Locket in a Pocket


You’ve heard the story of the soldier’s locket:

A simple profile and tuft of her hair

Like the Mona Lisa in his pocket

He pined for her  wanton smile, far off stare.

The Greek’s Nine Muses brought such inspired thought,

Charms, the female figure, the buds of Spring,

Physical, temporal, spiritual sought,

Such beauty of form, flying spirits bring.

In the palm of a hand, grace in a frame,

Desire touched by the tip of a brush,

Erato’s turtle doves, lyre, arrows, flame,

Sparrows sing, rays of Sun, verdant fields lush.

God drew your form, face, my inspiration;

My Muse, rapture, love, heart’s exultation.


NOTE: image from google/https://bookriot.com/2017/07/17/60-awesome-creative-fun-book-necklaces/




Her simple cry struck out the universe.

Did she know, from the beam in my mute eye?

Embers had caught fire, I wanted her;

She called to me ‘mid the revelers’ night;

All, awash in color, the dancing throng.

Just a pure voice, across, so far, so near.

I turned, only I, heard her piercing song.

She called my name, held her soul in my ear

Through the din of all the world’s escapade,

Like a Formel after its lost Eyas;

Passed all that ever was, infinite made,

Reverent, saintly, rapturous, pious

So clear her heart-filled note, this melody.

Was meant for ever yon, to be with me.





You know the story of the male penguin

You know the story of the male penguin
Whose sheepish twaddle cause petrels to laugh?
In mating, without words or notes, sanguine
Must start with a gift, their ritual, their craft.
Whose muddy footprints will barter this trade?
This mate or that, spied from raft or waddle?
So all, to all, with all, selections made.
Who in the vast rookery to coddle?
Then, the key, to set a stone at her feet.
This bird’s and this pebble’s peradventure.
For love? How should such a proposal meet?
In return, will she consent, surrender?
Will pass my treasure round, till it pleases…
Ah, love’s promise in all the world’s beaches.

after all


after all, we are only voices

heard above the grasses sway

a meandering murmur

pushed to the heavens by an irregular heartbeat


There will come a day, as days come, it will

pompey 3

There will come a day, as days come, it will

When all our instruments will cease to exist.

Our sights, thoughts, and hearts, will no longer fill

With all these tangible things in this earthly mist.

A dream? No. We are here for a short while.

We stand upon this rock, cast off through space;

Stowaways aboard, two thieves in exile.

Just awhile, here: to hear, feel, touch, smell, taste.

I know her carbon cocktail…our first date;

Her gooey orb’s canvas, my silhouette.

Were we to die, have it like at Pompey:

Two preserved lovers frozen by heat, set.

She held my hand, listened, kissed my wet lips.

This strange dream, a-day, a-sleep, in a wink.

pompey 2

NOTE: First photograph: Portrait of Terentius Neo, Terentius Neo and his wife. https://www.wikidata.org/wiki/Q3399457

Second photograph: Image from Pompey, 79 A.D. after Mount Vesuvius catastrophe. https://www.google.com/search?rlz=1C1GCEV_en&biw=1097&bih=546&tbm=isch&sa=1&ei=44rVXKeSLMep_Qb8hpjoCw&q=pompeii+79+AD+images+victims&oq=pompeii+79+AD+images+victims&gs_l=img.3…80898.82727..82889…0.0..0.73.515.8……1….1..gws-wiz-img._gTCkDMbfQw#imgrc=jZg_JobW9zfCXM:

When the Grave is my final resting Bed

graveWhen the Grave is my final resting Bed

A fine Closet for my leathery Clothes;

What shall some future Gravedigger have said

Upon Inspection ‘midst this Clay & Bones?

Exacting Instruments will test & date;

Some Surgeon will demonstrate a Profile;

Tongs will grasp, Tapes will measure, Blades will grate,

Amid bloodless Chords, gone mute, & sweet Bile.

These toothed Nibs must forsake an angry Bite

At this Pickpocket.  Rummage Thief, defile!–

I–who spun the wide-eyed Day; black-eyed Night.

Left in this musty Bed to dream awhile.

    In what old Pocket, Furrow, Specimen,

    Rings the Echoes of Family, Lover, Friend?

The sight of two Ghosts from the Past I knew

The sight of two Ghosts from the Past I knew

Clothed in collegian Dress, my old Blues

Huddled by a Wall in an old Tap Room

While Smoke blew in ringed Clouds, near bottled Booze

Which thumped on ring-stained Pine. At, with a lean,

As the bare tummied Girl slanted her Hips

To touch his Buckle with her cotton seam,

I watched whirlwind Music touch kissing Lips,

My vagrant Stare, their soft, slow Thighs rubbing.

I, like a faraway dumb Star, blinking,

At a hot Earth, arrogantly steaming.

Two Faces, Bodies arched, Lips caressing

    Me, sipping, Thinking of a bygone Day.

    In a Time, when we gave Ourselves away.




I, no longer I, stand by Self, alone;

I, no longer I, stand by Self, alone;

No longer think, one Choice in Decision;

Now Two must come to head, one Sound, one Tone;

In everyday Dealings, we must reason.

Consider other’s Wishes, our Woes;

Be mindful, be thrifty with our Pennies;

Careful of the Future’s possible Blows;

By staying Safe, not spending at our Ease.

But watchful for the First of the month’s Take;

We work to build one Home in Companion;

We rake all that we can from what we make;

Spend next month’s Boon on new Reparations.

  ‘Tis a sad State, one would think, fraught with Pain;

  ‘Tis work in common, shared, makes my Love gain.

I held Beauty in my Hand that odd Night

I held Beauty in my Hand that odd Night

Her small sandaled Feet, eggshell Breasts, slight Hips

Her delicate Hands, slender Fingers right

For holding Hands, touching my Face and Lips

Her broken Accent, ancient Music sent

By some Tyrant, an aura of Timbrels

Her Nose pierced, Waves of Orient descent

Tawny, brown Eyes, the clamor of Cymbals

My Ballerina on a Music Box

Round our Conversation, indifferent led

To the Neon, Bar Stools, the patient Walk

Gen*, It’s not your Fault; it’s Mine, I descend

    To the twisting twirling Trance: To love; Be loved.

    Until the still Music, made her another.


*short of genie from a bottle

The naked Truth never inspires Interest

IMG_1397 (2)The naked Truth never inspires Interest

No, rather a Hint of a Suggestion

Trips the waiter’s Tray, unsettles the Nest

By exerting some Force upon the Chin

Pleasant . . . if a Whisper cold float, have Color

Muted I think . . . Pink, Bronze, pale Blue or Peach

Some deep Chord resonates by some Flavor

Who plays this sweet Music? What Hand does reach?

Fragrant . . . the Tilt of a Neck, a slight Leg

The Shadow within a Cleavage bare

Just a tiny Bite of some foreign Egg

Never a Touch, the Lure twists a Light, rare.

    Song without Note, the Form, bent & reedy

    But a Hint, now there’s a sweet Melody.