Saturday, 28 December 2013

The Missionary Man

Full tilt sprint with the wind at my back
Booty bumping lines off my Daddy's 8-track

Slick silver tongue pierce trailer park trash
Baby got a rash from my gnarly porn-stache.

Dead rabbits, 8-balls and B-52s
My my my my my Boogie shoes

Vinnie Barbarino was Urban Cowboy riding
Fonzie and Chachi had to go into hiding

Clock struck 1990 and Nirvana set us straight
my mullet caught on fire not a moment too late.

Now we laugh at douche-bags and posers on steroids
until Christmas when mom pulls out the family Polaroid's  

In retrospect the Toads are writing about living in another time. I chose a rhyme scheme to match the decade.

Wednesday, 25 December 2013

Ain't Nobody Got Time Fo' That

As the wise Mama Zen says: 
"Poetry on Christmas Day??? Ain't Nobody Got Time Fo' That"

under mistletoe
mama kissed a bad santa
who's the ho ho ho?

Wednesday, 20 November 2013

What Does the Fox Say? (PG13)

Mama Zen is asking the burning question, "What does the Fox Say?"
I think I found something that can shed some light on this.

Foxy 71 year-old Kelly Fox 

A Foxy Lady walks the walk
and when she talks she talks
the way a Foxy Lady talks.

If you don't like it 
It sucks to be you.

When she says what Foxes say
she says it all with class.
You can watch her walk away
and kiss her rock hard ass.

Friday, 15 November 2013


I've been told certain female spiders will eat their mates after sex.

Seems a little extreme ..
but logical.

I'll just take a sandwich,
or a nap,
or more sex.

I wonder what would happen
if a male spider tried that?

Lucky for me I'm scared of spiders.
Probably because I dated so many.

(and I have the chunks out of my ass
to prove it)

On our first date my wife took me
to see Spiderman the Movie.


So far she hasn't eaten me
but she's bitten me
and beaten me
in every single game of crib we ever played...

.... and Old Maid

… but I can still beat her in an arm wrestle.

Sometime she hides behind a door 
and then jumps out with a roar.
She tries to make me scream like a little girl.

She's a nerd 
not a spider.
So am I.

I NEVER scream like a little girl.

I scream like a man ... 

a very effeminate man.

Spiders make me scream like a man too.

She laughs at me with my daughters ...
and I can live with that.

(But I'd rather be a Toad - they eat spiders)

Over at the Imaginary Garden, Fireblosom has us revisiting one of our favourites from our own poetry. It didn't take me long to figure out which one I wanted to share. I was just reading this one today. It is the first Poem I posted when I started sharing with the Real Toads in June this year. (I get the feeling that there may be a few spiders in the garden.)

Friday, 8 November 2013

Hero to Most

A Hero to most 
A Villain to some
The poems he wrote 
The songs that he sung

Some things he did
can't be undone
He broke a few rules
but man he had fun

Mexican Radio
and a pirated signal
singing for pesos
and dancing flamenco. 

Will they remember
the bad or the good?
Oh Lord don't let him
be misunderstood.

A Hero to most 
A Villain to some
The poems he wrote 
The songs that he sung

The Friday Challenge is to write a poem about beloved Toad "Hero-to-most" (aka Corey Rowley). 
I  am not a Read Toad myself. I'm more of a fly on the wall. I have gotten to know his work over the nine months I have been posting in the Garden and I have visited his blog "Mexican Radio" many times. From what I can gather he likes classic rock, mexico, drinking and he roots for the underdog. My Poem reflects this - I threw in a a cool version of a classic Eric Burden song for good measure.

the Edge

the Edge
             is about having less
the Edge
             is a fickle hellcat
the Edge
             is in the house
the Edge
             is everywhere
the Edge
             is hi-ring
the Edge
             is there
the Edge
            is here
the Edge
             is now
the Edge
            is not
the Edge


D'Verse is all about list poetry today.

Sunday, 3 November 2013

Footprints In the Snow

Following footprints and pawprints
convinced they must know where to go.
Tracks getting deeper and wetter
No need to think when we follow.

