Some people thirst for romance,

like a cherry ghost,

wanting and waiting to be popped.

It is a weasel

that’s been pawned

for a bevvie in the bar;

a different thirst:

a thirst for social acceptance

or an alcoholic need.

It is the unquenchable desire

for success,

and money

over family and love.

It is a thirst for knowledge,

for change,

for the acceptable to become


to become extinct.

It is a thirst for escape,

as the key locks

and they wonder

just what they did wrong

as the nuns

reign down,

heavy and powerful

with their tiny rocks of fists.

It is a thirst for justice.

For a queer religion

to not fear women

or hate them

for their beauty,


and youth.

It is that thirst

for forgiveness.

For the all powerful priests

to bathe their bodies

in the Holy water;

to let them dance in it,

free and wild,

bathing in their love of God.

Drinking Him.

Devouring Him.

Forgiving Him

for a religion that dooms them

at birth.

They wish to throw the water

up high into the air,

watching as it falls

like gravity’s tears.


The Gruff, Growling Goat and the Frowned Owl.

The goat was gruff,

a Billy Blue,

he said “growl, growl”

quite unamused.

“What’s the Kulla Kalloo?”

said the brown owl

who didn’t “Twit-Twoo”

and instead frowned.

The goat did say

to the frowned owl

that there was a reason

for the growl

and that growls reason

was in depth

with the seasons

that slowly crept.

The goat did say

to the frowned owl

“How now I say,

this frown is now

but in a while

there’ll be a wrinkle,

from your concern,

a permanent crinkle.

That is why

I’m gruff and growl,

because I am older

than you, wise owl.

With the seasons

as they go

my growl gets gruffer

and my legs do slow.”

The owl did frown

at this lost stray

who was feeling

older by the day.

Then the owl gave a wise smile

at finding a way

to make his friend smile

and make him feel

so young and new

and from then on gave him:


Pea Green Queen.

The rocking boat

the pea green stance,

the violin,

the vials dance

and trickle down

wet, worn skin

into water

diluting sin.

The crooked boat,

the poets play,

the oars on both sides

in affray.

Bashing hard

and beating water

to save me from

wandering from her.

Closer, closer, closer still

with withered hopes

and free will

the crooked boat,

its drifting dew

to end its wanders

and doubts for new.

The poet sits

and writes some lines

but the letters translate

into vines.

The water trickles

onto words.

They are not needed

to cure these hurts.

The poet sits,

it’s all that’s needed

for the crooked boat

so poorly treated.

With passion and fire

it has been heated

and with wary haste

the two are greeted.

A united front

in shy smiled haste,

this boat and poet

full of grace

take to the lake

to find new parts

of themselves

and of their hearts.

These bashing, beating

oars on blue

thus save me from

wandering from you.

The reign holds me in,

the warmth of my Queen,

sailing lonely

as a boat pea green.

Up, Up and Away

“Up, up and away!”
I said as the blind man
felt for his ticket
so he wasn’t towed away.

“Up, up and away!”
said the blind man,
said as he found it,
found it on the front seat
that crisp winter day.

We wanted to go away.

I didn’t know where to go,
He didn’t know where he was going,
so up, up and away!
because it was impossible to stay.