All the husky, rusty tossels of the corn have been rustled into the barn. Harvest done, we dress up and load up into a wood-paneled station wagon bound for town. Witches, princesses, plenty of ghosts, a Frankenstein's Monster and one girl stuffed like a pillow into three balls of white with a big floppy hat— a snowman carrying a bag full of candy, …

As a boy I ran Impatient to begin life Now I shuffle slow Title stolen from Lawrence Ferlinghetti's A Coney Island of the Mind, 20.

I am pleased to announce that yesterday seven of my old poems visited Medusa's Kitchen. If you're new to my work, here's a good place to check out these previously published pieces from the past decade, including one that got nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Consider this my "best of" collection. LimitlessPractice FireSelf PortraitEclipseThe EndDonating a PintOur Little Secret Many thanks to Kathy for giving these old poems new readers.

In the backseat of my parents' car we sit and don't talk about the only thing on our mind. Like my girlfriend, the harvest moon rises above soon to be naked trees yet is still covered by thin clouds like a veil. Then as the porcelain light finally shines through the sunroof, she removes her bra, for the first time, in the presence of my yearning. (For this week's Living Poetry prompt. Happy Harvest Moon!)

Thought it was a runny nose then a crimson shock of blood smeared my sleeve

I'm very proud to announce that a new poem of mine has just been published at The Lake. My thanks to John Murphy for accepting my work. How I Learned to Write Poetry starts like this: Little boy in a yellow rain coatand galoshes squatting in the gutterwatches the rain become a river. Hope you'll give it a read.

I Through the weeds the pumpkins pop like a stoplight cautioning us because Grandma hasn't given the green light to go into the garden II Musty leaves dry at the bottom of the pile where their fellows rise like the harvest moon into the smoke dancing with the swirling wind like glowing spider webs III Under the keen stars of Pegasus' Great Square…

Calm as an autumn lake while I yell my fool head off from a window

I'm proud to announce that my poem The Nature of Nurture has been published over at Whispers and Echoes. Thanks, Sammi! The Nature of Nurture is a Kwansaba, first written over ten years ago. I'd never heard of this form before but wanted to give it a try. Hope it's worthy.

Egg balanced on railroad tracks white as a late summer cloud delicate as democracy An iron train rumbles in like a storm soon to obliterate the inner sun rusted leaves swirling litter behind A lumpy swamp-colored walnut crashes to the ground just inches ahead of me as if thrown by children revealing its blackened heart The old orange tomcat watches egg and train and walnut and me narrows his eyes as I walk past already fat enough

After a long sweet summer afternoon the blood red sun falls hard on the horizon but then the stars come out

I'm proud to announce that one of my old previously unpublished poems has been posted to Whispers and Echoes. Thank you, Sammi! The first version of Leave me the night was written as part of my 2012 April Poem-a-Day Challenge, before I'd even established this website. It's another astronomical poem so I hope you'll take a look.

I am pleased to announce that one of my newer poems, I'll Never Finish My Autobiography has just been posted at MasticadoresUSA. Thank you, Barbara! It starts: Keep your notebook and penat hand just in case you fall. Remember that commercial from the 1980's where a little old lady cries out, "I've fallen and I can't get up!" What was hilarious then to me — not so much anymore…

Every eight weeks I conjure blood from wine one pint at a time Tomorrow morning, I'll be making my bimonthly donation at the American Red Cross. If you've received a transfusion of A+ blood and felt a little tipsy afterwards, blame me.

Glass of red wine in one hand and a purple pen in the other. If I had antennae, they'd be quivering. The booth to my right wraps around two men, complaining about the wives they fear to lose. The booth to my left guards female travelers with inscrutable accents planning tomorrow's adventure. And over there a young couple paying more attention to their phones than each other, …

Savor your wine, Marge, thirty-six cromulent years has been long enough Inspired by Sammi's Weekend Writing Prompt, though I just wrote a haiku instead of a 45 word poem, and The Simpsons' season 8 episode "You Only Move Twice".

Spent all morning washing the clothes, birds on the wing in the bright blue, I smiled back at the sun in his sky. But as soon as I hang the wash on the line the gulls and clouds fly in from the shore. Seems like whenever I get close to being done the rain revises. (A little ars poetica for this week's Living Poetry Prompt. The painting is "Woman at a Clothesline in the Dunes" by Anton Mauve.)

You are the crescent moon smiling in my twilight sky Written for this week's Living Poetry Prompt. Check out all the links to the poems written for this one. I've been offering these for eight years or so and never read such high quality poetry written for one of my prompts.

Don't bring me chocolate milky smooth and rich to coat my tongue Don't bring me ice cream with a frosty spoon in a strawberry sundae Don't bring me a pie whose crust crumbles over blueberried fingers Bring me potato chips salt and vinegar laced with caramel Because I can only stand so much sweetness (Another collaboration with my friends at Mebane Ridge after reading dessert poetry.)

Me an asthmatic teetotaller Then I met you Now I love the taste of ashtrays (Image stolen from Sogni e poesie di una donna qualunque.)

I am delighted to report that two of my poems have been published today. Hope posted to the revived Whispers and Echoes. Thanks, Sammi! I adapted the first line, A little bird slammed into my window, mistaking it for the sky, as a Fraiku earlier this year. And I'm only an Imagist when I can't come up with a metaphor…

Two weeks of real life then back to the job retirement just a dream

Consider this official notice that I'm firing the head WordPress statistician for BLATANTLY under reporting my views last month just because he doesn't understand my AWESOME poetry. If you'd like to lead that department, apply in the comments below. Tell me how you'd make sure I get the TOTALLY ACCURATE and well deserved increase in stats for what EVERYBODY knows is the best poetry blog on the Internet. Salary commensurate with results.

Guess I fell asleep on the couch and sleptwalked my way back to bed without recording any memories. Knifing my hands between cushions I find crumpled paper napkins, nacho cheese Doritos and a penny, which makes me wonder how Lincoln would handle our situation, not that he ever had to find a remote. I bend over to look underneath and feel the dog sniff my butt and can just barely see my dignity there behind the dust bunnies. (for today's Living Poetry Prompt.)

Last week I visited the Charles H. Taylor Visual Arts Center in Hampton, Virginia, to see the Please Touch the Art exhibit by Sally Barker. It wasn't the first time I'd seen these works since the artist is my mother. Around the turn of the century, my mom had the brilliant idea to represent colors with fabric so that a blind person could appreciate the visual art that we take for granted.