Convinced they must know where to go
we showed no respect, forgetting ourselves
we didn't think we just followed
young and dumb having fun.

We showed no respect, forgetting ourselves
we're bulletproof and beyond concern
young and dumb having fun
our heads were too hollow to listen and learn.

We followed those footprint and pawprints
over and under and onto the lake
the snow sinking deeper and wetter
no tracks going back was our final mistake.


Toads are inspired by Maria Wolf of "Full Moon Fiber Art" a fiber artist who lives on Bedlam Farm with her husband, writer John Katz.  

Saturday, 19 October 2013

A Wise Old Owl

Old Poem From My Grandpa
A wise old owl 
lived in an oak
the more he saw 
the less he spoke
the less he spoke
the more he heard
so let's be like
that wise old bird.

You never get in trouble 
for what you didn't say
If you listen long enough
the answers come your way.

The argument I always win
Is the one I never had
Being wrong and happy
beats being right and mad

If somebody disagrees
its just their point of view
they have the right to theirs
just like we all do

Don't tell people they are wrong
maybe it's just a different right
but no one can put hands on you
thats when it's time to fight

Sometimes its not easy
to figure out what's right 
always ask someone you trust
and say your prayers at night.

Sunday, 13 October 2013

No Escape

I feel the sound bump
bump it goes in the night
night so bleak and black
black as my dark heart beats
beats me as I retreat run
run away from the one
the one that only I can see
see it lick its black lips
lips peeling back reveal
reveal a cold steel smile
smile as it pierces skin
skin ripping clean from bone
bones break I am consumed
consumed by the one who knows
knows secret debts are owed.


Toads are writing Loop Poetry today. This turned out a little dark but ....

In Memoriam - Betty (Grandma) Edge

Time tick tocks away each day
until the clock just stops tick tocking.
Every tick that passes is a grain of sand
that trickles through the hourglass of life.

One grain at a time life slowly passes
Each grain is a stunning story or a
bit of gory detail that we only dare
to giggle about when we are at home alone.

When a grain causes some pain
you were there to tell us it will be okay.
We all made our own mistakes
but you stood by and loved us anyways.

Now the clock has stopped for good
and that final grain has tumbled through.
We've said all we can say
We've done all we can do.

I will always remember you for
the good you've said and done.
The Memory of your life lives on
in the happy heartbeats of my children.

Love You Grandma ...


August 2013

Sunday, 6 October 2013

The Great Pumpkin

The Most Sincere Pumpkin Patch! (1966 Peanuts)

My persistent therapist insists that I listen
to my wide eyed innocent innermost child
who still believes that wishes and magic exist.

The tissues pile up as I work through issues
I almost forgot I had - now I am truly sad.
So I stop going - there's peace in not knowing
a happy pig really isn't that bad.

Until one frozen cold, sober October 
I take the kids out hunting for pumpkins.
Then I remember the magic's still out there
I just forgot where to look.


Saturday, 5 October 2013

Just Another Johnny Walker Day

Just another Johnny Walker day 
Middle sister finger lingers 
as I passed through the Barrio 
I'm as paddy Irish as a triple shot of Jameson's 

A little extra courage 
from a scary apothecary selling smiles
Now I'm El Presidente 
with a Captain Morgan plan

Just one tick away from a Corazon explosion
Green flash streak of olives
fly from a Rang Tang martini
sipped by lips of pompous pricks.

and an arrogant bastard behind the bar - 
Oh shit - it's me!!!  
Take me home Belvedere
There's tragedy in my strategy - I need to reconvene. 


Sunday, 29 September 2013


You will never forget
the first time you were stung.
It's too late to run away
the damage has been done.

You just have to suck it up
the sad songs have been sung
Whine about it all you want
you can never be unstung.


The Toads are writing poems about the Secret life of Bee's - which I have actually seen. As I was writing this it occurred to me that my estrogen levels may be getting dangerously high as I the enter early stages of Man-o-pause.

My latest eBook "Overcoming Adversity & Attracting Success" is on for free on Amazon Kindle from now until Tuesday.

Wednesday, 25 September 2013

Cyber Piracy

Digital stowaway
hiding in a microwave
fiber optic shopping spree
can't catch me.

