Ordinary people are matte,
Dull, unremarkable
You pass them by
Without a thought

But muses-
Muses shimmer
Like air above hot pavement
With iridescent auras
They make your brain
Their home and
Visit you often in your writing, drawing,
Thoughts, dreams

They rush through your veins
Like heroin euphoria,
Wildfire eating a dry forest
All-consuming and incandescent

Everything they do seems
Every mannerism is enchanting
You hang on their
Words and ideas
As if they are passing along some
Ancient knowledge

We subconsciously want their
Innate magic
Because we always want
What we can’t have
So instead we give them
Room and board in our heads
So we can call on them any time
To keep us inspired and spellbound
Windshield wipers
Lazily bat away mist
As I drive through
My own personal Winterfell

The Boltons of ‘progress’ are
Razing it piece by piece
Tearing away its rural charm,
One landmark and backroad at a time

Where is Baelish to send in his army
To stop it?
Snow falls in front of
Night time headlights like
Heavy dust suddenly disturbed,
Flittering down a ray of sunshine

First snow of the season
Everyone is panicking

                    Nothing is sticking yet

Snow falls heavily,
In the night
Peace manifesting as
Minute, delicate crystals
Tatted together in the heavens
New glowing white blanket
Reflects white moonlight against the
Velvet night sky

Dusk lifts
White monotone sparkles under the fresh sun
Branches and power lines glitter
Against a cobalt sky
Pristine coating unifies
Differences in the earth below it
Pure and untouched
Until the first set of dainty bird tracks
Graces the surface

Winter’s first snowfall




Being a functional adult

Is trying sometimes


Life doesn’t care if you’re

Sick, tired, depressed, anxious,

Having a general off-day and

Just don’t fucking “feel like it”


Having to function through

Anything other than optimum is

What you were signed up for


And those dishes you left in the sink





When you get home

steady rain falls
some drops join together and
tick     against the windowsill

overhead, an occasional
wayfaring     roll    of gentle thunder

a train passes   in   the       distance,
sighing a light   whistle

time to sleep



After a short rest between shifts

The automated beast stirs once more

Yellow tote blood cells circulate

On conveyor veins

Carrying the oxygen orders

To its extremities

The air is filled with the sound

Of its mechanical breath,

A low rumbling whoosh of

Vent nostrils exhaled into the mods

The constant rumble of motors and conveyors,

Movements and laments

Of the small creatures working

Inside of it create its pulse

So it can churn out box after box

From its constant i.v. drip of orders.

There is such a hopelessness

          About mid-winter

That constant gray and cold

                      The sense that the sun is

         Never going to come back

And that pervasive chill that

Gets into your bones,

         Wearing you down

You start to feel like you’re

                    Lost at sea

                            And searching for that

Island of the first bloom

                     Of spring