in the great vista’s –

it is what ya make of it.

the fortress of spirit,

beyond the naked eye,

is the source of happiness.

people in the street,

with what they are,

i am one of ya,

despite being unknown,

in the poetry

of smoke-filled high’s,

breathing freedom in the

space of horizon’s,

in the mix

of an american blue

in a robe of rays,

in the roundabout’s,

purely straight to the word.



this sap chap

is indulging in the wine

with the mistress of muse,

where she clickity clicks

in her high top boots

with a wild heart

underneath a street lamp

in her everyday stone washed jeans.

she taps me on the shoulder,

“get to writing ya …ya drunken slush!”

i say, “well slush funds for a bum

sometime takes time to develop

in the lines of political bribery!”

but as it goes,

it’s another rag tag –

get to leaving another political stunt

out of the bag

in this rag time song.


between a barmaid and poet

in the high tide blue lustre evening

on a patio deck surrounded by flowers

taking in the dips of the sky,

where the sunset reaches and delivers.

draws in – draws out in convo,

as if both of us were slashes of light.





i rub my fingers

upon the cross around my neck,

as if it was a lucky charm,

sippin’ into beauty and passion,

as a soldier dreamer,

kickin’ dust up again,

in the crossfires

with a group of mob expressions,

serving loyalty to art –

in a gotta be someplace,

casting eyes to a goddess,

to find pleasure,

even if forever passing away

to an allegiance

that keeps me afloat in life.