the Spirits

It drink it in as though, it were my original sin.

Tin boots beating at the paneled walls…that hold my mind in place.

A cool breeze canvases karma and comes away…whispered reminders of debts yet…to be paid.

How daring to not imbibe when the spirits surround my blind side.

The hoarse intonations gather at the base of bad decisions…

And, what I hear?

...there is no place to hide.  I will find me!

Gritty Ghost Towns

It is my town.

For the ordinary, it recedes under your nails, and creeps around.

For the blessed,

it settled in your soul and grows old.


Gritty ghosts with broken spokes can fade into view.

Sainted storms on a slant.


Poached prophets…askew.


Security Breeds My Lazy Sobriety



Physically forgotten,

are the footfalls deluded by haste.


with the sunshine,

pass due date.

Illegal rummage sales among watercolors from an artist on the take.

Loosing chase with overcast informer.

Longing for the finish-line.

Unsanctioned rhyme…

About doing the poor woman’s time.

In the back of my mind…I have been tone down before.

Shade shackled at my crow’s-feet.

A burden of defeat?

Anxiety cupped in a blurred retreat.

Why not?

Acid washed and hung-out to dry.

The running has to stop.


On glory days,

a pledge of allegiance to the boozy haze.

Visions of illusions,

I wished were never severed.

Misadventures cut loose,



Lost direction has made its comeback.

And, it is animation that I lack.

From what the elders have told…

‘there is no cure for sobriety growing old.’

Just parchment pieces of parched reprieve…hand rolled.


Next Year’s Harvest


It all seems so daunting,

empty tin buckets awaiting nature’s sugar.

Half filled barns,

speculating next year’s harvest.

Local rehabs with no room at the Inn.

How many more New Years, 

’til we cannot begin again?


Love Proudly

stand alone 4

My only stint in rehab…required going to ‘detox’ first.  At Sobriety Maintenance, of which I got a degree that could not compare to any others I had, there were many life experiences…Many that cannot be replaced.  That, in truth,  I had been schooled…to which I always thought,

‘You can’t con a con!’

But it did happen.

I learned how to play Spades, cigarette a point Cribbage, clean bathroom stalls, and, enjoy decaf coffee.

The lesson I keep with me everyday…but occasionally loose during, life on life’s terms?  The Precious Present!  An aged cook from the Marines ran the kitchen at the detox.  His name had been Jamie.  Jamie witnessed my struggles with self.  My need to put on the facade of ‘I am ten foot tall and bullet proof.’

I liked him but balked his every attempt to tame my unruliness.  That is until I found the ‘Precious Present’ at my table setting…

Once there was a boy. . . . Who listened to an old man.  And, thus, he began to learn about The Precious Present.  “It is a present because it is a gift,” the contented man explained.  “And it is precious because anyone who receives such a present is happy forever.”

“Wow!” the little boy exclaimed.  “I hope someone gives me The Precious Present.  Maybe I’ll get it for Christmas.”  The boy ran off to play.  And the old man smiled.  He liked to watch the little boy play.  He saw the smile on the youngster’s face and heard him laughing as he swung from a nearby tree.  The boy was happy.  And it was a joy to see.

The old man also liked to watch the boy work.  He even rose early on Saturday mornings to watch the little laborer mow the lawn across the street.  The boy actually whistled while he worked.  The little child was happy no matter what he was doing.  It was, indeed, a joy to behold.

When he thought about what the old man had said, the boy thought he understood.  He knew about presents.  Like the bicycle he got for his birthday and the gifts he found under the tree on Christmas morning.  But as the boy thought more about it, he knew.  The joy of toys never lasts forever.

The boy began to feel uneasy.  “What then,” he wondered, “is The Precious Present?  What could possibly make me happy forever?”  He found it difficult to even imagine the answer.  And so he returned to ask the old man.

“Is the Present a magical ring?  One that I might put on my finger and make all my wishes come true?”

“No,” the old man said.   “The precious present has nothing to do with wishing.”

As the boy grew older he continued to wonder.  He went to the old man.  “Is the Precious Present a flying carpet?” he inquired.  “One that I could get on and go any place that I like?”

“No,” the man quietly replied.   “When you have the precious present, you will be perfectly content to be where you are.”

The boy was becoming a young man now, and felt a bit foolish for asking. But he was uncomfortable. He began to see that he was not achieving what he wanted. “Is the Precious Present,” he slowly ventured, “a sunken treasure? Perhaps rare gold coins buried by pirates long ago?”

“No, young man,” the old man told him. “It is not.  The richness is rare, indeed, but the wealth of the Present comes only from itself.”