Coloring (originally published in The Literary Underground - 3/9/2025)

Coloring
 
My parents bought a used ’65 Dodge Dart,
white inside and out, dad’s pride and joy,
and I, just a boy left unbuckled, untethered,
saw the back of the front seat as a blank
canvas, which I covered in patternless
Crayola-tones, an abstract masterpiece, faded
to black and white in memory. Consequences
swift but not corporal. Lesson learned:
elbow grease cleans wax off vinyl.
 
Flash forward to a different world where
artificial light explodes from all
my screens, distracting and assaulting me
with hues no naive technicolor musical
could have foretold, while a gloomy
future looms uncertainly in shades of gray
and sepia-brown, and my clicking knees
and knuckles count the seconds. Punishment
for the simple crime of having survived.
 
And now, having lived through sixty-two
gray winters, green springs, white-hot
summers and firework-bright autumns,
all scrambled together in a shapeless swirl
of errors and triumphs, revelations and deceits,
injuries sustained and inflicted,
 
I still paint outside the lines, with words
instead of crayons, and still usually clean up my own mess.

Always Be Writing

 Always Be Writing
 
When you wake in the night dreaming
a poem about a lake-side cottage in the mountains,
you should sit up and make some notes, just a few lines
to act as blueprint, without regard for meter or metaphor,
then go back to sleep.
 
Once the sun is up and the coffee’s been made, begin to build.
Use some weathered clapboard cliches for an alliterative exterior.
Apply a fresh coat of paint for a more original interior.
Dig a septic tank in the back, away from the road,
flush away all unnecessary words.
 
Make the front steps straight and true for your foot.
Find every rhyme, whether at the end of a line or not.
If you’ve planted too many similes as shrubs
underneath the picture window, rip them out, like a carpenter
tears out rotten floorboards, or a dentist removes a decaying tooth.
 
A skylight would provide illumination, but resist the temptation of a wall-sized TV,
you’re better off with bookshelves and a writing desk.
Don’t worry if the windows or verses aren’t all the same size, if some shingles are different colors than  
     others, or if some lines are too long for the page.
It’s fine to consult the opinions of experts,
just don’t let them edit you out.
 
Soon you may want to ask friends to visit,
though, not too many friends and not every weekend.
Ask them to bring their own pillows and towels, to find their own meanings, to hear their own rhythm.
Don’t be concerned with guest bedrooms or linens.
This is your place to escape the madness.
And never stop rewriting.

Stealthy Thief

 Stealthy Thief

 
Oh, Time, stealthy thief,
who snatches every breath,
every heartbeat and memory,
- where do you hide?
 
Where do you stash
all the blessings you’ve stolen,
all the forgotten glances,
caresses and kisses?
 
You must have some bolt-hole
or safe-house to hide in
with all of those moments
you’ve ravaged and pillaged.
 
Like a dragon who piles up
treasure uncounted
in his secret cave in some
great northern mountain,
and lies down upon it
to sleep through the winter
just waiting for springtime
to gather some more.

****from my book A Muster of Melodious Musings (Metaphysical Fox Press, 2025)

And Yet, We Sing

Like an animal trapped in a cage,

howling its rage,
we sing.
Like a bird trapped in a church,
desperate to escape her stained-glass prison,
destroying herself by crashing
into that divine light again and again,
until, broken and exhausted,
she falls to the marble floor,
we dance.
Whether from loneliness
or the pain of witnessing
overwhelming beauty,
out of fear or out of awe,
we sing.
And though we know,  
we forget,
that the music we hear is born of
someone else’s pain.
And so, we listen.
And so, we dance.
We join hands and spin;
we raise our voices
against the horror and the pain
and the blinding, searing light.
Because we know,
at least for this one day,
we have survived
to sing and dance again.
And so
we dance.
And so
we sing.

Coming Events

                                                   

COMING EVENTS

Much excitement here in Mosherland at the moment, as A Muster of Melodious Musings (2025 - Metaphysical Fox Press) has hit the streets! The book made its public debut on March 13 during the open mic portion of the monthly Pour Me A Poem reading series in Mansfield, MA - my poetry home base.

In addition to various other open mic events, I'm lining up some feature reading spots in the next few months, where I'll be reading more from Muster, as well as whatever else feels right at the moment. There will be copies of the book for sale at all these events!

Here's what's on the horizon

                    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

August 14 - Thursday - 7pm - Freatured reader at Anomaly Poetry's AHA night reading in downtown New Bedford MA. It's part of larger neighborhood event, so come early and check out the vibe. This will be my first AHA Night, but I understand it's a wild time. Includes an open mic, held in the Co-Creative Center.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Be sure to check back here regularly for more news!