black dog


black dog barking
beneath the alley window
master that left you
scavenging for scraps,
on a sunday no less.
close the weathered window,
paint flaking like skin
into the sill - and still
the black dog barked.
pull the covers tight,
chilled for a summer night,
as she barked. and barked.
bleary eyed morning,
nearly kicked you
stumbling out the door,
late for the grind again.
all through the day
thought i heard you,
mind playing tricks,
all in my head they say,
black dog barking.



the only difference
between desolation
and solitude
is perspective




Poetry is like a hurricane of emotion. The 'event' comes on with a storm, black clouds and lightning. Water whipped against you so hard it feels like stones. In the eye the poem comes out. Tranquility. Clarity. Then it rips back through you again for good measure. You pick yourself up, hopefully, and stand up to survey the wake. From that moment life starts again.


scuro bello

whispers louder than screams
not all what it seems
in the corner dark she sat,
across the cacophony of lace
and hair dye.
she beckons with her silence,
inspires with her presence.
bring me my wine and a pen
before she's gone.
sheepish he faces the corner visage,
the verdant walls behind a canvas,
the oak veneer presenting her glass,
crimson sipped with elegance.
his breath went still
as his eyes met hers.
at once her gaze was inside him,
a mask to everyone else
she saw the face beneath
and wanted not to shudder.
breaking the gaze he turns to his courage,
he turns back and the corner is vacant.
a whisper beside him nearly startled,
"what are you hiding from?"