Musical Pencil

New flash story up at Everyday Weirdness today: Shrouded Veil I hope you enjoy.

I'm a regular at Daily Love. You should be a frequent guest of love too. Secret Stitches

Some poems I write are based on observations and some are based on personal emotions. This poem is almost sacred to me, because of the moment it represents. I hope you enjoy this romantic poem, Cherry Blossom Rain. Thank you once again E.S.Wynn for publishing my work Cherry Blossom Rain

Abigail's Song   Portrait of an unreachable girl Abigail looked out at the meticulous lawn with topiary animals trimmed by the man in room 117. In the distance, mountains stood guard with broad purple shoulders crowding the horizon. Like an origami landscape, her world was fragile. Footsteps of orders and questions echoed down the hall with the crescendo and accelerando of pointy toes. A knock and click, then a bird beak poked itself through the crack in the door, “Hello, Miss Abigail. It’s time for your session.” Abigail kept her back to the bony flapping jaws of the head nurse and stared at the courtyard fountain, stained turquoise, as if food-coloring had been put in the water to make it look more beautiful than clear. Transparency was less interesting, saturation more desirable. Reality was never held in high regard at the asylum. “Put on your slippers; the tile is cold this morning. I’ll not have you catching pneumonia.” Abigail slid her slender feet into the blu...

New poem up at Disenthralled . It was written from the heart at the time, fortunately, we all go through ups and downs and my life is more up than down these days. I really dig this zine because of the Noir/Gothic vibe and the awesome artwork. Check it out; you won't be disappointed in this zine. consumption

Truth at a Bonsai Booth (published in Pequin 2009) While attending an Appalachian Apple Festival, I perused country arts and crafts and sipped cider, while admiring artisan jewelry and stained-glass sun-catchers reflecting mid-morning light. There were wood-carvings and rustic pottery in abundance. After walking a few blocks, the merchandise began to look similar, nothing grabbed my attention, until I came upon a Redneck-Zen bonsai booth wedged between a home-made apple-butter stand (where a woman in old-fashioned attire churned butter) and a photography exhibit of local waterfalls. A whittled hillbilly-style sign read: Emma’s Bonsai by Clyde . Beneath a candy-striped canopy, Clyde tucked an afghan under Emma’s chin. He then pulled his lawn-chair close to hers and took a seat. Emma’s enormous eyes peered over the crocheted buttercup yellow angora like flying saucers—jittering in flight above a serene spring meadow. I wondered if her fuzzy ash-gray hair wi...

I wish I could stab my childhood with my finger and poke it in the chest...tell it to go to its room and not come out until it's ready to apologize and mean it, but instead I sit smack dab in the middle of my NOW (adult life) and watch it run around me like a hyper puppy...as if I'm a coffe table collecting dust and empty bottles and it's pissing on my carpet and chewing the legs on my furniture...teething...always teething. How long will I give my past permission to ramble through my trash and string it all over the floor and bark at all my guests before I put it outside? Show it who is boss once and for all. Every time I turn around I'm tripping over it. It's stays on my heels. When is it going to grow up and lie on the porch and let me scratch it behind the ears and feel some sense of comfort in the act? This week...I hit the wall...you know the proverbial barricade of memories that boxes us in on all sides. I'm too old for this...I should be stronger t...