Category Archives: poetry

One Shot: Coming to an Understanding

when was the last time you had sex
no i don’t mean that
placating poke you give monthly
just to keep the coals warm
and check the vital signs
of the body laying next to you

i could get more life
from a blow up doll

this guy, sitting across the table,
butt numbing as he settles in the booth,
causing him to fidget something fierce
or maybe its my question

you don’t understand, my wife she just
doesn’t, she hasn’t, i tried, it’s
just that, he keeps adding layers
to his story as he explains his woes,
like someone let the air out of his
manhood and he’s miles from
a gas station with one of those
quarter inflation machines
without change

really? he nods, it just doesn’t seem fair
now does it? he nods more vigorous,
considering all that you do to
make her feel special, and a queer
look starts around the tick of his eye,
when was the last time you did the dishes?

gave her a back rub without intention, much
less her feet, brought her flowers
at work, not on a holiday or special occasion
but because it was raining, kissed her
like you were dying, sang her favorite song
off key, left a love note laying, not lying
or chased her around the house just to embrace
or whisper

dishes, really? oh yeah, hands dish panned
for her pleasure, guaranteed and he looks
at me all serious, screws his eyes into
intensity, fingers drumming on the thick
varnished wood and says,
but you don’t understand

so i say, how about them Lakers,
which perks him right up, lips flying
about the ejections and…but i am
hear nothing, cause i do…

i do understand, and start
sketching on a napkin something,
tonight, i will leave on your pillow.

When all else fails, drop it poetically, it’s what all the cool kids do…or at least they do at One Shot Wednesday…so what is stopping you…go, write, visit…and do it poetically. Doors open at 5 pm EST Tuesday.


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punk monk

mohawk erect, i sit
on the split log bench
by the grape arbor
seeking solace on bent
elbows, fingers tracing
wood grain, searching
for answers in the whirls
of tree ages

marks of storms and creepy
crawly invaders among the sun
god’s benevolence baked in
and through it all stood tall,
arms raised, despite, until laid
low to create this space

green buds & leaf adorn the vine
dry limbs, trimmed one at a
time by hand, last week
lay for the burning, but again
new life has come, trumpeted by
the song of wing

soon enough new fruit will
feed, for those unwilling
to be content only to touch,
without strength to bring
to lip & ingest, this is a
sluggard’s gambit.

in habit, breathing, i toe
the regimented red brick row
back to the house no longer
alone among the sown garden
of my thoughts.

This is a Magpie Tale.

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Posted by on 2011/05/11 in Magpie Tales, poetry


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