Signs in Florence

Unexplored streets invite curious minds
a combination of ancient and modern
walking in Medici’s steps down Piazza
della Republica past bastions of capitalism
seemingly out of place in the old old buildings
heading toward Ponte Vecchio across
the river to shop in shops filled with tchotchke
and turning right instead of left we wander
uphill past houses old, but well cared for
flowers in windows, deep seated front doors
build into thick stone walls, sturdy construction
nothing pre-fab here, save for the Honda
parked at an incline in the driveway
and she asks if we are lost, I respond
“I don’t know, are we?”, and we walk
until as her anger builds within her
and we find ourselves on hill over-
looking the city and she’s says
“We are lost!”, I shrug  “How do we
get back?” she worries “Who cares,
just look at that?” I pause, she starts
her angry red walk downhill “You need
to grow up, I don’t think this is going
to work.  This, maybe,  was a mistake…”
she’s very mad,  “getting married”.
I follow her down the hill wandering
back into town, following street names
signs built into bricks on corner of building
until we get back to our honeymoon hotel room.
This is day five.

I started with the first line and it brought to mind an experience travelling with my ex (that’s probably evident).  The story is basically true…

Strawberry Root Weevil

Long snouted brownish black

little weevils following no track

traverse the great green plain

From corner to window pane

searching for what, god knows

stopping quickly as if to dose

it’s like a strange party for bugs

and surely there are no drugs

they just walk and dance along

in our bathroom, where they belong

Season — Augmented Spoken Word

Hey all,

Check out my spoken word work:



For those that like to read along:








Broken brown bits,  crisp
crumbles of last year’s green
and several dozen types of leaves,
crust over spring growth.
Like asthmatic ash from Vesuvius
Killing whole swathes of grass
roots and all, thier blades useless
reducing lawn to soil and mold
A graveyard of a landscape
ripe for the visagoth weeds
and hordes of invading seeds.


Ruckus winds rustle up dust and pollen

Much to my red-eyed stuffy nosed chagrin

Blowing snow mold from greening grasses

and picking up Spring’s pouring puddles

placing them in soft slow cumulus clouds

that patrol above like sentinels on watch

over birds scouting for nesting real estate

and us walking the recently unclothed yard

hunting sprigs and signs of future flowers

amidst the detritus of falls fallen waste

welcoming a storm’s whisper in the billowing

breeze, thunder being the trumpet blast

heralding the warmer season to come.


Late Summer


Drowning in throat coating dust
dragging deep dry breathes
thick through burning nose
down into long lashed lungs
on arid August afternoons
with lawn long gone brown
the sandy soil scorched naked
wind whipping up small dust devils
plastering particles of sand
to sweat soak on skin exposed
to reddening low slung searing sun
and one can only sit stone still
waiting for the inevitable window
shaking thunder storm to clear
the air and the damned drought.


And the sun surrenders dropping down in water
sky turning shades of fall foliate

The leaves themselves rustling muted and thick

laying in wait as insects hold their breath
upon the whisper of a storm tiptoing toward us  in the air

even the massive mirror of lake sits stil waiting,  a pebble tossed wouldn’t upset it’s calm.
the fish too admire it’s beauty and do not to jump
for bugs on the surface.

A Fire takes root
warming the night
Fingers of flame reach low hung branches
Logs groan and spit heat
Casting errant embers like molten bullets

Among us

As we watch moths,kamikaze to their deaths with unnervingly  grace into the dying flames



Fall fell sudden

Like a broken arrow

from an old archer’s

time worn palsied hand

Leaves crisp aqnd brittle

as rattling ancient bones

tumble around desperately

In the yard Catching

on the lawn or a stick, a puddle

a fence post, reaching for any thing

that holds.

And at night…

Through the leaves and
trees – The cool full
moon does not shine on
me as I sit or maybe
stand by the faltering fire pit
that is full of darkening coals
grown old and cold as the
late September night
and the coals also
do not shine on ….

Through the leaves and
trees – the old and cold
darkening coals do not shine on
me as I stand or maybe
sit, back turned to fire pit
that is full like the cool bright moon

Grown old and cold on this late September night.





