Sea Glass



Knob kneed and pale,
I glow
before the waves with toes painted green

like the world through a piece of sea glass, my vision hazed and

calm. Your thumb presses my fingers

like the tactile press of a keyboard's

steps towards the fully formed sentences

I can't quite seem to finish. The storm on the horizon

is electrifying. It drowns out my breath with each rumble

echoing over the waves and we know we should leave,

move to safety,

but the water is the most intense

shade of you.





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Salt and Seashells


Sea salt made a fine layer of dust on your skin

when the cresting waves alternatingly

pushedand pulled your body

with the readiness of a lover. I stood

on the shore, toes gently lapped

by the aftermath to

the small violences you refused to shy away from

and daydreamed about your voice against my skin.

I called out to you, then,

and culled the seashells from my fist to select

the one best suited for your hand.

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Mercury in Van Gogh Skies



Mercury is a speed demon on an ego trip;
young and stupid with only the eyes of heaven to bring us back


You told me my gaze held the stars, but

I don't remember
pulling the constellations into my irises. You were the one

to hand me the flowers

and announced that you had picked them yourself,

          Instant gratification isn't fast enough. Maybe

we could have slowed it down a bit; let me meet the night

and feel its velvet sweetness
across my breasts like warm bath water,

like the gulf at the first touch of summer. I can smell the salt.
I can smell the sulfur.
With you
I tasted the slow rot in the bottom of an eroded season’s

grave and found it sweeter than the last drops of wine you brought

when you showed up at my door. It was enough
to trade my stars
for sleepless nights under Van Gogh skies.

I would have traded anything.

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A Peaceful Night

The moon, near but distant, full and brooding.


The mysterious glow of light that rests upon the surface of a lake,


Casting shadows on the water.




Tones of colour.


The whisper of a breeze, the rustle of hedges.


The moon hides behind a cloud.


All is still.


The observer walks away.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I often compare creative writing to painting, and I particularly like to paint with words. 

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Dying Waterfall

The Art Of Sight

Dying waterfall


It's body broken




Upon toothy grin


A stony mouthful


Raven dark


And sharp as scythes.


Ripped and torn


Rippled with shiver shorn.


Clear as an evening sky


Tasty as a moonlit night


Suspiciously summer tounged


With six thousand summer suns.


Sung deep within


A throaty tune


Time endowed.


The trees dip their hands


Wind shooken fingers


The ringlets


The droplets




Of pricless worth


Then rushing along


The dying waterfall


Of ageless birth

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Forty-six days ago

I was stuck in that desert,

Not a drop to my name

Or thoughts of the sane,

More of the same, the less I refrained.







 it’s too much voodoo to do

Today and tomorrow

So very sad the doctor isn’t in,

his hex always backfires

Yet again

Catching a case of the diminished.


A cactus.



Incoming imagination,

Hearty laughter from hallucinations,


         From the barren earth below,

                & Somehow I know

Today it is Not happening

For I begged the mirage too far.

To give, three weeks to seek

                The tempting creek

                Hiding and weaving through the city of Men,

                Their holy pig pen,

I confess, I prefer a watercress mess

                                Than to be blessed

 with banishment into this land of hexagons.

Built up, delayed,

Whatever you call it,

I’m here for a good while.


A time in fumes, to plume, smoke,

From leather lungs,

In a heat so dry

A fun long gone.

Rhythms to see

Aromas to hear

Nothing to say,

For this tiring mind-grind

Keeps relaxation at bay,

And I pray, to find those dreaming-steaming waters.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I repeatedly find myself lost and stranded in a desert without water. Oh well, I learn a thing or two each time ~ Carmello Yello

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Washed Away



Mistakes of the past,
Created by misfortune,
And misjudgment,
Today are washed away.


Powerful strikes,
Break the layers,
Cut us down to size,
Restore us to new.


Water droplets,
Fall gently, then firm,
Spontaneously reminding,
Not to be predictable.


Welcome to the storm,
Nature’s forgiveness,
Fresh start.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

In honor of our January thunderstorm today.

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Absolute Heaven

Simple Thoughts


again, it's been so long, 

yet the feeling still runs 

deep inside. 


As though not a second 

separated this and the last, 

my heart racing 

my fingers fluttering. 


To spin a tale, 

weave a rhyme, 

picking up a rhythm 

lost to time. 


The reason? 


or unimportant, 



It's been so long, 

it seems, 

but currently at ease 

letting flow out 


what some call the soul, 

others call just words, 

or poetry. 

The goal 


in the end is to spark a flame, 

light up a mind 

with imagery. 



the thousand miles 


just to have another light 

come into my life. 



the slow boil of the machine 

turning over to toil 

and burn and smoke 


and chug along the engine 

of mine, 

the mind 

that writes. 


Taking corners too fast, 

imagery still spinning 

left and right, 

picking up speed 


and becoming a runaway, 

such mass and inertia 

turning energy 

into nothing less than unstoppable. 


To write again, 

to sing, or dance, 

to do what you have done 

because it is who you are, 


it's every fiber of your body, 

every sliver of your soul... 

is intoxicating, 



It's heaven, 

absolute heaven. 


When you're below the beloved Ocean 

of Life, 

it's waves and currents 

holding you underneath. 


That moment you see the surface, 

the ballet above 

of the light dancing 

and beckoning you up for air. 


That moment you swim up, 

the sun becoming brighter as you draw closer, 

the cold water becoming clear,

you're so near, 


the warmth of the top 

felt through, 

but you're not quite there yet. 



Swim harder, 

reach for the surface, 

because that exact moment 

you burst through, 


inhaling that open, 

sweet, succulent air 

of inspiration... 

filling lungs, body, 


mind and soul... 

it is 

absolute heaven; 

to be inspired again. Gorgeous."

Author's Notes/Comments: 

It is great to write again. To be taken serious again.


Often I feel like fire,
With a soul overrun by desire
The flames, orange and red,
Destroy everything in their tread.

Then again I become air,

Although the silence is more than I can bare,
But, it sends away every little thing
And nothing can resist it's blowing.

So, maybe I'm more like the ground
Trustworthy and full of sound.
Though hard and cold are not me,
I feel as close as a flower to a bee.

Alas, like water I am liquid
Everything transpires as I am limpid,
But, because all flows away
I never know what really should stay.

What I am I do not know
But, I sure hope it does show
That I am giving it my all
To be everything in total.

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