Grandfather’s Clock Tower

Hello Ladies and gents,

I thought it fine time to do some revision on a very old poem. Any comments or thoughts are appreciated. Here goes nothing…


Grandfather’s clock,

from births hour,

sings tick-tock.




her heart beats

for Neverland,

strikes the first hour.



Tick-Tock, and

she dreams of flight,

and of life’s magical delights

strikes the third hour.




there is peter pan’s

crocodile, and

she swallows an alarm clock,

and pauses time,

on lovers rhymes-

strikes the sixth hour.




Big-Ben’s Clock Tower

her rhythm, grows fonder

but Peter Pan’s pixie dust,

collects on grandfather’s

old tower clock-

strikes the 9th hour.


And on the 12th hour

Neverland, never comes

her heart beat stops

and the grandfather’s clock

gears, rust.


Much love, always.


your very own,



Life is beautiful

I am feeling a bit under today. Sometimes, it is okay to feel blue. At least I know what I feel is real, and I wouldn’t lie and say, I am chipper all the time. I am not. Most days, I am not. I feel too much, I always have and always will. For those who feel a little blue today its okay.

To feel is beautiful. I wouldn’t trade a song that strikes the soul for nothing, even if it makes me sob. So, if ever you feel blue, know you are not alone. Everybody hurts. Remember the little things.

Beauty is in the little things.


I’ve seen a million movies today, every second, every minute of my day is 1,000 words each; every memory, every insight of color or smell is a different movie, each with a separate soundtrack.

I saw the color red and I saw my grandmother’s hands sowing a red dress, perfectly placed under the needle of her sewing machine.

I saw red, and saw the overgrown roses, breathing life, dancing and twirling on the barbed wired fence.

I saw the green hills and heard the sleeping giants under green blankets breathing, and saw their chest rise and fall ever so gently like a peaceful sound asleep baby.

I saw a bee on my windshield and I remembered the small fact that in theory, bees are too large to fly for their undersized wings, and yet they prove physics wrong.  This resilient little visitor was like a golden nugget on my blue hazy day, reminding me that I can fly too.

Remember the little things.

Life is beautiful, even in your bluest of days.

La vie et belle.

With love, always


Blue Bird by Charles Bukowski

It is a recent effort of mine to finally voice, to speak, to write and send it off and give it away. I’ve done been silent. I’m over quieting, especially when there is so much to say. Away with the insecurity of being incompetent! This year, I have begun singing my favorite jazz and blues songs in my local wine bar and It is also the year I have humbled myself to sharing my writing after so many of years of piling thoughts on top of thoughts in journals collecting dust. That is why I am here, on a website. It is after all a new year, another day, and another chance to turn it all around. So, here you will find my thoughts, expressions, emotions, frustrations, passions, and any other sions. I am here simply to voice and if you happen to be here with me too, well then welcome. I’d gladly sit with you over a cup of coffee and chat it up. I am just as curious about you that you are perhaps me. But, nonetheless here we are and I don’t consider this luck or chance. Sit down, it is nice to meet you.

To start off, I thought it appropriate to include my favorite poem by Charles Bukowski as my very first post. I love it so much I even toyed with the idea of getting some kind of rendition of it tattoed to my body. Perhaps, perhaps not. But, it goes to say that it means that much to me. I too, have a blue bird in my heart that is dying to get out. And I have every ambition to let it out.

Ladies and gents, I present to you, Charles Bukowski’s “Blue Bird.”


there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the ****s and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
in there.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
you want to blow my book sales in
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
and we sleep together like
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep, do