Frightened Little Boys and Girls…

I read daily, unfortunately, the words of grown men and women who lash out in the most embarrassing displays of hatred and closed-mindedness, rivaling any loathsome period in mankind’s sordid history. I read words spewing, dripping, sliming with excremental quality every single day. These people would thoroughly embarrass themselves if they only possessed the internal mirror which would reveal their horrid nature to themselves.

What a wonderful use of progress and technology. Spewing pathetic views and hatred like volcanic shit to splatter this digital world with their gutter thoughts, yet in their own eyes, these tainted and tattered thoughts support their exalted, all-knowing views of this world.

The most sad aspect of all this disgusting use of mass communication/manipulation, grows virulently from the core truth that each offender. when their hatred is revealed to their very eyes, witness nothing but an inner anger to not only defend but accelerate into fomentation and destruction.

I think of them as:

Frightened Little Boys and Girls

Each saunter around their prison rooms
Oblivious to their worth in life
Fear slashes and gnaws at their loveless lives
Frightened little boys and girls.

No parent sprints to save the day
Each breath squeezed in and rationed out
Lost innocence once again in the lives of
Frightened little boys and girls

Prayers resonate as meager, constrained and false
Despite their claims of final days
Nations seized like giant frozen motors, protecting
Frightened little boys and girls

Odd how life and human condition
Breeds panic, estrangement, name-calling vitriol
All in the name of creating more distance for
Frightened little boys and girls

Loud mouthed know-alls scream foul accusations
Blame rests on someone they claim to know
Yet they fail to find themselves each day as
Frightened little boys and girls

Many men and women sell their voices to lambaste,
Crazed in their zeal of hatred and self-righteous indignation
They cast aspersions at mere mention of a name, just like
Frightened little boys and girls

When all sense and propriety leave language
When all reason falls prey to hatred unbridled
When all emotions dance riled by mere mention of a name
A world in fear,
Lives in utter turmoil,
Good sense spewed away on tornado winds

Look around.
Read their pathetic ilk on Facebook and Twitter.
See their hatreds boil and froth

Understand the sickness
Understand the plight
Understand the absence of wisdom
Understand the examples of pure folly
Understand the last resort in the tumult which surrounds them
The whimpering, simpering, cacophony of
Frightened little boys and girls which drowns the essence of love and hope

While our children observe and learn…

Dating During the Apocalypse

St. George St. Saint Augustine March 24, 2020

Apocalyptic Dating

Yes, this pandemic does not qualify as an apocalypse, at least not yet. The sense, the pervading emotions, however, lead me down an emotionally apocalyptic path. I realize I do tend to be “all-in” emotionally. I’ve been respected and reviled for this aspect of who I am.

The most amazing sense of self for me is that I’ve reached a point where I truly enjoy and like who I am. The people who criticize and deride no longer hold sway over me. Yes, they still inflict pain, but life itself is pain. And joy. And love. And passion. And heartache. And heartbreak. (yes, they are two different experiences).

I’ve been “dating” online off and on for the past couple years. Most of the “dates” fell into two categories. One, the lady misrepresented herself. Two, the date felt like a job interview. Neither of those strike me as desirable.

I did mention “most” of the dates went those directions. There are two other directions, far fewer, as in only a couple each. One, I liked the lady and desired more time to get to know her. Two, I felt a connection and genuinity from the lady. The first category here met with no-goes. I get it, just because I liked the lady does not mean she connected with me.

The second. Ah, yes, the second. Let’s spend a moment on this one.

The pandemic and fear rages all around. I strike up a conversation with a woman who sound fascinating. She’s gung ho for meeting despite the closures of just about everything. My hopeless romantic/writer nature kicks in. I LOVE this! Now THAT’s dating in the apocalypse, or at least a peek at doing so.

We meet. At a place of her choosing. A secluded place, which surprised me. I’m thinking, “Wow! This woman is really cool!” We met, and immediately her bravado was tempered. Somewhere in my mind I had envisioned at least hugging or even a sanitized handshake. After all, she’s willing to meet a complete stranger in a pandemic. (I know. Give me all the grief you like about social distancing and the like. I’m not interested).

As we spoke, she revealed a much more disciplined, less outgoing personality. The meeting became a fact-finding, job interview type discourse. I could tell early on. I get it. We all desire who we desire. For my emotional currency, connection outweighs details and facts. Emotion and attraction do not grow from analytics. In fact, they fly in the face of that cold wasteland of judgment.