Thousand dollar Body Shop
credit card karate chop
bubble bath assault

Stolen identity very existential
temperamental credit score
eRich cash poor
Nouveau Riche cliche



Thursday, 12 September 2013

Jazz Poetry

a-one-and-a-two ...



light takes a slight break
high stakes step lightly as the
light breaks on streetscapes
high as kites we skate home
where we sip soft kisses
love spills and slips from lips
we sink into the sofa cushions
if you could only feel me now.



D'verse has us doing Jazz Poetry which I only kind of get.

Sunday, 1 September 2013

7 SImple Success Principles

Hey Folks, I just uploaded my new book on Amazon.

 I posted a blog on my sister site: 

Pop by and check me out 

(I'm spamming my own site)


My cat is my nemesis.
His name is Max.
Maximus the Gladiator.
Butt he is not a Great Warrior.

Just a Great pain in my Gluteus Maximus.

He was a stray
Abandoned on the Reservation
I rescued him from
mean-ass Rez dogs.
He's been driving me nuts ever since.

I got to bed ...

meow to get in
meow to get out
meow to get up
meow to get down

I wake up
he goes to sleep
for 14 hours just to rub it in.

Max is 12 years old.
That's 70 in cat years.
He'll probably live to be 140
just to spite me.

That's 12 more years.
I will miss him.
A good nemesis is hard to find.


Toads are writing in the style of the Imagists like William Carlos Williams and Ezra Pound. Not sure I get these dudes but I gave it a shot.

Thursday, 29 August 2013

My Sister the Stripper

My sister the stripper, the belle of the ball.
Push-up-bra-tip-cup she’s gone by last call.
Exceeds at excess with a rip in her dress.
Succeeds at success she’s a true triple threat.

Spent rent on expenses; tuition's past due.
She fights the gag reflex doing duos for you.
On the Edge like Heath Ledger - a bender from hell.
Ditched her lab partner and just made the bell.

Edits for predators a night on the town.
Jaeger-bomb-booty-bumps the singles rain down.
Prince Charming’s alarming he steps on her toes.
She stutter-step stumbles and powders her nose.

Mid-terms with tapeworms the dog ate her books.
Professor undressed her with one creepy look.
Laugh lines from wincing but she’s not convinced.
Her grade point average has slid ever since.

My sister the stripper she’s doing her best
But it’s time for a break, she needs some rest.


(Note: this is a fictional character!)

Over at D'verse Poets Pub Victoria is having us dig into our archives and edit an old poem. On my computer files I have my poems organized based on a number of categories but I have one folder I call "Doggerel". This is the folder of forgotten poems that I have decided are just bad poetry. This one I fear may still fit that bill but I have reworked it a number of times and I had a lot of fun with it.  There is a whimsical note to it however, the subject is very real - this is from a very dark time in my life and my own experience with addiction. 

Wednesday, 28 August 2013

What Happens in Vegas...

Thrust to calypso
drumbeat bite
bottom lip
bang a gong.

It's on like Donkey Kong.

Edgy premise on the
edge of the precipice
climbing across a
broken moon.

Boom boom boom.

Cryptic crickets
rapidly climbing
fancy pants make-believe
Master of disguise.

Blood shot eyes.

Leveraged beverage
pepper on a cheese souffle
busted with a bad toupee
Turtle wax carjack

Cracka' had a heart attack.


Toads are Getting Listed Today

Saturday, 24 August 2013


A lie.
into the eye of
a hurricane - breaking the curl
of a wave that I'm ripping right into the chain
of my own D.N.A. like the
curve of the milky
way back to
the be
It's fib.
Fall into
the golden rectangle
can never escape it - it chases
me into the gates of insanity. As I am
spiraling out of control. I
try to regain my
I count


Toads are using the Fibonacci Sequence for poetry - and it's cool.

Thursday, 8 August 2013

She's So Cc-c-c-c-c-cold

wind blows
she knows
she throws 
her weight around
and I knew to 
run for the hills
before the hammer 

My Papa warned me
about women scorned
and to pull up my pants 
when the party is over.

But took I a chance 
on December romance
and that was the year that
Hell really froze over.

