Category: Prose Poems

Word Slinging For The Suckers. And given the circumstance, I suggest that includes us all.

Playing That Baby, Grand

public versifying kaput I’m cozying up to the prose poem, because, like the current POTUS, particulars and principals
 are not in play, and subject to sway in breaking news of our broken world with America First a soft soap mantra to muddy the waters that float the great american unwashed. need I say more. the ...

Beach Breach

Beach Breach when the contrarian was called ass backwards the lush blushed cardinal and cell phoned a selfie that went viral as the backdrop was Mar-a-Lago and the Chief Of State was in the background and he did not look the happy camper and the press went off the reservation while the public set their ...

Foggy Bottom To Get New Pizzeria

It’s Mr. Trump. Or, The President said/did …thusly; Never, President Trump. That’s the sleight of hand salutation conjured in the Imperial Swamp of Potomac pushback to the imminent arrival of the benighted provincial who’s true provenance be Queens. The welcome burrows, is a bit bitchy, and mean if less spirited than a Madison Avenue, “It’s ...

Go To Do Good, Stay To Do Well!

It was a typical walk through meet and greet grip and grin… and after back slapping one or two big bundlers I polished off the other fifty or so, true and fellow patriots all, with a rather pedestrian hand-job of heartfelt harangue. Then in fine voice I vilified those vile villains…the heathens, handouts, gov-mint workers, ...

A Hanging Of A Picture

Me, lacking color courage, afraid to hello a new hue. You, acquiescing to a bland bargain of worth tones and fair weather continuity. Where went the pin-up pout? Who stored that glamour girl grin? Who purchased that settee that set our ways to nit pick the nick knacks but not notice that night-time is no ...

Poetry By Women

The Cubs were on the radio, game tied in the fifth. Shiloh lay in late afternoon shade, steadily working a bone. There was a lake breeze, cool and constant. Maybe that’s what excited a squadron of butterflies to strafe me as I sat reading. Then again, I believe the gods of Old Spice, straight whiskey, ...