She offered “friendship” in a message a few hours after we parted. Clinically parted. While it was nice that I passed a certain level of the “test,” I have no need of a relationship like that.

Then, two days later, in a more heightened pandemic reality, I meet with a most genuine, fun, witty, intelligent woman. We strolled the abandoned streets of St. Augustine for hours. St. George Street on a gorgeous day totally devoid of crowds. Only a few dog-walkers, skate borders, and homeless people. The pic shows how surrealistically the Old Town was/is deserted.

We talked about many things. We cracked jokes. We enjoyed the time. In fact, mosquitoes finally chased us back to her car where we parted with a nice hug. So many enjoyable exchanges between us made the three or four hours we walked together feel like minutes. That’s what I’m searching for.

This woman is genuine. Honest. That word – honesty. I would say most of the women I have “dated” from the online site could be described, especially in their own minds, as honest. The honesty of which I write here, however is the honesty most of these women could not see. They were not honest with themselves on the whole. Most of them live in an emotional desperation which they actually cover with bravado.

That’s for another post someday. The point here is that after 15 dates, number 16 gave me hope and a glimpse that I was not mired in a pointless, fruitless endeavor. My challenge here is to collect my thoughts and feelings about the Apocalypse Date and place it poetically on this site since my goal when I post here is to create a poem from experience. Here goes…

Creaking Doors and Wind-blown Dreams

Your smile engaged
My interest piqued
You offered a hand
Soft. Sleek.

We strolled dead streets
Thirsty for life
No caution in the wind
No pursuit of strife

Two souls on a quest
Bucking the norm
Tendrils of connection
No threatening storm

Echoed footsteps
Creaking door
Rekindled dreams
Lie in wait and more

Hearts met in kind
Gentle and true
There existed no them
Simply me. And You.

Worth every minute
Worth every smile
Our journey successful
Each step of our miles

Embers so dormant
Feel long awaited sparks
A chance to billow to life
Explore oceans and parks

If for no reason
Save the knowledge of hope
Our time spent together
Delivers dreams to my scope

Wind-blown and tattered
As years held their sway
Still a hopeless romantic
Until my dying day.

Thank you Sherry…


Epitaph for a Hopeless Romantic



Epitaph for a Hopeless Romantic

I used to dream
Romantic plays
They were my joy,
My pain my sorrow

Cast along
Within sweet melodies
Mystic songs
No longer sung by anyone

Throughout these dreams
Something whispered
“Time has come”

Breaths grow ever weak
Love won’t return
When my heart burns passion hot again

Simply romantic journeys
This mind gently drew.
Across those pages
I professed grand, loving thoughts of you

But that’s ok
There’s pleasure poets always bear as load
And through it all
Time always held
Warm dreams within my heart

Oh the sadness of the loss
Oh the longing for fruition
Oh the calamity of the day
With love’s realized tuition

I would give up much of life
For one who’d love me true
And all our dreams could meld
We one instead of two

Still Worthy of a Tomorrow…

Still Worthy of a Tomorrow…

The empty bed accuses.
Worthlessness creeps around corners.
Hidden heart-hallways of darkness,
Intertwined attacks by silent loneliness,
Overwhelm undisturbed sheets,
Head-deprived pillows and a weary soul.

One dream swirls above,
In search of another.
Faded imaginations and vagaries
Pepper a dreary sleep-landscape,
Decorations –

A spark.
A life born of nothingness.
A billowed ember from damp, cold fortunes.
A miracle.
A determination.
A baby step.

If she would but appear

Loneliness would dissipate
Overt joy
Veritable ecstasy
Effervescent happiness

Altruistic pleasure
Eternal bliss.
Heartfelt relief.
A life still worthy of a tomorrow after tonight’s midnight in her heart…



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They hide in your soul as silent walls
They hide your soul in silent waterfalls
They trickle your cheeks with the weight of worlds
They weigh on your soul like liquid bricks
They burn at your life as if molten love
They melt your love leaving cinders of life
They mourn your life like the child who lost his mother
They lose your inner child in their torrent stream
They rend with a deft softness which may never be revealed
They reveal isolation and loneliness
They abandon your body with every pang of love
They erupt from a wellspring which appears never-ending
They represent the true fountain of youth
For when they cease completely, you’ve died inside

Millions of droplets
Their proverbial rivers

Do not speak of joy and laughter
Those tears’ conception share the same roots
They heal only in that once they’ve run their course
They leave you drawn and quartered but in less distress
They live private lives even when seen
They haunt your soul
They cleanse like benevolent acid
They bear more weight than Atlas could bear

All in the name of life


Interesting side note here (or would that be “bottom” note due to its physical location on the page). I just reread my post from August 8th, 2012 titled “Segue to a Poem.” A lot was going on at that time. I was horrifically unhappy in a horrible 23 year marriage. In just a couple days, my seven-year-old daughter would be kidnapped, yet writing still buoyed me and kept me going.

