You won't drain the swamp when you're selling the stink to the highest bidder

I am pleased to announce that the latest anthology from the Chaos Section Poetry Project is now available for download at no cost! And I am very proud to report that one of my poems, Ice Surrounds My Car, has been included in the anthology alongside many other powerful political works. Check them out!

Do not grind your teeth burn an ulcer in your gut numb yourself with wine Vote! It's the least any of my fellow Americans can do. Get yourself registered or double-check your registration to make sure you haven't been purged.

I woke up tomorrow morning but the sun slept in. We slid ahead in our orbit to the solstice, knocked off balance, slipping on a banana peel. Green leaves dropped from the trees in a mass suicide. The birds migrated east instead of south. Chipmunks crawled into their dens, tummies rumbling. The squirrels searched for nuts they hadn't yet buried. …

The baby turtles swim across the sand to the still warm waters beckoned by the rising moon. We cheer them on, we tourist few, avoiding the summer crush like turtles evade seagulls. But instead of dining on seaweed, we're going to the calabash buffet for shrimp, oysters and flounder. All golden as the leaves. This is a collaboration with my friends at…

Want to keep your kitchen spotless? Stop cooking.

My parents shopped for my clothes in the "husky" section. Long before screens were a thing, I felt ashamed. Still do. For Sammi's Weekend Writing Prompt and Living Poetry's Monday Poetry Prompt.

Trees won't notice we've stopped chopping them down after we're gone.

I am pleased to announce that an old poem of mine has been republished over at Latinos USA English Edition, one of the Masticadores online magazines. I'm Thankful is an old Thanksgiving poem but it applies any time of year. If you haven't read it before, check it out. My thanks to the editor, Barbara Leonhard.

I am very proud to announce that my most recent autumn poem, September, has been published at The Orkney News! It's in answer to Edna St. Vincent Millay's wonderful Spring poem and, if I do say so myself, I think it's one of my better works. It's starts: To what purpose, September, do you return? My thanks to Fiona Grahame, the editor at TON.

The wealth on one side of the gate, the ones who create it on the other. We're the ones with smudged brows and ink-stained fingers. We're the ones serving their coffee and catering to their whims. We're the ones who have to show up whether we feel like it or not. They don't make money without our labor. So when we ask for a larger share, …

Behind blue skies distant stars wait for night to fall In other news, I'm very proud to announce that my third featured post at The Short Of It is up, five poems, never-before-read, except by Susi Bocks. Check it out!

"I'll make you immortal," I proclaimed, "the 21st century Maude Gonne or Dark Lady." But I'd brush your massaging hands from my shoulders while I worked. I wouldn't come to bed when you called. I'd put the track on a loop and let the violin sing my love but wouldn't say the words aloud. Your absence has inspired more publications…

Carve the Runes in Rocks on the Moon Earth Eclipsed (Based on Susi's SenHai Saturday pic and one book title from Living Poetry's Monday Prompt plus last night's lunar eclipse.)

"The fourth wing of this dragonfly looks like a rose window in an ancient cathedral, gleaming 'neath the setting sun." That's what this poet's companion said as we parked at a scenic overlook, bare feet on the dashboard like an ordinary genius, keeping me on the straight and narrow. She has to draw my attention to the little things because the road is big and indifferent…

In my prime a whiz touch typist but U;n fwrrubf iks

June is for brides dreaming the future heat not yet bubbling through their veins July is for picnics the melding of potatoes eggs and mayonnaise but not green peas August comes too soon hot breezes offer no relief to the down sagging mothers of summer Another collaboration with my pals at Charles House, after we read a bunch of summer-themed poetry.

Rolling brooks Moss covered stones Staid home

It is appropriate that I took a long road trip to visit the grave of Jack Kerouac in Edson Cemetery, Lowell, Massachusetts. Kerouac is probably best known for his novel On the Road, which along with Ginsberg's Howl, kicked off the Beat Generation. As I drove along the interstate highways, I thought about how different his road trips across the country had been, traveling along what we now call "back roads", no chain fast food drive thrus, every city, town and village, distinct.

I put myself on display, watch faces through the glass that exam and judge. But like a bruised grape, I am lost in the cornucopia of easy distraction. Again I hear coins inserted.Maybe this time... For Sammi's Weekend Writing Prompt and Living Poetry's Monday Poetry Prompt.

Summer construction and manic Jersey drivers yet I find refuge

Poets always gush about the daffodils ignoring my brilliant petals though they're happy enough to drink my wine. A collaboration with my friends at Mebane Ridge, after we read a bunch of flower-themed poetry, including Wordsworth, Blake and Shakur.

A steel-driving man dies with a hammer in his hand. I am John Henry.

I am pleased to announce that an old poem of mine, I want to be a tree when I grow up, was just published at Spillwords. Here are the first three lines as a teaser: I want to be a tree when I grow up Nothing ostentatious I don’t want to be a sequoia or have some historical significance Click the link above to read the rest and give the Spillwords heart a click, if so moved.

