Snow plows

 Bastards

I awake in the night

to the sounds of the snowplows

blocking my driveway.

I imagine their maniacal

laughter as they pull away

witchcraft

 

Sacred Spaces

 Sacred Spaces

The trail is full of rocks

and the brambles

tear both skin and shirt

No one has been here

in a while except

Goat, Bear and Pika

There is something spiritual

in this remoteness

among the wind shaped pine

A storm growls

in the distance

and lightning sprites dance

The wind grows colder

and the mountain seems to groan

it is time to go down.

Monkeys with Typewriters

 We poets are all Monkey’s with Typewriters

In cages of flesh,

with fire of thought,

We tap at keys,

by instinct or whim.

A game of chance and rhyme,

An epiphany scrawled,

or gibberish hurled?

A Shakespeare sonnet ,

or monkeys' world?

Each word falls,

a puzzle laid,

‘A world created,

at our fingertips beat.

Poets write

because they have to.

Happy for bananas,

or praise

though money wouldn’t hurt.

The Break up

 The Breakup

I thought Winter  had left me, 

with her cold-hearted ways,

cutting me to the bone.

I was happy to see her go.

now the snow is falling

and the windows are rattling.

Looks like the bitch is back.

                                       ch2024

Red’s Leather and Velvet Bar

 Red’s Leather and Velvet Bar

It was the kind of bar,

that makes you happy

to give it all your money.

A classic 1950’s speakeasy

architecture, long seductive bar

with a back lit display

of rare and expensive booze.

The waitresses wore more ink

than tight mini-skirts

and the skirts were tight.

Tight enough to show

they had nothing to hide,

especially the one who climbs

the ladder to the top shelf.

I fell easily under its spell,

and ordered a Communist.

A gin martini with a cherry

and hammer and sickle,

made out of hot sauce,

Background character

 

Background Character

Lost in my morning coffee,

I watch the hipsters

dominate the street.

I feel like I’m just a character

in the background

a nameless face in the crowd

A place filler in a masterpiece.

I’m sitting at a table,

working on my first novel.

The gendarmes are patrolling the streets.

I’m worried that they will chase me away.

Move the vagrant along..

If the artist had given me a chance,

I could have been someone.

Instead I’m just a character

in the background on someones canvas.