A Prairie Yarn

Turn of the century...

the city is only a tireless scheme

a wheat farmer

wild and exotic dreams

finding a treeless home so free

marked only by a survey post

a sod house building bee

a celebration of hope

prosperity teases

but soon a blizzard enroute

then destructive hail

and suffocating drought

the younger escapes

city bound and determined

but only sees, heads buried in anguish

soup lines, and locked gates

Warehouses closed, distress

and the others, only dust  

and father disappears, weariness to acquiesce

a shadow fading over a drift

the lady  fights on, courage and resolve

joys and tribulations of tedious yarn

oxen and cart against the sunset

dust shallowing house and barn

hope and its obverse

sceptism buried in perseverence


starting over




just released, no sadness

no elixir

comfortable in madness

my only cure is freedom

walking down the old Mill Road

an overgrown path

broken asphalt, a solitary toad...

English daisies, plaintains

looking up...

a large, imposing  iron fence

towering over me, immense

of rusting wrought iron

inclused of dark slag

and...a massive gate, 

almost as intimidating as a partcullis

locked, top security, a sprag

the flowing English Ivy to brag

dancing between the recesses

free to roam

inviting me

to join this history, untold

I climb

straining, no foothold

my hamstring cramping

limping, uncontrolled

I walk through the crisp brown sedge

a water-hollowed step, 

a mislocated ledge, 

and a solid oak door

permanently fastened

feeling watched,

with actually, no reason to fear

less conspicuously, 

enter from the shaded rear

breaking the prodigious window, 

as the shattering sound, so clear

seems deafening 

scanning the empty, cavernous expanse

a bottoming room

turned over, a boot jack

bits of leather, 

still neatly cut, various sizes

clutter the planked floor, 

stains of shoe black

a majestic worn medallion

illegible with cracks

the ghosts of cordwainers

and shoe-peggers

... bits of scattered jute, 

fallen brogan racks

an awl

packages for wax

a boot-nailer, tacks

an old riveter

a stitching machine

and a tattered photograph of "father" Hans Sachs

making a bed of shoe felt

and goatskin pelt

my melton coat, 

buckleless belt

a pillow..

unless needed for warmth

I wander

needing food

stumbling over rubble, accrued

a path to the south-west corner

a ladder, crude 

of two bench pieces

supported with vine

factorious nativity

good until the cold

shared with mice

and a grass snake, enrolled

surprisingly protracted

olive and cream collared

woodlice, pillbugs, enfold

and assuming bats above

and hopefully


DBP 4-28-14


(note: "In a Mist"...is a joyous composition by the legendary Bix Beiderbecke...I use this title in humility)

a bridge, a fence
spanning an "ocean" 
or gating a stroller
gauging dimension and motion
miscalculating distance

the mist
fills my lungs
syncromatic lanterns
each single beacon aflung, 
or a caterpiller of luminescence

the trees ask eastward
as the waters are dusultory
condominium horizons
a mirage...or story
told by the resplendence of the moon

as the funambulist
challenges his daring
essaying an aurorous beam
the vaporous zephyr tearing
kisses my cheeks

and the message,
becomes audious
what I can be assured
is of silence melodious
yes, temporary

but knowlingly
an immaculate befalling
to be drenced in...
appreciation, peaceful lolling
and reverence

DBP 4-29-14

In response to RAIN

a nonsense poem...


think about it!
raining frogs
quite ribbiting
a degree of bull, agog
some prefer to land in trees 
no tail, leafing through 
rainforests secured
we would react anew
with protruding eyes
certainly be
a distasteful secretion
and a plague of warts
Magnolia would be a present
tation...at the Norwood or Regent...
European fire-bellies
certainly legs on the menu
Yes...stung by pedicellate teeth
secure landing via
webbed feet

accordingly, confused leopards
foaming at the mouth
amphibious conservation
catching others apouch...

