The poet wisp…


The poet wisp…

The pretty Texas gal asked me. You are here every Friday and Saturday morning by the Austin River sitting alone. Reading your books and writing into your journal. You read yearly at the Austin Poetry reading and you won’t accept praise. I see great sadness in you eyes. You edit my poetry and you advised me on my college papers.  You help many and you never give a negative word to us. Just praise to motivate us. What do you need Johnnie? What do you want from this life?

He looked at her and he caressed her face. He told her. Dear Julie, folly teaches us. Love become a fathom, love becomes too heavy to carry. I have too many graveyards to visit already. Once I believed in love. Dead brothers and broken promises made me seek less. I know the ballet of the quiet poet. Beautiful…

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Never, never land…


 Never, never land…

(Let’s escape to Big Sur. Let’s dance with the ghosts of yesterday, let’s dance with the ghost of today. Let’s find a never, never land where our mind and heart can know the wonder of a perfect day, the sun on our face. Let’s become like children in heart and learn to smile again.)

The first kiss, the last kiss. What kiss shall we remember? I believe, every kiss I told her. She asked for a kiss? And I told her. I never refuse a kiss. Each kiss make me want a thousand more.

She had the tattoo of a raven on her back, she had the tattoos of butterflies on her pretty feet. A hidden heart on her inner thigh and a smile that could tempt my heart and my mind. He told her, even a mournful woman can be a muse. Sometimes easier to awake…

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The fragrance of time…


The fragrance of time…

We cannot stop time. Youth run away from us so quickly. We must have a Gypsy soul. We must know wonder-lust, we must kiss many pretty ladies and we must dance for the sun and the moon.

The fragrance of Summer, I do remember. A beautiful Scottish gal wore a shod of white silk and she loved the forbidden kiss. She had the sun in her eyes and we loved the early September Germany new wines.
She loved to paint the small lake, the clouds and the rocks being caressed by the moving water. She asked me often. Can I paint your face. You have a strong face and I can see a million journeys and I will pay you with one kiss. I can see the sadness in your eyes. A deep heaviness hidden away.  He told her. I will allow you dear Sheena to…

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Are You Listening


Photo by mauro savoca on

I am still hopeful

Deep down in the silence

Beneath the darkness

A flame still burns

I’ve seen too much

I’ve endured too much

I’ve prayed too much

To give in now

I’m painting a rainbow

Over my scars

I’m washing the ugliness

From my tongue

I am speaking to the mountains

And the walls and the empty spaces

Receptive souls will hear

The broken heart will hear

Grieving families will hear

The children will hear

The confused and disillusion will hear

They will come

They will listen

For in our bellies

Rooted deep we have an innate

Desire to see change

To feel hopeful

So today

Come as you are

Hear my voice

Let change begin with you

One voice

One word

Softly spoken

Are you listening

@NIkki Sterling @paragonwords 2020

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Daily Prompt – JusJoJan the 30th, 2022

AHHH!! I’m finally here with your Daily Prompt. So sorry I’m late. I really was exhausted last night, and it totally slipped my mind to get this post scheduled.

Today is January 30th, so this is the 30th prompt for Just Jot it January 2022, and it’s brought to us by Jenny. Thank you, Jenny! Again, sorry I’m late! Please be sure to visit her blog to read her post and say hello. And follow her while you’re there, if you’re not already.

Your prompt for JusJoJan January 30th, 2022, is “prepare.” Use the word “prepare” any way you’d like. Enjoy!

If you’d like to see what I have so far on your prompt list, you can find it HERE.

Here are the rules:

1. Please be sure to link back to THIS POST for January 30th, 2022.

2. Just Jot It January starts January 1st, but it’s never too…

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Tea & Transparency

People ask me, is your glass half full or half empty?

I pour myself a whiskey.

No mixer. No ice. Double measure.

My glass is half empty because I only filled it half way.

(I could probably drink a whole glass of whiskey,

but just not today).

I pour myself a vodka.

Top it up with juice. Orange is my choice.

The glass is full because of what I poured.

(It is refreshing and I can’t taste the spirit,

another filled glass is implicit).

Both glasses ended up in the same place.


That’s the reality.

There’s no pessimistic,

no optimistic.

There just is.

The drink and the moment,

the choice and the glass.

I’d call myself a realist

because variables determine the answer to the question.

And I should make a point to mention,

that I have never been one for black or white.

My world is grey. Things…

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New Year’s Disillusion

Tea & Transparency

I’ll stop.

(she lied)

It’ll be as easy as riding a bike.

(she never learnt)

. . .

(she’s drumming her fingers on the table. her teeth draw blood from her chapped lips)

It’ll be easy.

(she lied)

. . .

(her mother takes a drag. inhaling sweet acrid vice. ash floats)

I don’t need it.

. . .

(she’s an addict)

Image by Brigitte is happy … about coffee time :)) from Pixabay

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Where Winter Lies- Michael Erickson

Go Dog Go Café

Between slush and snow,

Hidden in rich glacier tones.

Transformed by patches of bare earth,

And layers of shifting ice.

Hillocks crackle while wind howls,

Scouring the unprotected with infinite pinpricks.

Reaching even to the deepest of lairs,

As a receding glimmer in an already forgotten dream.

Michael is a husband, father, writer, poet, and aspiring author. He finds time to scribble down his thoughts in the dead of night, between ghosts and night owls. If you’d like to read more of his poetry follow the link here. Or to visit his full blog, ‘The Ink Owl’ click here.

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If A Day Can Be – a poem by Paul Vincent Cannon


Photo: found at

“Time you enjoy wasting, was not wasted.” John Lennon

If A Day Can Be 

If a day can be, then just let it be,
let it evolve without synthetic control,
without saccharine precision or that
timetabled conscience ingrained,
the day is just a day, why force yourself
upon it for the sake of producing
something meaningful, that cold press
of identity that withers at sunset,
let the day just be.

Copyright 2022 ©Paul Vincent Cannon
All Rights Reserved ®

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