In this post from nearly 8 years ago, I mentioned that the words demanded to come out that day. Today, I’m sitting in the living room, ready to get up and go to bed when I became overwhelmed with the need to cry words out of my fingers. Tears do not always come out of our eyes. (Wish I’d included THAT in the poem – LOL!)

So much sadness in life. I know, I know, Pollyanna’s want me to remember the “up” times of life, almost as though acknowledging the sadness of life is emotional leprosy. I believe addressing it is healthier. Whether anyone else feels the same is irrelevant. At times I feel I will never write again – a sure sign I will be writing again soon.

I hope someday, someone stumbles over my poetic works and recognizes the body of writing as something worthwhile. I do have a small following, not the least is my dearest friend and love, Ayesha. While i struggle with making statements about the quality of my writing, I do know most of what I write bleeds from power and that power is my soul.

I believe I possess a powerful soul, and by proxy, I write with emotional power. Writers enjoy being recognized for their work. Sad that most of us die in obscurity. Yet, in the end, these moments behind the keyboard/pen/pencil/hieroglyphics, define the word priceless. For, no matter what the world may or may not know of my writing, I know I craft my soul on these and many other pages.

I know each writing is a snapshot of who I was at that very instant in life. I know that something of me lives on. I suppose if no one ever sees the writing and it all dies a digital death along with my corporeal death the argument may be made that the writing did not live on, but I believe it does because I released all this from within.

Like the conundrum of “if a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound,” if a poet writes thousands of poems as have I and no one reads them throughout the ages, do the words hold any meaning? For me, the answer is yes, because I write for me first. I purge myself so that I may move on with my life. That someone else would connect with the words and concepts presented means the world to me, possibly even my life.

If you are still reading, all I can say is the most heart-felt thank you I am humanly capable of giving. 🙂

Blind Passion


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Quick Note:

This poem was birthed on my site from my latest post in the fictional series, “You Don’t Get to Say Goodbye.” Transferred to this site by my own permission…lol

Blind Passion

You see her eyes
Not their color
Passions. Likes. Dislikes. Inner thoughts. Emotions.

You see her face
Not the eyebrows
Telegraphed desires.
Warmth of her smile
Truth of the glimmer from those aforementioned windows to the soul

You see her body
Not the proportions
The manner in which she moves
When she dances, she’s a smorgasbord of poetry in motion
When she walks she’s a samba
When she talks her body whispers and screams as needed
When she’s gentle, her movements mesmerize
When she touches, the penetration of electricity transits your nervous system’s railways

You hear her voice
Not the soprano or alto
Chords strung in tune to your heart
Strumming away at your soul as a siren invitation
A craving to hear the soft sweet nothing whispered into an anxious ear

Knotted emotions unstrung
She waltzes your passion wherever and whenever she likes
Whether she realizes or not
Captivation a welcome dream to play with in those nether regions between sleep and awake
Dreams but not dreams
Fantasies but, oh hell yes, fantasies
Dark, playful eyes tease and please and beckon and walk away
Cradling your control every step of her way

You buy into passion
Every minute twitch of a lip
Every slight rise of her brow
Every sensual wiggle of her ass on the dance floor
Every demure stroll in her otherworldly gait
Every smile she conjures in you
Every smile she displays on that lovely countenance
Every breathless look she steals from you despite your willingness to give them freely
Every hope which blossoms
Every flirt she throws your way

Blind passion drives you
Whisks you against the current of reason
Driving dreams and lusts to unrealistic levels
Then questions their lack of reality
Causing confusion, delirium, more fantasy, more craving
Knowing your best move calls for withdrawal
You plunge ahead
Telling yourself, “I can handle this”
Knowing full well,
You cannot.