now consider
precipitous turkeys
Yucatannish response
snoods and wattles
slapping the pavement
gobblers athunder atwattle
hens cackling as they fall
guinea "foul" weather
those Bustards! we nether
a wild storm, a bolt
not only in the llanura, 
a jolt of poult
the drizzle that perches and roosts
singing "beards" and sneezes 
Bourbon Red drops, and seizes
the midget white streams

suffering suckatash
pouring housecat
vermins beware, alas
an ecological niche
torrential mewing, purring and trilling, 
feral flooding
tomcat moonsoon
flurrious pedigree
retractable clawing tears like coon
viewing the night
nipping with delight
soaking parasites
lapping the sidewalks as they fall
onions and garlic on call

precipitation of gallinaceous birds
tempestuous tabbies
or cyclonic croakers
your choice my

bluntly impacted folkers

DBP 5-1-14


low stratiform... 

and stratocumulus clouds

millimetres per day

sometimes a storm

undetected by observers 

but to braize

our travelways

sheet, black iciness 

maybe treachery 

but let us trade the wind 

from cold morphology aligned

to a beauteous boundary layer

a window embossed 

as clear as crystal

the unity of chilly water 

and delineated ice ablotter

the dotted landscape

rivulets and ponds

and shadows neighbouring beyond

glass topped lakes of misty dew 

dotting a view of tomorrow

Photo: Marco Pucci


the crisscrossing blades

the positioning intimates

backward or forward on glade

the fertile fly entitles

not pupa-static

combing the ritual

of seeding erratic

green and black

night and elan vital

as the paramours 

rotating instinctively...

inclined to persist

in the evocation of nativity

dewdrops absorb any

inaudible sound

her viscera wrapped

in sperm duct bound

taping the desire

for thousands of spawns

back scratching

a mounting story

of a forest of nests

no fly-by-night allegory

as the spiders recite

the web of lore

Photo: Marco Pucci

Screening Life

Each square a byte
life in capsules
a path of lucidity
de-stressing in trite

but the trail not taken
a missed promenade
the screen reminds us
that we safely arrayed 

...but only if we designed
courage, not fear
and venture into
the space of mind

whether behind or in front
no matter
we digitalize our thoughts
to smatter

...back to the turntable
that spins us
clarity and consciousness
as the needle relents  in fable

definition through experience
understanding through touching
liking through comfort and stimuli
emoting through audience

there is no location
there is no size
there is no end
there is no inauguration

only space that expands
and contracts in our
view of the source

DBP 5-5-14

her beautiful face... reflects the sun her smile illuminates the surrounding grace...softness and love...infinite as she paints with the colours of romantic wisdom and her joyous passion dances in the victory with the sounds of sisterhood as the laughter sprays the museum walls of masterful music... singing odes to heroes pioneers and idols... kissing the breeze that whisp her hair as she walks throught the streets of worship Her shining eyes cry out seeing through the London fog envisioning the home where her heart is...


It started years ago
no one knows who
or why
it just grew

and grew
and grew

people asked about it
reply, "I don't know"

but, I submit
it became the mystique
people like it
five petals, and affixing shoots

Not currently umbelled
and nectarous

but the thrushes dwelled
and blackcaps...are home

and the ivy bees
obey the flowers
the windows and doors
modestly peek

...and induce hospitality
encouragement takes place 
flower boxes, and patios
and Parisian faces

I wear the the poet's crown
Bacchus so decorated
intoxication degowned
a Publican's thwart?

as the moon feeds the vine
life after death
scattered creepers
I am the grape 

DBP 5-6-14

Turn Around...

the crossroad is long
but I know there is a lake
so it must end
or at least turn
one way
or the other
arrow points right...
rusty, indecisive
certainly unenthusiastic
what does that mean

ghost town?
deserted resort?
bad road?
has the harbinger been twisted
kids do that
on a Friday night
...maybe the other way
I sense an omen
or will it just be road kill
optimistically an oasis
a publicans paradise
a cozy place
for coffee, bacon and cackleberry

or turn around
and check the map
certainly won't ask for directions
men don't do that

but I might...



