she scribbles in sand with orange feather
belly-sprawled like an exhausted swimmer
or beached mermaid. Such poetic weather
sonnet moon controlled the tide. A shimmer
of sweat-beads sparked ethereal glimmer
and highlighted elongated lashes

sand-steam arose, (helped her hot words simmer)
as south-of-her-ankles a wave crashes
encroaching upon her dots-and-dashes
yet she continues to scribble unphased

knowing full well that those creeping splashes
shall soon unword any sequence she phrased

He climbs up rhythmically keeping his legs within a ring of rope like his life. Intuition assures the ripeness; life-nut falls down from the tree top. Just a slip will end in all end, but practice rarely slips. Though the ways are hackneyed, he’s honeyed and free under his calluses. Morrows and yesterdays, he never climbs upon. He hugs today, green and yellow like the coconut tree leaves. First published in The Literary Hatchet, US, then reprinted in Nous Magazine, UK, and also in my book, Kanoli Kaleidoscope by punkswritepoemspress, US.

I was walking down my home street
the streetlamps reminded me of U.F.Os
passing over head
shining eternally for those who need guidance
when out of the corner of my eye
I saw a trash can fall over

my startled heart could've been confused for an olympian the way it
raced
and skipped after that moment
what came crawling out of the can caused a different reaction

a Small Bandit
eyes cloaked in a natural mask
holding scraps of food from meals of yesterday
taking its time to eat and walk

in my hypnosis
I dropped my pen

“Le Sage De Jehanne La Pucelle” (“The Saga of Joan The Maid”) A Sonnet Redoublè
 
1.      A Question Of Faith.
 
So often heard, of visions and the fire.
The horrors, tragedy, from turn to turn.
Accused of heresy, decried a liar.
Aware are all of how, lo, I did burn
Grotesque indeed was favor here, again.
When coals to person mine, alive, I cried.
My due for serving Armagnac as wren,

The witch who walks behind us and falls to make us fall but falls soft when we fall hard walks away when we lie still