I’m With Them

(A combo, this morning)


Not Counting The Guns Factor

Soldier. Sailor. Air Force. Cop. Whatever.
Black. Blue. Grey, white, camo. Drab.
Blah blah blah blah blah.
Uniforms are uniform.

Some guys get to wear pink;
get to glitter their eyebrows, paint nails,
bump, grind, imitate the divas,
dance, dance, dance the night away.

No one cares how you dress
as long as no one gets killed.

Tuesday Twiglet #261
~ you wear pink ~
Miz Quickly 1/11 Tuesday
~ Same Difference ~



The Observant Muse

It’s Quadrille Monday again at the dVerse Poets Pub; time to create a 44-word poem.

This week, we’re asked to lean on our muse and create a poem using the word “Muse” or some word that incorporates it.

Thanks to De Jackson (aka WhimsyGizmo) for hosting and getting us started.



The Observant Muse

She knows exactly what I do
and how I like to do it
if and when I want to
which usually I don’t.

She’s just a friggin muse.
She never asks for anything.
She gets to see me bleed.
That ought to be enough.

dVerse Poets Pub
Quadrille Monday #143
~ Muse Cues ~


Pizza Shop Time Machine

(Originally a prose CNF, freshly versified in response to The Bunny’s request to “Turn And Face The Strange…”)


Pizza Shop Time Machine

He orders up a couple of slices from
under the heat lamps, tells the guy
not to bother with the oven, says
he often feasts on room-temp pizza,
prefers it that way anyway.

He grabs a sunlit window seat 
under the hypnotic overhead fan.

There’s an oversized photo poster
of a 1950s beachfront pizza joint 
and he wills himself into the picture,
imagines walking down the boardwalk,
munching a fifteen-cent pepperoni special,
maybe a nickel for some extra cheese,
all the bathing beauties catching his eye,
and the smell of Coppertone everywhere.

It’s hard for him to fully let go, though;
hard to adjust to everything around him
not being black and white like the poster.


Two women, long-legged and sandaled
—a redhead and a blonde-streaked brunette—
wander in, order up some fries and Cokes,
park themselves in a booth under the poster
and give him a side-eye every few seconds,
hoping that they’ve captured his attention.

In mere seconds, their booth has transformed,
almost fully vanished, floated up into the poster,
melted into the black and white beachlight,
their Cokes and fries suddenly timeless,
their furtive glances flashing out at him,
still perfect, now frozen.
                                          Catching sight of
his reflection in the chrome napkin dispenser,
he smiles, noting that it, too, is two-toned only,
all last hints of color fading.

Miz Quickly’s 1/10 Monday
~ ch-ch-ch-changes ~


Mistaken Identity

Mistaken Identity

I know you think I should
be accountable.

You think I should be
clean and

I know you expect me
to do my best;
to do my duty to God
and my country;
to help other people
at all times;
to keep myself
physically strong,
mentally awake,
and morally straight.

that’s just the Boy Scout
I used to be.

Miz Quickly’s 1/9 Sunday
~ erroneousity ~



So, The Bunny wants us to wax metapoetic. Huh. Not really my gig. Still, when The Bunny calls…

I do dig me some Sevenling action:


Sevenling (I try not)

I try not to write about writing,
try not to read about writers
writing about writers writing.

Page after page after page, I’m the
happiest writer, happily reading
words not written about words.

Unless, of course, they’re…

Miz Quickly’s 1/8 Saturday
~ write what you like ~




Sometimes those seconds
that seem to last forever
transform themselves into
decades, centuries,
gone in a flash.

Everyone is
a was
and a will be.


(I’m leaving home in about an hour to go and let them stick sharp objects into my eyeball, so I don’t have an open creative window.  I’m re-posting this messy masterpiece from about a year-and-a-half ago in response to The Bunny’s request to write something “Messy”)

I’ll see you (I hope!) later.



it’s a slap
in the face
in the morning
(another morning
not unlike the last)
it’s the slap
of coffee
and two-day old
it’s the slap of
rusty tap water
greasy stovetop
no cigarette butts
long enough to smoke.

Oh, but I am the rose

Miz Quickly’s 1/6 Thursday
~ da mess ~


Would If I Could

I wish I knew how to tell her
that I wish I knew how

but I don’t. I don’t. I mean
I do but I don’t.

You know me. You know I don’t.
I know you do.

Miz Quickly’s 1/5 Wednesday
~ how-to wishes ~



Thanks to the cafe’s Donna Matthews who, this week, invites us to …write about something that scares you, but you’d be willing to try.


Poet’s Biggest Fear

He thinks that hanging out with the fictionauts and the prosers might damage his poetry. He’s afraid of writing a nightmare.

These days, instead of concentrating on linebreaks and imagery, he worries about commas and semicolons; thinks in dependent clauses; ponders parallel constructions and parenthetical prepositional phrases.

He fears his final draft will not sing; will only provide sedation.

A minstrel’s nightmare
—vanished versification—
Pick up the pen. Write.

Go Dog Go Café
~ Haibun Wednesday ~