I believe in being prepared for any given situation. It isn't because I'm a pessimistic person; I think it is just good common sense. Hence, I've entitled my blog "Even Nothing is Something."

This covers my butt in any event. On any given day I can feel great exaltation that I have done something grand. I can scribble fiercely when my thoughts are leaping across the meadows of my mind like a happy little colt in the month of May, or my mind and writing can be as dry and arid, as cold and without life, as the Gobi desert - because even Nothing is Something.

I want to thank all of my fellow artists who work through other means and forms and who sell their work on the wonderful artist's site "Etsy," a place to buy and sell all things handmade, along with vintage items and supplies for their craft. They are a great group of people.

Those who have links to their site on my blog represent only a few of those whom I wish to include. Just click on one of those links and join the Etsy community. It is free. They are a great group of artists who have relieved me of my money in the most delightful of ways. If it weren't for their encouragement, I would have never shared my work through this blog.

Thank you my darling friends!

Enjoy my blog - The Poet or Not - More or Less

Friday, June 4, 2010


The winds rush
the Hemlock and
those Weeping Willows
by the river where
roams a coyote who
pierces the night
with one long syllable
of a howl  - eerie
and haunting, on a
tower high and, as
on a stage, a spotlight
shines down upon
a majestic bird of prey,
that Great Horned
Owl, the Night Tiger
of all nocturnal birds
of prey, whose flight is
soundless amidst the
whisperings of the
Hemlock and Willows,
the creature whose
voice joins the coyote's
howl with its own
multi-syllabic baritone of
repeated "hoooo, hoo, hoo, hoo
hoo." Awakening in the
night-tide, these sounds
penetrate the silence
but for the ticking of
a clock, our bedroom
windows, open for the
breeze, captures the song
of life and the dance of
Hemlocks and Willows
by the river with the eldest
of muses, Kalliope,
the mother of a Bard
who plays upon her lyre.

The Promised Poem

Greetings, my dearest friends, and oh so few (HINT HINT) followers.

I promised to share the poem that defines the title of my book manuscript. Maybe it will give me some redemption from the song lyrics. Speaking of which, let me share this. Although the lyrics are painfully raw, Bruce and I have maintained our wonderful friendship. But, current events (sounds like a social studies course) have provided the muse for these lovely lyrics Matt's band so prefers.

Now, here is a humorous exchange of words between Bruce and I. He remains one of my greatest fans. He's noticed that nature plays a large part in my poetry; I like to make reference to some flora, fauna and truly amazing trees. So, the other day I was telling him about a tree I've recently read about - the Strangler Fig. After I finished telling him all the delightful facts about this tree, his face fell and he said, "Don't tell me. I'm going to be the Strangler Fig." I was happy to tell him that I'll make certain that isn't the case. Maybe I'll write it for my bill collectors.

Once more, (Now there is a lie - I'll surely beg again) I implore those of you who read my work and send me those lovely emails, please click on the "follow" link. I promise I'm nothing like the Pied Piper. There will be no rats at your heels, probably just an email telling you I've posted something new. You have suffered enough. (Another lie.) Here is the poem.

The Poet: A River to the Sea

High atop a mountain
begins streams of subliminal
thought, words melting
into language. Gullies
form within the poet's
mind, bursting with life
to nourish the spirit, to
succor the deepest valleys
of the soul. Rushing to
a confluence of sound,
rhythmic and pleasing,
within the delta of
humanity, meandering,
until finally pushing
toward the sea where
the ocean's tides are
familiar with the moon
and deciphers the hour,
declaring it in the shifting
sand. Here the seagulls
keen and sail with the
currents of air - air so
heavy with mist it is as
though the breeze is silently
weeping. Waves crash
against great rocks, smoothing
them with time, as the
poet, a river to the sea,
soothes the gentle heart
of mankind, and the little
terns play in the froth of
the surf, like the individual
letters of a poet's words.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010


Oh God, Matt and his band are putting music to the only three or four song lyrics I've ever written. As I've said, rhyme makes me nervous; it can be so awful - or offal if you want complete honesty. But, young people haven't got a heart. Matt's barely seen the age of twenty (I can't believe I just wrote "Matt's," you would never find that in any of my other writings.) His bands favorite song, thus far, is "Dagger to My Heart," or some such title.

While they are putting some tune to the other songs, this Dagger image is the one they love best. I thought they might equally like some dying and some lying. They are without mercy; they are determined to wring out every single drop of blood from my heart. They promise they'll pay me $150.00 per song; I even hate to take the blood money - but I will. I love Matt's white hoop earrings. I'll have to find something special for him from one of my Etsy friends. This one is for you too, my darlings. Remember, you guys started it!


Your Lies spin
me like a DJ
spins his records.
I'm sick all day and
dizzy all night,
goin' round and round
while we fight,
but, I'm hearin' not a
sound from your
lips of lies. Cry
baby cry, cos I ain't
stickin' round to
hear your Lies, Lies,Lies.
You spin me like a
record. Lies, Lies
Lies hides the spin
of truth. Cry, baby

Cry baby cry; I'm
hearin' you lie. Spin
me to the beat, let
me feel your heat.
Lies, Lies, Lies,
let's beat our love
till it Dies, Dies, Dies.
Lies, Lies, Lies, beat
it till it Dies.

Have you been
tryin' to sleep with
a broken heart? You
know that move
wasn't very smart,
but you left me down
then spun me round
with your Lies, Lies
Lies. We're just records
goin' round, round,
round; you put the
needle where you
wanna spin but you're
never gonna win with
those Lies, Lies, Lies,
cos I'm gonna make
you cry, cry, cry baby

Cry baby cry; I'm
hearin' you Lie. Spin
me to the beat, let
me feel your heat.
Lies, Lies, Lies,
let's beat our love
till it Dies, Dies, Dies.
Lies, Lies, Lies, beat
it till it Dies.

Are you spinnin' in
your sheets? Are
your pillows piled
in heaps? We're just
spinnin' round with
nothin' goin' down but
the pain when you
left me cryin' in the
rain. Cry baby cry, cos
our love has gone and
Died from your Lies, Lies,
Lies. What happens in
the day when you
can't hide from the
sun, where you gonna
run, girl, cos you
made me cry, cry

Cry, baby cry; I'm
hearin' you Lie. Spin
me to the beat, let
me feel your heat.
Lies, Lies, Lies.
Let's beat our love
till it Dies, Dies, Dies,
Lies, Lies, Lies, beat
it till it Dies.

You've left me
spinnin' in my
sheets and cryin' in
my sleep. Cry baby
cry, while you tell
me those Lies, Lies
Lies, while you tell me
those Lies, Lies, Lies.
I'm gonna make you
cry baby


Yeah, yeah, that's pretty sad when I have to spell out the ending. When all of you, well all ONE DOZEN, of you, convinced me to share my poetry and humorous prose on a blog you had no idea that it could become this debased. Neither did I. But, even this is something.