Our romance was a summer storm, you the lightning, me the thunder. I hesitated, worried, until fingers played in my chest hair and I growled in that exquisite ear. Your back arched like a bolt across the night sky and floods came, sweeping away debris, clearing storm drains of trivialities. Gone as the clouds revealed the stars, your memory lingers in the morning sun, …

Like lightning crackles down my legs sparked from clenched eyes

My ancestor stenciled her hand onto the wall of a cave in ochre, several thousand years ago, her mark still visible today. Neil Armstrong left the first footprint in the lunar regolith and his mark remains unsullied after more than fifty years. But we bulldoze mountains, dam rivers, foul the air to leave our marks, like carving our names on a tree…

Cannot be poured from bottle to glass. It needs sugar I recommend the French method of Absinthe preparation.

I am proud to announce that my poem, For Grief, was just published by the resurrected Ephemeral Elegies. The first two lines are: The aloe bloomed as soon as I was alone in the hospital elevator... I encourage all my readers to check out the rest of my poem and the others published there. Thanks, Tiffany!

I am pleased to announce that my new poem, Memento Mori, has been published in the July/August 2026 issue of The Blotter magazine. It's free to download the PDF, so check it out. Like most of poems, it starts in a tree: To smell the blossoms from the inside as I clamber up the dogwood’s low limbs earthy odor fills my skull

I still hear your voice like an all-night radio broadcast from a city far far away

I smile that adult smile as if I were about to post a child's fingerpainting on the fridge door. When I was a boy, I'd get a nickel for a dixiecup of lemonade, fresh from powder, twice the sugar to satisfy my just-erupting sweet tooth. Never had a repeat customer. Maybe if I'd offered poetry instead. But my juvenilia wasn't worth a halfpenny.

Not melting or boiling my bones brittle as twigs about to belch into flame

I pray to the God of the Gaps despite His Holy Shrinkage I search for His Wisdom scrawled on desert rocks or in glass bottles cast upon the deep sea lanes unashamed of His Impotence And so far so good I don't believe in Him yet

Jigsaw puzzle missing pieces my wife's face

Twilight comes too late after the eye of heaven's seething stare The northern solstice occurs Sunday morning at 4:54am EDT. I miss the dark.

Frozen pizza for dinner. I open the preheated oven door to cool off.

Melting into the smooth white concrete patio, I splay myself across the rickety lawn chair in the high afternoon shade. My t-shirt and boxers, one fat sweatstain. The air hangs limp as we do, the only breeze, Bobo's panting as he sploots next to me. We watch with dread the slow spin of the Earth and the sun's relentless march on our refuge.

The pusillanimous press pretend they don't pander to a pedophile president

Crisp, crunchy winter air bites through my overcoat this frozen night walk. Sudden loss of gravity, as Orion shines down on my frailty and laughs. The revelation of ice below snow and stars above trees, the motion of the cosmos, as the majestic moon rises, over the unwavering lake, her light spreads a benediction, empty and silent. Another collaboration with my pals at Charles House after we read poetry inspired by the night sky on a hot afternoon.

Comets splinter when they fly too close to the sun

Love is not flowers or chocolates. Love is coffee precisely prepared and placed on their nightstand before they awake. Love is not a long weekend at a cute B&B in the mountains. Love is an old house with a leaky roof. Love is not a Christmas puppy with a red bow on his nose. Love is coming home from the vet…

I feel like a mouse who is being kept alive just to feed a snake

It looks like a fine snow but with an amber haze which descends like fog onto my windshield Obscuring my vision my sinuses my patience Cleaning is futile I consider the ice scraper since wiper fluid merely smears But someday nature's showers will wash the world of this grit and birds will once again sing without coughing Another collaboration with my pals at Charles House after we read a bunch of Spring poetry.

From the tops of trees, how they chirp, warble and tweet. Not one sings for me.

She wonders about the night sky, about the name of that star, hanging bright in the west. I tell her it's the planet Venus and offer a guided tour of heaven which she accepts. Standing too close behind her, my arm over her shoulder, my finger traces the constellations— handle of the Dipper arcs to Arcturus and then to Spica. …

I am very pleased to announce that my recent poem, Night Tea with Honey, has been published over at Spillwords. I'd appreciate it if all my readers had a read and clicked the little heart button. My thanks to Dagmara & the whole Spillwords team!

All babies are cute so our mothers won't kill us when we learn to talk

the dry, hot winds of my youth. Sand storms, frigid nights, when you could see the stars, so far, far away. And now, they're where I live, spreading a religion I barely believe, training skills I haven't quite mastered. All because I'm the only one. And these three ghosts don't help. They speak in riddles and reprimands. Don't feel this. Don't fear that.

I wait while he looks up He snuffles while I sniff trees My old boy and me Due to the vagaries of the calendar, this is like the 31st of April, so here's a bonus Poem-a-Day written to the prompts: Write a haiku. Not about nature. About your best friend. For today’s prompt, take the phrase “Last (blank),” replace the blank with a new word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write your poem.