Poetry ~ The Dead Inn

Howled the Gatesman as I pulled up the drive, “Welcome to the Dead Inn, we’re so glad you’ve arrived.”

Screeched the Butler as he opened the door and the maid looked up scrubbing blood from the floor.

Groaned the Innkeeper as he tossed me a key, “Your room is upstairs, it’s marked door number three.”

Snapped the Bell-hop with an evil glare, “It gets dark at night, hope you’re not scared.”

Roared the monster from under the bed, “Enjoying your evening? You do know you’re dead?”

I screamed as I gathered my wits and ran down the stairs calling it quits. 

Cried the Watchman as he locked the gate, “Oh, you must stay for dinner you can’t afford to be late.”

“The others will join you around the table at eight. All dead on arrival through these rusty gates.”

Laughed the Grimm Reaper, “I guess heaven can wait!”


Poetry ~ The Great Green Graspy!


I have a mysterious memory that rattles my mind
of a monster that came knocking at story time.

Of course, it was a stormy night, all those years ago
I was a mere child, how could I possibly know?

That an old gray man, in an old green coat,
would arrive at our door with a book he wrote.

Oddly, Mother invited him in from the storm that night
and gathered the children before dimming the lights.

Then the old gray man sat in Father’s big chair
and opened his book and said with a glare,

“Come sisters and brothers and have a seat!
There’s a new monster in town I want you to meet!”

The old man’s voice was deep and raspy
as he read the story of the Great Green Graspy!

“The monster grabs children when they talk in their sleep
and he hides them in the closet where they can’t make a peep!

The Great Green Graspy is a brittle bag of bones
with ghastly green teeth and a heart made of stone.”

“So, beware, dear children,” the gray man groaned,
“for the Great Green Graspy creeps into homes!”

“He’s particularly peculiar about children who groan
when the lights go out and they’re left all alone!

Sleep soundly dear children and beware the green glow
of the Great Green Graspy, if you groan he will know!”

When the story was over and the old man stood to leave
my eyes grew wide in disbelief!

The old gray man in the old green coat
cast a ghoulish green glow and appeared to float!

All the sisters and brothers screamed and gasped
and the old gray man began to laugh.

With his big green teeth and his ghastly green eyes
the old gray man had one last surprise!

“Tonight, dear children, when you’re tucked in your beds
if you hear a door rattle, remember what I’ve said!”

That night in our room, as we tried to sleep
the sisters and brothers didn’t make a peep.

But then next door, in Mother’s room,
Father laughed and we heard a BOOM!

The closet door slammed and Mother screamed!
Was it the Great Green Graspy!
or just a dream?

Poetry ~ The Metal Collars

They’ve termed them, “the metal-collars” the  robotic workers of our age an artificial workforce already on the stage.

It’s a troubling scenario, more prone to prose,
but this poet must expose it in a verse they don’t yet know. 

Can metal-collared robots replace humankind?
With artificial intelligence, they can replicate the mind.

But the heart is where true love and wisdom reside,
where artists and poets create with the tides. 

Machines and robots may take over our tasks
but there’s no human heart under their masks.

To be human is to feel, to love, and to dream,
to write poems, make art, write songs and to sing.

But what if this is the future that was meant to be?
What if metal-collared workers allow humans to be free?

Poetry ~ Eye of the Storm

Remember how frightened you were when the storm formed in my eyes?
You were visibly shaken but safely tethered to the earth with your lies.

When the lightening flashed you cowered in the corner like a child.
Then the thunder boomed, the skies grew dark and the winds blew wild!

We were in the throes of it when I looked up at you and cried
and a teardrop fell from my cheek and mixed with the rising tide.

Then the waves crashed savagely on the windswept shore of my heart
and what was once our love was flooded and torn apart.

Why didn’t you heed my warning to be faithful and true?
Instead, you pierced my heart with deception and withdrew!

Now, as the storm subsides my heart is transformed.
Oh, darling beware, for I am the eye of the storm!

Poetry ~ The Cellar Door

He stares up through my window
from the moonlit glen below.
He knows I’m here, watching there
as the dark sky fills with snow.

He stands adrift, in despair
but he knows I’m hiding here.
Hiding behind the crimson drapes
impatient, longing, knowing he is near.

Of his motives, make no mistake
he knows he’ll find me wide awake
as he slips in through the cellar door
ensuring there is no escape.

I will not fight him, as before
but let him sweep me off the floor.
Let him love me, all the more. 
Let him love me, all the more. 

Poetic form inspired by Robert Frost’s Poem
~ Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Poetry ~ Mysteries 

Do you dismiss the mysteries because you don’t believe? 
belief is not required for mysteries to be perceived 

the theories are chaotic, not much is really known 
but study chaos theory and let your mind be blown

old gods aren’t required for mysteries to exists 
and science is woefully lacking if you require evidence 

so step aside disbelievers – skeptics form a line
the mysteries are dynamic and shifting over time

and life’s too short to go on fussin’
and I’d much rather be discussin’

the moon and the stars
and my maiden trip to Mars!

Poetry ~ The Dead Poet

I’ve met a dead poet.
I’m sure you’ve read a few, but this one haunts me.
Do they haunt you too?

I call her “Lizzie” and the name suits her well,
a Victorian Poet with a story to tell.

Her voice is distinctive, lusty, and low.
The voice of a crone who died years ago.

We collided one night as the stars realigned,
two aspiring poets, immersed in our rhymes.

She’d started a poem some eons ago,
but her ‘nary and tarry’ made the going quite slow.

So, we bickered and tinkered with rhyme and verse.
We bellowed and brawled and then we rehearsed.

The poem came forth as I took center stage,
reading aloud as the audience engaged.

As the curtain closes, let me bring this back around
and acknowledge all dead poets for their rhythm, rhyme, and sound.

As for you dear reader, beware the hauntings of the night,
when the stars realign and dead poets reunite!

Post Script:  A link to our poem here, enjoy “The Path”.

Poetry ~ Half Thoughts

I have surrendered 

to my half-thoughts

incomplete sentences

vacant spaces of my mind

I no longer wander

I am simply lost

where is the still mind?

Like the rapids of the river

my mind rushes forward

as I struggle for air,

for full thoughts,

for the light,

for the truth,

found in silence. 

How does one quiet the raging river?

And the answer comes –

one doesn’t quiet a raging river

one surrenders to it. 

Ah, a complete thought!