Sweet bliss would entail lips to meet
Underneath eyes meeting
Underneath minds greeting
Overtop hearts beating
Underneath moon gleaming
All to sate one, all-encompassing reality

Blind passion…

And more?…

For You



Becoming Who You Are

Each day reaches out
Not with one hand
Uncountable tentacles

Each day we struggle for grip
Unknowing which grip saves
Simply lifting our hands a chore

Each day we grasp something we probably shouldn’t
Many become the repeat visitors
Familiarity holds us down when we touch
We stretch for our talent
Our heart
Our soul
Our identity
Our survival

Each day evil appears to hold sway
Not only grasping our hand but stifling our lives
Smothering every glimmer of good within
Know that someone sees a better you
Know your heart is loved
That place
That sense
That child
That beautiful inner smile and laughter
Someone knows, sees, understands

Each day we become who we are
Each minute we become who we are
Each moment we become who we are
Each thought we become who we are

It’s not enough that I see
Were that true, I’d be a savior
You must learn to see
Throw off the glad hand of those who use and abuse
Throw of the guilt, the shame, the horrible thrown at you
Embrace your talent
Inner child

Each day each remain beautiful
Despite the crap thrown at you
Despite the dark tentacles you grasp
Despite what you see and hear coming at you
Blinded by that which is meant to blind

Each day know the best in you is seen
More important
See yourself
Not the person loaded with blame and shame and darkness
That’s just baggage you’ve held too long
Drop them and embrace the beautiful person you are
Should you ever need to see her
Because you cannot see
Should you ever need to feel her
Because she’s so far gone
Should you need to hear her
Because your ears have tuned out of positivity
Simply ask

We all need someone to help us remember at times
Because we lose ourselves
Finding the way back requires daily work
A helping hand
Becoming who we are always happens
Each choice
Each thought
Each smile
Each acceptance of love – or hate
Sculpts us whether we like it or not

Becoming who we are never falls easy
We struggle to hold that which stands noble
Our dark, dark world does not allow for much light
Unless we  practice reaching for our strengths and beauty
We will follow the emotional muscle memory we’ve embraced

You’re beautiful
Worthy of goodness and love

Become who you are by holding these close
Become who you are by dropping the baggage of others
Become who you are by embracing your magnificence

Becoming who you are is a moment by moment choice
Thought by thought
Release or hold
Your choice, no one else’s

Who you are is always better than who you hold yourself to be

Musings on a Sunday Evening

Musings on a Sunday Evening

Where to begin. At the beginning. A very good place to start.

Words feel useless. Nothingness. An odd, yet not unfamiliar feeling for a writer. I’ve been here before. Never with this understated sense of urgency, however. This urgency, fueled by age, brings to bear a hollow piece of my life on the tip of my writing utensil and the blank page of my muse.

Where else would I flee? Where else may a creative run to shadow his grief and shade it just so, just right, lending his sadness a normalcy which truly does not exist, at least not with most humans. That’s the feeling, isn’t it? That sadness and loss is never felt as deeply, as painfully, as heart-wrenchingly debilitating.

I wonder at how my dearest Ayesha has avoided this pall. Hope. That slim teaser of the emotionally avalanched. The energizer of a lackluster heart which has known far too much disappointment. There remains hope that she still lives. Hope that she still carries in her heart a love for me which warms my soul with a mere thought of her.
Every UK notification on my blog’s stat line revives the glimmer of tomorrow becoming a better day. Despite all, the ghostlike peeks from that land across the sea convinces me the eyes belong to her, she of high intellect and deep emotion. She, from dreams and follies of the heart, who strolls my dim corridors even now.

I sat at this favored table on the intercoastal with the intent of ameliorating my heart’s heaviness. I’m all over the place. Strains of “We’ve Only Just Begun” from last night’s musical reverie twist and wind their way throughout my inner sanctum, scraping its walls, depositing scratches and smears in chaotic wake.

How fragile we are. Even when we reach a point of inner strength, certain life-wounds may crop up from ninja darkness to slash at you despite the fact of you knowing better. Too much love to give. None to return it.

I’ve discovered there exist far too many rules about loving someone. You can’t love her, she’s far too flighty, too this, too that. In my final analysis, I love who I love, without the good sense of analytically ruling out their instability, neurotics, and life damage.

All the love songs. All the love letters. All the love poems. All love. Each deliver pain. Just as there is no good without bad, no wrong without right, no courage without fear, there is no love without pain. What price pain?

I suppose I am the high-risk lover. I open my heart to damaged women who will strike me down as a matter of self-defense because they each cannot comprehend that a man may love long and deep and sincere. The gamble, the risk, comes in one woman finding it within herself to step back and make a better choice. A choice which allows her to believe in something long beaten down within her. That someone could love her for who she is with all the scars and damage and tears. That she might be able to circumvent the arduous task of wading through decades of pain and be gifted a restart button.

