left only tears behind.
The field grew dark; shadows gulped out the light.
Her eyes adjusted until darkness was bright.
The rain stopped quenching her raw, hungry thirst;
she gorged on Nothing 'til her gullet burst.

Shepherd came with his flock sweetly bleating.
She waited for the inevitable, heart swift and fleeting.
Instead, he beckoned and called her by name,
threw open the shadows; skies burst aflame.
Shocked and blinded, control leapt from her hands;
Twirl, Love, Twirl tripped into the weaponed lands.
Sparks flew and scarred her, bombs tore chains unknown,
as she tumbled broken, but not alone.
The man smiled, wept, cradled her as His child;
yet when she glimpsed Prison, a yearn grew wild.
One place called home she had to leave behind.
Shepherd saw her grief and replied in kind,
"Do not glance to hated comfort and stray;
you will see everything for what it was on Redemption Day"

So, to the gates He carried her as the celestial beings cried.
Back home lilies grew, elements defied.

Recovering from the Tempest

you are my prologue
deemed unnecessary
in my novella
but scrutinized
by scholars in my epic

you are my prologue
pages that can be ripped
torn like the curtain
split from the ground up
words that made me be
plotted, charted, drafted
words before I could see [that]

you are my prologue
grains of salt before
specks of earth before
restored sight
soil within bellies of worms
before vineyards before
that last sip of wine
seeds planted before
future saplings before
the cross that made
all things restored,
after the Fall that dropped
the Earth and let her shatter
into pieces called World,
so that you could be
just prologue skimmed
as a note from critics
as a skipped producer's cut
for the 90 minute feature
you. are. just. prologue.

Missing Socks

Only 30, maybe older,
and I am tired
of sorting truths:
patches for a quilt
sown by generations

mismatched socks
content without brothers
jumbled wires attached
to broken ear buds
rusty screws thrown
into an old coffee can

hapless attempts
to organize the
mess, the tangle,
that will just get
muddled up again.

How I crave
for one story
a cipher
a compass for this
ever-changing labyrinth

For Mickey

"Pink sky at night,
a sailor's delight;
pink sky in the morning,
a sailor's warning,"

She whispered Wisdom
into my ear over summer sounds:
the creaking porch swing,
ice cracking in our jelly glasses

Trucks whizzed past, now and then,
we would wave until they blasted their horns
my little arm bent at the elbow
pulling an invisible string up and down.

"Somebody's in the kitchen with Dina.
Somebody's in the kitchen, I know.
Somebody's in the kitchen with Dina,"
Her voice shook with that final syllable

My contagious giggles lapsed
into a contented sigh and
I wondered about Dina
I wondered about Somebody

Did Somebody love her
was Somebody welcome or
just another body to shoo away
and out of a kitchen for one

I imagined Dina. Her hair, her dress,
those apron strings tied like a sloppy afterthought.
At times I could smell Dina's corned beef hash and rice
& maybe collards and black eyed peas for good fortune

The porch swing kept creaking and I
snuggled secretly hoping against
her resolution to reduce the padding
under her bedazzled purple t-shirt.

My eyes adjusted to the fading light:
pine needles dry and rusty brown
fire ants working on the mounds I kicked moments before
white paint chipping on the front porch railing

Hairs of my lashes popped in and out
of view as I forced them open
not wanting to miss the Finale
of frogs and crickets rivaling owls

as they rehearsed, never quite in tune,
their song inspired fireflies--
joyous sprites in tutus
twirling to their own choreography

My porch swing companion, like the bullfrog opera
and tiny iridescent winking lanterns,
could be flawed at times, but
perfect in familiarity, simplicity, and love

Unquenchable

breaking my resistance,
a burdening hesitation,
my lips brush and dip into
the offering

a sip reveals
my brittle bones
my craving skin
my regrets over
abandoned flakes
under the nails
of dreams and idols

one sip, and i drown into You.

The Body sighs, satisfied
One sip uncovered my thirst
One sip covered me, wrapped me, loved me
One sip made me Yours.

Haunted

Five drafts of work are haunting me. Pleading, as their shackles pang and pound inside my brain, "Work out our aching feet, feed us, and then introduce us, the richly fattened dancers, to your society."  Like selfish first borns, they pout as I attend to others. Sorry wee ones.