The echoes of yesterday…


The echoes of yesterdays…

(April poetry number twelve.)

Drinking alone in a Monterey tavern in April,1992. I was trying to hide from a memory and I saw the saddest face man looking back at me in the tavern mirror. I whispered. Were we lovers or where we liars?

Once, pretty Michigan gal excited my mind, excited my heart. We loved midnight dancing and we weaved the greatest dreams. We attempted love three times and I left her on a December day in 1991. I didn’t know. We were done, she gave-up on me.

I called her at midnight and I awoke her. Her gentle and sweet voice whispered, dear Johnnie. Drinking again and you are missing me. One day, I won’t answer the phone. I am doing okay and you have your war, you have your California. No time for the Michigan girl, who can’t wait no-more.

I told her…

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I was told…


I was told…

The prettiest and most dangerous lady, I was told she was,

always writing down her words and

she was waiting for me,

her strong coffee sweet and creamy,

I saw her,

her eyes on the New York city streets,

pondering her words, her thoughts.

I pray I was wandering in her mind,

I pray I was her night time wish, her devilish dream.

She was artist and a wordsmith,

her dangerous mind always twisting tales of laughter,

tales of midnight night dances and the sweetest red wine kisses.

She loved to make empty canvas alive and vibrant.

I went to her and she embraced me and she whispered.

“You Northern poets like the rainy days and making a lady wait.

Patience woman I am not, the coffee got cold and my restless spirit,

need a long walk into the Central park and you to make me feel,

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Sometimes we must steal and loan kisses…


  Sometime we must steal and loan kisses…

Beautiful lady arrived at the Austin’s tavern at twelve trying to escape the Texas Summer heat.

Once she wanted everything and more,

now she need the Long Islands ice teas.

She was a beauty and the men knew,

she wanted the Jazz songs and the silence.

Every Friday night, I followed her into the Jazz club and I watched her beautiful face.

I could see her hazel eyes that had turned grey and the hardness in the movement of her face.

She shared fake smiles with the bar keep and she loved the silence.

I wrote a poem for her.

“Sleeping beauty

Pretty things can break easily,

some broken things cannot be fixed.

Beautiful face don’t mean hopeful heart.

Sometime Sleeping Beauty,

don’t want to be awaken.

Wise men know,

when the woman seek the comfort of the Jazz and the drink,

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Delicate and boundless…


 Delicate and boundless..

Marianne found me drinking alone by the Texas river. I was drinking the Black Velvet whiskey at noon and writing old-man poetry. She took my journal and she read my words. She looked sad and she told me. Johnnie, yesterday is gone. Today is important. We must celebrate the new day. Please read me a beautiful and hopeful poem. I will pay with kisses, if I like.

I wrote to the Journal..

“You are delicate and boundless. You made me believe life is alright and you make me smile. I want to fall in love with you and I want us to become Gypsies without walls.

Marianne, Marianne, my lovely Texas girl. Let runaway to the sea. Let’s swim in the ocean and drink the tequila with lemons, till the midnight hour. My darling, my sweetie, my kind love. Let’s create a place, where we can win.

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Your love, like heroin..


Your love, like Heroin…

Lace and silk, whiskey and sin, pain and misery we loved. I loved to watch you paint your beautiful face and I told you. You are a natural beauty. Your pale skin and your face. Men would die for. I asked you. Are you hiding your true face my lady love?

You sat bare-ass on a soft chair facing the mirror. You turned to me and you told me. Johnnie, Johnnie, you are addicted to me. I am your Heroin and you do not want to see how ugly I became. I was once a beauty, damn cigarettes, booze and drugs. And I love the damn men who would steal everything from me. Johnnie, Johnnie. You are just a con man with a poet’s face. You don’t want love. You want to become a part of me. You love us fighting in a bed of sin…

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Wild child…


The wild child…

The poet loved the careless girl,

he loved the girl who loved the sweet wines and

she could make him smile with her dance, her beautiful voice and her eyes of hope.


She told me, the world don’t imprison us.

We do.

Please quit seeking the goals of the world and find the narrow path,

the less walked on path.

You will find quiet forest and beautiful moving river.

And you will find me.


She told him, I am more savage than you believe.

I want to run bare-ass into the forest of the mountain and

I want to swim in the hidden waterfall.

Will you join me brave soldier?


She told the moon, I am the child of the stars and

I am my mother savage daughter.

My father told me.

I was the free sky, the wild Winter Pacific storm.

I followed…

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Poetry and Me

Digital Rabbit Hole


Poetry and Me

I’m a poet.

It seems to me I’ve always been.

When kids my age were running after soccer balls,

I was nursing a dislocated knee…and writing poetry.

When other girls my age, in high school glided down the halls

I limped or tried to dissimulate and felt much less than all the rest.

But, by then I could write poetry.

I shared some with my closest friends and found they almost envied me.

Imagine that! Those graceful swans with well placed knees..actually envying me!!

After surgeries, and pins and casts, feeling more secure when I descended stairs

I felt my future bright and put away my notebooks full of verse, to finally ride a bike.

Now in later life, all those times, before I knew the damage I was doing

Putting on shows and amazing my peers by bending my elbows backwards

making all go “Wow!: when…

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