All writing

Could I but draw, I'd sketch you day and night.
I'd capture your sweet cheek line as a peach,
the soaring eyebrows as a bird in flight,
the lips a gentle wave upon the beach.

I'd draw your eyes as rainbows through the dark,
your hair as raven feathers, deepest black.
The smile as lightning, blinding with a spark.
A  graceful swan will model for your back.

I'd draw no landscapes and no nature morte,
no flower vases and no setting sun;
no vain cartoons one draws for fun or sport.
I have no need of subjects: I have one.

I cannot draw, but you're on every page.
Still beautiful. Still mine. Still young. I age.

I hunt at night. A harvester of souls
is far too mild a term. I tear out throats.
Don't judge me by mere human mores, roles.
Mine is no simple sowing of wild oats.

Rare are the nights that help me in my hunt.
Some are too cloudy; some are wholly black.
For me there is no satisfying grunt,
unless I see the moonlit victim's back.

Oh, harvest moon, why must you be so rare?
Why must you wait for that time of the year,
when noise from the cicadas fills the air
and pumpkins sit out grinning, ear to ear?

I wouldn't be a werewolf without you.
Come light my kill, I've just begun to chew.

Paris flattered Aphrodite
she was always fond of Trojans
Might have been her sexy nighty:
a debate for theologians
But she made him fast and nimble.
And that tower? Phallic symbol.

Author notes: image from Pinterest

He laughs at me then,
does the man on the moon.
A blood curling laugh:
what, you're leaving so soon?
Dark vapors surrounding his face.
The bats, his sworn servants, give chase.

Author notes: image from tenor.com

an eye for AI
souls into bits and pieces
god in the machine

A free verse poem
is only as good
as the name of its author.

Try this experiment:
Get a recent poem of the week
from a lit. journal.

Then take one from this site,
preferably one that is awash
in crimson and vermillion.

Can you tell the difference?
Perhaps better spelling?

As to Bukowski?
He wrote some really
poetic prose.

He stopped to stare, hard to know when, exactly,
besides perhaps the clothes, a bit outdated.
He stands and others pass, matter-of-factly;
they're city dwellers: no surprise, they're jaded.
What was he looking at, to freeze him solid
dust gathering on iron, stoic, stolid?
A lady with her dog? A bitter rival?
Newspaper boy, out trumpeting arrival of some momentous day?
Well, who's to say, we only know he stands,
lamenting no one, no one understands.

alien galleons
are lighter than air
and much faster than light

practice makes perfect
as the brush traces the form
function will follow

Author notes: image from unsplash.com

seen it all and been it all
and though time does take its toll
overall I've had a ball
thanks to smokes and alcohol

Author notes: image from quotesgram.com

For today, I'll be a poet.
How to be one? Wouldn't know it
if it hit me on the head,
might be called a hack, instead.

Lovers that I've loved, unsmitten.
Notes to songs I won't have written
sounding off inside my ears,
like the chatter of my peers,
cure it, with a few more beers.

Is that it, entire story?
Greater truth, an allegory,
hiding behind this façade?

Don't believe it. You've been had.

Hanging clouds, soft cotton candy,
wispy tendrils probe about.
In my beach chair, sipping brandy,
waiting for the tide to out.
Sweat is cooling, makes me shiver,
pondering my life and death,
yearning for a single sliver
of a sail upon God's breath.

There she is, all mast and glory
as she leans from bow to stern;
pausing here to tell her story...
time enough for me to yearn.