I do suppose this is too much to expect of anyone. But what if? What if she would take that chance? Alas, I see it now. The damage is too great. This scenario plays out in my life at this very moment. I’ve rekindled myself to a good place, yet the pain and damage of past wrongs and abuses haunt me.

Oddly, despite my reticence and repugnance to bold and overbearing personality traits, I find myself in a position of strength of sorts, in emotionality. (I didn’t even know that was a word! LOL!).

I had my heart ripped from me two and a half years ago, yet I cobble together the shattered pieces of my heart and deign to set forth on a final journey to love. My “shattered illusions of love” as Stevie Nicks so eloquently put it, are now pieced back together in a wary, but not unbelieving me. Stripped of much if not all of love’s illusion, I still maintain I can carry a love affair deeply, romantically, lovingly, for the rest of my days – but, and yes there is now a “but,” I must not be alone in this quest. She must join me.

Isn’t that the same as its always been? Isn’t that the grail I’ve searched out all these years? Absolutely. Now, though, the discernment of her commitment is more under siege by my heart’s eye. We love who we love. We have prerequisites as to temperament, looks, emotional heights and depths, intelligence levels, and a host of other criteria both known and unknown to us. The unknow, that “X Factor” becomes the crux of the process.

Of this I’m certain. I am drawn to whom I’m drawn. This does not make others less desirable; it simply makes them less desirable to me. I desire whom I desire, and I do not question that fact. I may step back and move with caution, but I will not step against the trust I’ve built within myself that I have grown and matured and can be the “me” I’ve always imagined. I am there, learning each day to move one more step forward, believing in love, companionship, relationship, and harmony.

I’m not foolish enough to believe there will be no strife, no struggle, no pain, but I’ll be damned if I will give up the ghost of the hope of love within my heart and become an emotional automaton for the rest of my days. This may preclude me from discovering the love I’ve longed for in this life, but it will not see me giving up.

I’ve been abused in my life emotionally. Torturously. I do learn. That will never happen again. But the fact I will not be denigrated as in the past does not mean I will become bitter and reclusive. No. I am too valuable for that. I am too worthy of love to allow damage to my life like that again. I own too large a capacity to love to allow someone to trample me again.

I not only possess the ability to stand my ground, I know I possess the strength to keep myself safe. And still I love deeply. At least, that is the aspiration.

Hmmm. These meanderings have gone on a bit. I sense I’m at a stopping point. The sun has long since dipped completely behind the foliage to my left, the shadows on the water to my right reveal the coming of night. The temperature has dropped into the 50’s and my fingers on this keyboard now stiffen with the chill.

For what it’s worth, the musings of a poet outside the poem this evening. I will attach a picture of my perch and head off to dinner and a good night’s sleep…

Your Kiss Hurts


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Your Kiss Hurts

Your kiss hurts
The beach, hand in hand.
We danced on the sand
Stars applauded
Breezes lauded
Laughter filled our hearts
Two souls refreshed in the night air
Free from all which haunts us
Varied, intense, whimsical, shared
A welcome picnic table
Your back against my chest
We owned the world in those hours

Those precious seconds
Releasing from our hug
Your kiss on my cheek
Those more precious seconds
Your lips finding mine like a master magician
One instant the end of a magnificent evening
Next moment
Romantic connection
Unbidden yet not undesired
Precious seconds of no loneliness
No pain
No disconnected  feelings
Simply your lips
The universe
All that is kind and good and free and special
All pressed lightly, softly, on mine
I knew life would get better
I knew we could move forward
I knew the fledgling spark of something special

You’re leaving.
No chance
No rebuttal
No alteration
You’re leaving
You’re leaving
You’re leaving

Your kiss hurts
There’s been more painful kisses in life
There’s been more dramatic crashes and burns
Your kiss still hurts
Something genuine,
Spur of the moment
Felt as though hope would rise once again
Life would blossom
Loneliness would melt
Dancing would billow to life
Laughter would wend its way to vocal cords unbeckoned

One kiss
So sweet
Sears with echoes of the past and fears of the future
Held in place by incredulity
By a heart needing better treatment

Your kiss hurts
I will cherish its beauty and simplicity
Past the pain
Weave the experience into my dreams
Embrace all manner of positive emotion the act kindled
While another piece of me  dies