romping roamers
we may be,
two small chi’s
and one sea bee.

dashing, weaving
through the ‘loin,
where we are begged
for our last coin.

which try, we give,
because–why not?
i may not have,
but some’ve forgot.

through drugs and trash
and all that’s crass,
there are still those
who don’t harass.

unlikely gem,
(gave first a fright!)
flashed toothy grin
(so i delight!).

pause i did,
paraphrase will,
this small exchange
my heart did fill–

“who let these,
these dogs out?”
“me!” said i,
(more as a shout).

“but hardly dogs,
they’re two small chi’s!”
so laugh we did,
and laughed with ease.

while black was he
and white am i,
in truth, were just
two passing by.

as it should be,
and as it was,
jokes flowed free,
believe because

while birth may dole
a hampered place,
kind souls shine
an unbought grace.

with this exchange,
our laughter rings,
each past forgot as
smiles this brings.


push me, pull you.

why? oh, i know,
why? oh, i see–
can’t flee my mind,
i imprison me.

please push away–
with force, i ask.
please push me, fragile,
release as task.

i may still pull,
and tempt with sex,
unsure of feels–
and what comes next.

ah, it just is,
that when i pull–
i pull from fear,
fear when i pull.

please push away,
me far from you–
can’t end the game:
push me, pull you.



there was once
a little dove,
who turned her head
and fell in love.

and in just that–
a sudden start–
a match was made,
he’d won her heart.

the dove, she took
a little rest.
time to tend,
time to nest.

time to sing,
and time to prune,
time to find
her perfect tune.

the first note rings,
she coos the line,
“my eyes met his,
and his met mine.

we danced,
we shined,
we took delight
when evening led
to morning light.

as one’s just one,
but a pair two,
to all who ask,
our love is true.”

but no, oh no!
dear little dove,
true not was he
at all to love.

virtue in song,
beauty in coo,
to be true love
there must be true.

our dove, he left,
and why? we know
this one, he had
still seeds to sow.

yet still this song
our dove did coo,
weeping with tears
of naught he knew.

poor little dove,
knew not that she
lived one last song,
this coo for he.

so sang she did,
coo through the wood.
and sang she did,
’til naught she could.

our dove, alone,
sang her last note.
and love, forlorn,
her heart, it broke.

our little dove,
fell limp off tree.
dead on the ground,
yet was now free.


i think i should,
i wish i could,
but never have the nerve.

just what in fact
does it take
to work up enough verve?


i think i’m fine,
and then i’m not…
i wonder why?
but i forgot.

’cause trying,
almost dying,
rips you
from the lot.

try scolding,
and then holding–
pry what’s what
from naught.