The Soldier Beetle and the Imaginary Butterfly

the soft bodied soldier

a fireless firefly so bred

tho' sometomes red

the fighting leatherwing

a rankless soldier

with many names

Cantharidae, Drilidae,

 Lampyridae, Lycidae,

 Omalisidae, Omethidae,

Phengodidaeincludes and Rhagophthalmidae

so majestic and locquatious

just a bloodsucker beetle

preying with its centimetre vortex

flashing its yellowness

and elytra black

hiding the fact

that chitin armour is soft

long orange legs

hiding in bushes

looking for insects oft

on flowertops

as the sun beams down

not afraid of thistle crown

enjoying aphids

a friend to the hydrangea

swallowing its prey as it hectors

feasting on pollen and nectar

eyes caught

on a whitish butterfly 


and strangely effluvious

normally not pabulum 

but oddly tempting

the tranquility

forestalls him in attempting

the pollenated shrub 

soaking in spring rains 

vigorous, and upright

citizens of the city

seemingly arcane

a fearless bush 

bud blight on occasion, but friends deter 

Aphids visit but the soldier

the rescuer 

civility and comradeship 

deciduously coarse 

speaking with pyramidal panicles 

sterile white flowers

exploding in the diurnal course 

maturing into pink diamonds 

'unique'  in riff

advertising it's red-stems

so strong and stiff 

proud to be so festive

droopless and decorative

decision to alter

yellow to purple-tinged in fall

the magic that defies us

the colour and the blaze

the innocense and endowment

among blossoms and bugs

we praise

DBP 5-12-14



the dew drops

they seem  "alive"

it is early mornings brooking

knowledge speaks, spelling

condensation on those cool surfaces

forming water droplets

but...are my eyes story-telling?

movement? closer I stand...

some kind of squash bug

carrying their little eggs

and, those predatory stink glands

and piercing mouth parts

these almost microscopic nymphs


squash, pumplin, melons, cucumber so tart

white instars

mating on  cucurbit vines

not guttation?

the point has been reached to par

it must be the absense of clouds

clear nights

the calm

the dance of dewfall shrouds

answering to the cries

of pine seedlings

sometimes windy distillation

what if no rain flies?

yes!...lichen love dew

and fog water

Ersa, she must shed her majestic tear 

crawling on the blades that grew

Chazan prays for Dew

in his white kittel, blowing

Amidah, praying for dew together with rain

the resurrection of the midrashim...he knew

"My doctrine shall drop as the rain"*

speaking to distill 

small rain on the tender herb, 

and the showers upon the grass so fain

swimming in dew ponds

drowning the hemipterids


harvesting our lives

*Deuteronomy 32:2

Thank you to Marco Pucci for his vision...

DBP 5-10-14

Thoughts on Tennyson

(based on readings of The Lady of Shalott, Tears Idle Tears, The Charge of the Light Brigade, and  Song of the Lotus-Eaters)