Today is Day 2 of a 5 Day free promotion for my Kindle Chapbook "Rough Around the Edges". 
Details are here on my Author Blog "Notes from the Edge" - support you local poet!

Saturday, 3 August 2013

anyone lived in a pretty how town

Fireblosson from Imaginary Garden has us writing a poem in a poem in a poem. One of my early favorites was ee cummings and the way he abused my beloved language. I hope this will be seen as a thoughtful tribute to cummings not a shameless rip off.

I met anyone in a pretty how town
poetry up by grade point down
he scratched my think and listened my hear
round by circle to glasses by ear

(north south east west)

drip by drop by teacher by taught
anyone wasn't but he always is
that by that and this by this
over to under by no to not

(sun rain snow wind)

he smiled my happy and yelled my mad
he teetered my has and tottered my had
better by smaller and more by less
quicker to snail by checkers to chess

(coke pepsi 7up sprite)

downside left and upside right
smell by cheek by close by nose
poem by pencil by pen by prose
rose by smell by poem by sight

(morning noon evening night)

poem by door by open anyone
words by letters by does by done

Tuesday, 30 July 2013

Forty (40)

I woke up today and it was
twenty years from yesterday.
I knew it was twenty years
Because the music gave me a headache.

I slapped a kid for teaching me
to battle rap - he rapped about
pimpin’ out my wife and sister.
When I pinned his tongue ring to his chin,
He cried and ran away.

My court date is next week.

There is really no upside to 40.
But I’m still very immature
so maybe there’s still hope.
I Googled “Cure for 40”
The top answer was “50”

Fucking Google.

After a little more research I found out
“40 is the new 30.”
That didn’t sound so bad
Until I asked a 30-year-old what he thought…
“Cha right” he said “Dude yer old.”
Then he skateboarded over my foot.

Fucking Kids


This is another poem for my Chapbook exclusive to d'Verse.

Sunday, 28 July 2013

Middle Aged White Poet

I finally figured out how to format my chapbook "Rough Around the Edges" for Kindle and it is available on my Amazon Author Page here. It is only available in Kindle format at this time. If you do not own a Kindle there is a free Kindle Reading App for Mac, PC, Smartphones and Tablets available for download here. I intend to publish print copies in the future if there is a positive response on Kindle. 

I am posting the poem "Middle-aged White Poet" from the chapbook as a bit of shameless self-promotion. This poem was originally conceived for the Velvet Verbosity 100 Word Challenge earlier this year, however, it has since been reworked and edited beyond recognitionIf you follow my blog you will see that about half of the 28 poems premiered on my Blog in some draft or partial form. The other half are original to this publication. The poems are presented sequentially to represent some of my life's experiences. 

This is my first stab at publication and I am basically winging it. If you do decide to pick up a copy please leave a constructive review on Amazon or a comment on this thread. I am interested in how to become a better Poet & Author so all comments are appreciated (including critical ones)


Middle-aged white guy writing poetry
It’s not pretty
But I really love it - I always have.
A word nerd since my early teens
John Lennon Imagining,
Bob-Dylan-Thomas, Lizard King
Blew my mind with poetry
And it’s never been the same for me.

Let it be Lord, let it be.

And right away I could see
these dudes were inside my head.
They said the things I’d I wished I’d said.
They understood and spoke to me
with innocent experience
iconoclasts in past and present tense.
Feelings so intense they circumvent
my conflicted disobedience.
Feelings from so deep inside 
that sometimes even I don’t realize
the blood stains on the page are mine.

So why not me, Lord, why not me?

Because I was born without a pedigree -
A white suburban refugee where
we never mention child-abuse,
and we always get the right to choose,
and never ever get refused service for not wearing shoes.
So I turned my cap back to hide my bald spot.
My angst is in my pudding cup.
But don’t tell me I didn’t earn my seat
and I don’t have the right to speak
and be heard if I wannabe.


I’m just an aging word-nerd who knows what
it’s like to hurt and not be heard.
But proud enough to stake a spot out in the crowd
and use my voice to shout it out
and tell my story loud enough
that anyone who gives a shit can sit and listen to another …

Middle-aged white poet