I was doing my cups by "smothering the parrot" (sipping green absinthe) at The Haggis Inn. A drinkery on the planks of Aberdeen's warf by the North Sea. A cold air and visioning fog washed in by the tides, chilling my bones. The wetness of the gray seeping  into my brogans, robbing heat from soles of my feet, as fast as the wind stole frost from my nose. It was a parlor for the artsy and...

Added 31 May 2018 | Category Micro Fiction | Votes 0 | Avg Score 0 | Views 5

Shallow be games I've known In quest for thoughtfulness As my cards are still standing In my life's deck of integrity   While the dealer is crooked  ...

Added 30 May 2018 | Category Poetry | Votes 0 | Avg Score 0 | Views 6

In conversation with my adversary, a conscience bearing no smile, of spoof's, in my mind's hell. As I write with Mortimer's ghost, and ink of a dark thorn thistle,   scenting the pale. Walking on stones of the departed, before rain fell of locust shells, and zombies rising as if with yeast.   As Mortimer eloped on silent prayer, leaving me alone in my writing chair, of spoof's, in my...

Added 29 May 2018 | Category Poetry | Votes 0 | Avg Score 0 | Views 10

Disparities among the scattered leaves Some are red, some have shed wings Floating in air like gliders on strings As the acorns doff their caps To beautiful being, my maiden woods With a tiara of wild flowers in her hair Flowing in the autumn of concessionaire With a kiss of our laissez faire   As your resin of seducing scent Bringing not a sigh of lament As the acorns doff their caps...

Added 28 May 2018 | Category Poetry | Votes 0 | Avg Score 0 | Views 14

As spirits of the hot lands and sirocco winds blow  Footprints in sands of the nomads And the papyrus across Libyan origins Feeling love in Benghazi as forest become deserts As our lips touched neath tent of the Bedouins And I suckling milk of your breast's seduction   While palms of the dunes whispered of cherubs And lines from Barry Manilow    ...

Added 27 May 2018 | Category Poetry | Votes 0 | Avg Score 0 | Views 49

Like a metaphor, hungering for otto of a black rose. With lust of thorn and webs of petals, I am, what I am, a dark in prose. Like a metaphor, hungering for otto of a black rose. With kiss of Gothic neath the veil, I am, what I am, a dark in prose.  ...

Added 26 May 2018 | Category Poetry | Votes 0 | Avg Score 0 | Views 68

It was many weeks ago, in my dreams. A recurring dream of my sister. God had called her home when she was but a child. I still remember her little pink nose and her freckles that glowed when she smiled or laughed. I was her best friend and so was Wally Bear, an old sock doll she had tea parties with when she was but four years old. She would often ask me to pull her in a wagon, a wagon...

Added 25 May 2018 | Category Flash Fiction | Votes 2 | Avg Score 5 | Views 87 | 2 Comments

Behind the mask, she a paradox of love, with a scent of the Cava Chardonnay    and a seductive stare of the banderillas, as we danced the Jota in the olive groves beneath a Castilian sunset dusk, not looking for a fault in a gift.    ...

Added 24 May 2018 | Category Poetry | Votes 1 | Avg Score 5 | Views 81

Dipping the thorn in the ink, with the ink of the rose, a petal from my lip's smiles as dew becomes the potion, the aflame of my prose. As curator of the garden voile looks down on our nakedness, in the aisles of the tiles while time dance on soil, of our briar woods. By taming my heart as we climb the trellis of love,   with the ink of the rose, carrying seeds of embryos, dipping the thorn...

Added 23 May 2018 | Category Poetry | Votes 0 | Avg Score 0 | Views 97

A calling of the darkness. fell a snow. Deposited in escrow, where bones burrow. With songs of granite, the interest rise. A dark shade of pale, shadowing eyes.   "I am the man with a carrot for a nose, and wisdom for a tooth." People are silent, when it comes to rain, but bite off my nose in-spite of pain. "But I watch with a black-coal eyes, as the sun turns my fears into tears. Becoming...

Added 22 May 2018 | Category Micro Fiction | Votes 3 | Avg Score 5 | Views 101 | 3 Comments

It was at the grist's mill, like I had seen a ghost, of the corn that stood, on the back forty grow, in green with eyes like onyx, as my pulse skipped a beat. Where tombstones sleep without a moaning peep, and the raven's nest where monks took keep, as the frost froze over the Dutch clover. And I felt a breath over my shoulder, while counting the sheep, turning around and saw my ghostly...

Added 06 May 2018 | Category Poetry | Votes 3 | Avg Score 5 | Views 108 | 3 Comments