Lying,  gowned in snow 

coating her skin so softlly 

The fanciful lightness upon her

and the nights  chatterings flow

as she floats to her trammeling  home

And as the vessel swims 

she sees the willowy shores

she sings her last song to me

as my dream escapes from whims

"And the silent isle 


The Lady of Shalott." *

I am encompassed

my thoughts draw from the endless deep

turning home

sentiment embossed

soft tears that are idle

an attempt to define

a despair so breathless

a seek happy fields, of long grasses tidal

to create a vacuum for love

with a rememberance of lessening days

"Forward, the Light Brigade!" **

I have never been afraid

at least knowingly

but fear stands beside me so staid

and I depart from blunders

I don't remind myself

that I have a choice to die, 

the valley of Death wonders

is it a wealth of ardor and fire 

at least six hundred deep breathes

I stroll  in woodlands 

The folded leaf takes my foothold 

the buds address

as the branches watch, infinitely grand

both sun drenched and moonlit 

so green and dewed

and the falls spray, 

reflecting the filtering daylight

I see a glistening apple

that seems to be smiling

ready to share itself

with the roots so dapple

of the fruitful soil

*From "The Lady of Shalott" by Alfred Lord Tennyson

**From "The Charge of the Light Brigade" by Alfred Lord Tennyson

DBP 5-10-14

The Mystery of Priscilla Lawson

so little is known 

idolized on those 

sultry Floridian beaches

Miss Miami of '35 athroned

now she was Universal

sadly an uncredited stash

suddenly a Flash

a voluptuous daughter

so villainous

her mythical father so merciless 

rivaling  Arden, so cultishly

her blazing sexuality

this is complex, considering

the asdolescent fantasy play

reality and unhappy matrimony

little Rose Bowl dickering

Then..a celluloid double wedding

and a visit to the Golden West

with a crowning gable

and Myrna's quest

she mimics a career

then on to the Corps

a tragic loss of limb

denied by Arden so grim

a later car crash?

a jeep overturned?

so much silence, collating

a west coast stationary shop 

sadly, much hemorrhage

and ulcerous word from Laennec 

no words from a previous  cast

who strangley passed... 

afer a sip from a cup of tea

so young, strangely unknown

no Witch-Woman

only Princess Aura


the condition

no concern

the situation

not a worry

the memories it carts

and the unique beauty

caress the heart

as I think 

of what it could tell

a fiddler stomping

Gramma storytelling

so well

and a child 

waiting for a piece of cake

a cat curled in comfort

a suitor with a gift in wake

a guest with a cocktail

without walking

it has strolled through time

neglected at times

and now, not talking

in need of repair

a delicate presage

but it has only

changed in image

forever a message

no different than I

solitary sometimes

surrounded as well

and consoling in spindled rhymes

as the breezes whisper

through tiny cracks

and the lathed body

seduces time

decades embodied

DBP 7-9-14


am I like them?

If I am

then I need help!

do I repeat

the same thing

over and over?

that boring theme

redundant and loud

my ideas whelp

supposedly an aid

for listening ears

a kind of stover

am I a pest

questioning those

who don't agree?

hammering wisdom


with humour's twist

I probably am

never changing

up vision's tree

scanning possibilities

suggesting change

through my irritating mist...

DeaBeePea 5-1-16


Did Mandela do Mandalas?
it seems so apropos
especially considering,
his name, you know

and he had the basis
being in harmony too
and so good at healing
through egalitarian Ubuntu

I wonder in deep though
if Malala assisted
that would be cool
a co-produced copy existed?

the Malala-Mandela Mandala
would be valuable for sure
with an Impala depicted
oh no... we can't endure

DeaBeePea 5-8-16


as a person like many

collecting odd things

the pile continues

before the fat lady sings

drawers full of junk

and boxes of crap

mounds in the corner

of my bedroom map

desk-top aclutter

books and Glade   

pelee pebbles

and pens in spades

so a loss of some

of this over-stated mess

would be something in hindsight

I would surely bless

DeaBeePea 5-8-16


a Mother to three
in her loving spree
little notes
in there lunch each day

sweet little musings
often amusing
and of sentimental affection
in memory they lay

she is still giving hugs
and heart-felt plugs
decorating their journey
with her relentless hope

she does take flack
for her sometimes innocent plaque
but she is always there
keeping strength in slope

the climb is a conquest
of a family so blessed
to have her as "Mom"
for she is the best

DeaBeePea 5-8-16


never forgotten
this "everything" Mom
off- the- wall humour
before the CD Rom

she thought sideways
when everyone else was vertical
and brushed her strokes
of lifes simple spectacle

the Christmas Card lady
everyone awaited
what is "Helen" making this year
they anxiously baited

not overly affectionate
but she she cried many tears
when things went wrong
fearing much sadder years

but her spirit undefined
prevailed so determined
with self-effacing humility
and never much sermon

but there was no question
of her opinion shrilled
that we somewhat ignored
in our stubborn quill

she is never gone
as she rides the clouds
saying hello
from her uncovered shroud

DeaBeePea 5-8-16

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