Breath hard and heavy,
stumbling still sleepy,
along an old overgrown road,
cutting through dark woods,
tripping over logs long rotten,
now frozen stone solid

toward deerstand lashed

in marraige to old oak.
The November morning grey
seeps into pre-dawn gloom
as I sit in the soft slow sway

of my metal perch

watching shadow-like trees stand
against sharp freezing air
Frost tugging at tips of toes
damp in booted thick socks
a nape of neck breeze tickling
down the back chilling deep
in spite of my thermal shirt
Fingers pulled into palms
tips tight tucked away
against early winter’s
urgent and constant cold

soon we will cacoon against the season

in anticipation for of the next turning of the cycle





























Kite — A Poem about Feeling Hopelessly Stuck


A kite in the tree

the crab apple tree

Want to get it down

the kite is stuck

and you only shrug

Say “Let the dog in”


This is your life

Charlie Brown


A Monarch in the tree

the kite is a Monarch

Stuck in the tree

In the crab apple tree

Still you only shrug

Say, “Let the dog in”


This is your life

Charlie Brown


Look at that kite

Up in the tree

This is important

The kite stuck in the tree

Again you only shrug

Say “Let the dog in”


This is your life

Charlie Brown


But Chuck is stuck

Up on a tree

He is no Monarch, no kite

in the crab apple tree

Finally you only shrug

Say, “Let the dog in”


This is your life

Charlie Brown.


A kite in the tree

the crab apple tree

Want to get it done

The kite is stuck

Finally, you shrug

Say, “Let the dog in”


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Caught — On a musical Experiment

This a poem, primary about a song I am working on (which you can hear here ), but also about thoughts in general.


like a question forming

itself into a firm shape

to be quickly kicked

sidewalks off kilter

then smeared slightly

until obscured behind

itself it peeks through

then hides amongst

the grey caught

until everything lifts

and the question


Sleeping in a Crowded Bed

Your clinging companion,

Your forever worsening pain

brushes against me laying awake

like something has joined us

in bed driving you deeper

deeper into your despair

and my deepening helplessness

I lay awake listening to you sobbing

You trying to ignore the throbbing

Of your malevolent muscles locked

like gritting teeth under foreign skin,

pulling your neck tight, a fisherman’s knot

of sinew and fiber, gripping you and even me

me by the heart and you to your very being.

Let’s Explore — Doors — A Cycle of Doors

The door on the floor below the third,

where I work never opens, locked tight

against my prying curiosity, driving the

fantasy of outlandish accompanying

stories to strange concocted mental images.

Like giant blinking, pulsing masses of bits

Of circuit boards inextricably intertwined

With mounds of Giger-like living organs

Computing possibilities of improbable

events, such as doors that never open

concealing, giant blinking pulsing masses of bits

Of circuit boards inextricably intertwined

With mounds of Giger-like living organs

Computing possibilities of improbable

events, such as doors that never open


Let’s Explore — Doors

I have been thinking a lot about doors lately, and think I want explore doors as a concept in my writing over the next few days, or however long my fascination lasts….

They are so seemingly innocuous, but really anything could be behind them. They raise a lot of questions, when one thinks about them closely, such as:

  • What are they keeping out?
  • What are they keeping in?
  • Who’s behind them?
  • What those on the other side doing?
  • Why are they shutting me (and possibly you) out?
  • Why are some locked?
  • Why do some have really big, heavy duty locks? What does that say?
  • Why do some have no locks at all?
  • Why are some propped open, seemingly inviting entry?

There’s so much to write about doors.

Let’s see if we can’t get a writing theme going around doors in the reader.

Post your exploration of doors in writing, and let each comment and critique each others — think of it as community building exercise for WordPress writers.

I will post my first exploration tonight, after I get home, close some doors, open others and like mental doors to creativity, and after my chores of course….*sigh*

If people want to do this, maybe start their posts with Let’s Explore — Doors — <Title of Post>? 

Not sure how that will work to tie these all together (if a lot of us try this).  I think this could be a really fun way to connect and explore a common theme in our writing — if anyone is willing?    If not, it’ll be just me…



The Struggles of Memory

Thoughts drip down and away
into a river jammed with memories
like logs packed together and raging
from top of open mind to the closed bottom
groaning under pressure and their own desire
to be free of the banks and confines of the mind
to sail alone, peacefully, one at a time like a swimmer
bobbing along on the changing whim of the comforting current
finally being pushed through the delta into a the wide open sea
to be confined no more by shores but left to wander on a grand scale

Old Poetry and Fiction

What do you all think?  Should I transcribe my really old (awful) poetry as posts on here?  What about old fiction, maybe break it up into daily chunks?  Some of the fiction is passable…:)

Let me know, and I will follow suit!

Technical Difficults — really a PIBKAC error

Sorry about the confusion and double posts and stuff….my posts weren’t showing up on the reader, i think cuz I was playing with an external host and trying different things.

Anyway, I said to hell it with and went straight WordPress, much easier and I reach all your fine folks, so you can (enjoy) read(ing) my poems, listening to my (dare I call it) music, and see all of my wife’s art work.

Also, I switched my name and the name of the blog…I am no longer Angry1541….while I was never really angry, the name gave that impression and I didn’t want that to be the case any longer….

Anyway, back up and running….phew.

PIBKAC = problem between keyboard and chair, btw.