the missing muse

the missing muse-

poetry left me

it left my mouth dry

my words dried up as well

depression and mania

stole my creativity

it stole my summer

the rocky rope bridge

between emotional extremes

it extinguished the flame of poetry

my blog was left lonely empty

now new medications

a path to recovery

trying to find my muse

trying to find my voice

trying to find words

to weld into a web of internet

connections and old friends.

A quiet Saturday

A quiet Saturday-

A quiet day, spent by

sleeping in. Awaking slowly,

into the afternoon, very much

unlike me.

Meditative as the hum drum hum

of our heater fills our bedroom.

All of a sudden, it feels like a game of make believe.

A game of Hide and Seek.

As I search my minds eye-

for some wise words

to live by.

Poetry is a Muse

who often comes and goes,

without much thought or effort

on my part.

She either comes a knocking…

or she does not.

All of a sudden, it feels like a game of make believe.

A game of Hide and Seek.

As I search my minds eye-

for some wise words

to live by.

Some days

I am the first

to admit,

I am a bit

like a gas gauge

stuck on empty.

abstract musings

abstract musings~

solitary seldomness leading

to singleness of thought.

writing on automatic, yet again,

as I gain great comfort

from the thoughtful

all sprawled out

black cat

lying beside me.

she is sleeping

and lost in dreams

of the chase

no doubt

of cat and mouse.

words are somewhat elusive,

sacred but scarce at the same time.

in a momentary flash

words are gone

and a shadow remains

of a small


Still here

I am still here.

lingering on the vast edges

of cyberspace,

off the beaten path.

I am still here-

even when I am not

posting as frequently.


I am just biding my time.

attempting to fish

and net

another big rhyme.


I am still here

lingering on the borders

and edges of the internet.

Trying to think of things to say,

in a novel or interesting



Do not worry.

I am still here-even when my words

are less then plenty

and it seems

this riverboat of poems

has ship-wrecked upon dry land.


I just want you to know

I am still here.


Running on E

Running on E,

Empty, my thoughts have

decided to run away,

they flee free me.


Running on E,

I let the empty get the best 

of Me. I reach out-

towards the empty sky,

not a cloud in sight.


Running on E,

Grabbing outwards for the 

poetry. To take a hold of Me.

But too much everything equates

a void.


Running on E,

but I digress.

Where did I misplace the Lioness?

Where did I misplace the Poetess?


Running on E,

nothing comes very easy.

The thoughts all roll right out of my brain,

catching like embers burning into fire,

as the free-verse falls down.


Running on E,

a hapless clown.

How to quench this thirst,

of creating something out of



Running on E,

it leaves me screaming-

so loud- my lips leave no sound.

The words all blocked up,

a corked up wine bottle.


Running on E,

the empty sound of silence,

What is left to say?

Where do the poem-words take you,



Empty, Empty, Empty,

and then like Humpty Dupty,

We All fall down.

Falling down again.

With a crash.

The rest is up to you

Silent struggles as I

am juggling random words

like colorful oranges above my head.

Bubbly and Bright but very heavy

those words appear just out of reach.

Stepping sideways, as it all comes crashing down-

strangling sentences into shorten

poetic phrases

a slice

into an orange peel

gives way

into spurts of orange juice-spraying all over the sidewalk

in my minds fresh eye

if only I

could walk the walk


talk the talk-

but I am a mere court jester

juggling words out of a silent mute place.

Sometimes out of thin air,

a poem just appears.

In other cases, it clearly does not.

The rest is up to you.

Coffee-colored morning

Black coffee-colored morning

glory…listening to music.

I ponder the singular, the slight of hand, the parlor trick;

the impact of music on my morning mind.


Yet it is well past noon.

cloaked in a beat up nightgown,

and not much else,

wondering how…

to get my butt into gear again.


words hang like little

thought bubbles above my head

but if i try to catch them

they rupture instead.


The crisis of a blank page

staring back at me,

on a whim and dare.


I’m like a black-jack dealer

dealing out emotions instead of cards.

The slight in hand, poetry involves

in invoking an image or a mood

to entice the reader.


I try to take you along for the ride

in the spin-cycle of my dirty mind.

Some poems fall flat. Others, i can revive

with a bit of CPR if only I tried.


To breathe life into ?


Poetry much like reason,

escapes me momentarily.


I sometimes find,

I say an awful lot about

nothing at all.

Grasping at straws

The infertile piece of my mind,

where the words refuse to root and grow-

where the sentences become silence

and i fight to find words-

in fact I am grasping at straws.


Unable to summon an image,

or two,

like a old black and white Polaroid picture-

developing slow.


I take my time

try to beat out a rhyme.


Why do we write?

Why write something as old-fashioned,

as poetry?

I ask these questions to my soul,

wondering what words

will fall next

across my page,


as I am just mutely

in a deep dank daze.


somedays the right words,

they never come.

other days, i am full of verbage,

full of riddles, full of phrases, half-baked imagery.


Being a poet is never easy.

Though there are some, who make it look so.

The roar of the fan, in the summer morning heat,

Like a quiet Lion, never missing a beat.


And my mind soldiers on empty.

a poem left incomplete.

grasping at straws,

longing to say

something significant-in some kind of way.


word soup

wanton flavored word-soup

spilling syllables all over the damn place,

sipping secrets and slurping words

of wisdom and of choice.

word-soup, filled with vowels,verbs, and maladies.

hot soup-

burns the lips and throat

sooner than later,

i begin to choke, on a swallow-full

of paragraphs, chunky vegetables, pasta galore.

a sentence here or there,

stumbles down a dribble down

my chin.

word-soup better to serve hot,

but not boiling, hot not warm, best to SIP slow.

sipping, slipping, seldom

into serenity,

sipping into possibilities,

sipping up the warm hot stories,

sipping the sunshine of

a single stanza

of a poet’s principles.

Music, madness,magic

melting into a word soup-

brewing into alphabet

tangled letters strung

together tasting them onto

my tongue-

do not be wasteful.

savor every bite

of this wanton flavored word soup-

take a deep sip-swallow and then,

begin to write.IMG_20130331_134503Art photos 1.17.13 024IMG_20130330_093314IMG_20130203_203008