Poems are postcards with words instead of images.

Whenever something impacts me in my life I write a poem or story describing the moment. Our generation is losing this skill, imagination is in 3 D or High Definition. I challenge anybody to try and recreate a moment with words, Art or music. Enclosed are a few moments in my life.

Unemployed

Waking up to the aroma of silence.

I have lost faith.'

Walking in circles,chasing unknowns.

Woven tree's pass judgement.

Who am I ?

A image blowing freely.

Touching no foundations.

I am a shallow man.

Wallowing, digging fall Host as.


AFTER VISITING DA VINCI'S STATUE OF A HORSE
(FREDIC MEIJER'S GARDEN GRAND RAPIDS, MICHIGAN, ANOTHER IN FRANCE.)


Chaperoning three-second graders-Andrew,Adrien,Nicholas.
Three wolf pups gazing at Cacti and flowers.
The boy's chase garden spiders.

Walking with my own trio of wild things,
grasping their limbs and tails.


Entering the butterfly sanctuary the lads stand still.
Spreading out their arms, still,

Underneath a cloud of Monarchs.
Hoping butterflies will land on their thin arms.

Running outside in the rough rain.
The pups look for a beaver in the pond.
Blown by the East wind,dancing.

Reaching the twenty five foot Horse statue.
Burnished ,strong stallion posing majestic.

Jumping up and down holding pointed umbrellas.
Trying to poke the stud's bronze genitals.
Little girls giggle watching.

Then back to the glass building.
where we sit at a round table.

Buying M MS candy from a vending machine.
I pour them on a Formica top,
watching six hands fight for primary colors.

Drinking bad coffee, thinking of the highlight of the day.
Wondering if I was the children's entertainment,
Or Cavello with the large tarnished cock.

Hannah

Hannah

Crawling on my bed, early 4:30

Hannah sticks her feet in my face.

A small blesssing, blond and innocent.

Sue and I dreamed of her, before birth.

Tired, I tickle her feet,nibling ten small toes.

"Daddy wake up," pulling on my receding hair with tiny hands,.

Quietly walking to the dark kitchen.

"Shh hush lets not wake up Mother."

She grabs a unopened box of cereal smiling at me.

I open it, grabbing her "Barney" bowl, and serve her.

Trying to leave She says, "Daddy wheres your bowl,sit and eat with me."

Together we eat, her smile binds me.

Gods gift slowly chewing, laughing,..

Watching a Infomercial.

Piss and Progress

When I was a forklift mechanic, I was impacted by certain sweat shops, during this job I was very stressed out.


Piss and Progress

Bins of polished water pumps

Smelted aluminum sears.

Skanky dark concrete floors

Impregnated by shavings

The dimly lit Men's room
Smells of faded paint

Mismatched porceain plumbing

Paxal and three broken urinals

Are both Pissy yellow

As the production goes on

Urine drips in beat.

Flowing in plastic 5 gallon buckets

"Piss and progress"

Shop Whore

I had a rough time in my life, and took a job that was not good for my state of mind. I read this and remind my self, "life is better."


SHOP WHORE

Blue men look down at me.

Pushing clay and ciggarettes with a broom.

WHITE service vans pull up dirty idling.

"Hello Tony" they say.

I bend down scrubbing Urinals

Joe walks in smelling of tobacco.

"These towel rolls are in wrong!"

"Damned Idiots around here.!"

I santify the floor with red shop rags.

Joe pulls down the towels with authority.

Walking out loudly saying
"men are Giants not Janitors."

Ladle number 5

I had a temporary job at a Grey Iron Foundry, this was the toughest job ever.



Ladle#5

I am a industrial mortal.

Holding the hoist control.

I move Ladle #5

Tilting left to right.

Blending coke-magnesium and copper.

Pouring ductile Iron.

Molding false Idols.

Humbled by man.

Edward Lear Julie's passion Wharf Wenches

I would call my Sister Julie almost every night, till her passing. Julie was working on a book of Edward Lear rewrites, and one night I helped her write this one in a hour long conversation. I feel her voice talking to me when I read this.

There was an Old Man of Marseielles
Whose daughters wore bottle-green veils;
They caught several Fish which they put in a dish,
And sent to thier Pa'Marseiles.

Edward Lear





Three fisher girls once wed a wily gent-
thier pa, at market sold them as a set.
The husband vowed he'd keep them innocent,
but knew--to sip six nipples-- he'd forget.

The wedding night, before thier ravishment,
the salmon-breasted girls lay on his bed
with waders on, a rubber regiment--
who tied him up with fishline, whacked his head.

The gent's estate was seaside, boat in back--
The widows with thier husband soon embarked.
His end? They said was a spendid cardiac;
though really he was cut bait for a shark.

The moral of this tale; three girls with knives
don't nessarily make the best of wives.



After two years after her passing, I am able to write this on my blog, for Julie. I submitt some of my own stuff too, but will do it only for Julie. Julie told me I was a good writer, and only when I touch the keypad, I feel her spirit.