New York Blues

A royal affair,

All access pass.

Gentlemen prefer pink, rose quartz,

Architecture of face.

Happy hour,

A place in the sun

Bikini so teeny.

Appletini, pink champagne, wine.

It’s all a bluer.

To nude, or not to nude?

Let’s get naked!

Naughty nude.

Are you red-dy?

Ever red-dy.

Oh so wicked!

Under my spell;

You’re all mine!


Best of the best!

Beyond bold, sensational!

Eastend snob, first class nude.

In love with Ginger!

Times square,


Make it happen.

In too deep…


Call me crazy…


New York blues.

Sorry for the risque nature of this poem. My professor decided that the writing challenge for this week was to be a found poem. However, instead of creating this poem from a newspaper or a page from a book, we were to go to the make up aisle in a store and find the poem among the make up labels.

It is very challenging to create a poem from pre-generated words when many of them suggest nudity, coitus, and otherwise promiscuous behavior. I try to keep everything on here rated PG, but I sure as heck wasn’t going to write a love poem for coffee (the other labels were all about coffee and honey).


Mutual Sadness

The old door creaked open and the glow of the porch light filtered into the dark kitchen, only to disappear when Cyrus closed the door. His dad always left the light on so Cyrus could see to make it up the stairs when he got home after work. It was the one thing his dad could be counted on to do, no matter how drunk he was. It had been this way ever since Cyrus had picked up a night shift at the local diner to help pay the bills and cover the cost of things he needed for school. Between what he made, the money from the state, and the small fees his dad would collect when he managed to get out of the house and find someone who needed an engine rebuilt cheap, they had managed to keep the power on and food on the table.

Cyrus pulled a cord and the light above the sink flickered to life. He dropped his backpack on a chair and grabbed a half-eaten bag of chips from the counter. Predictably, they were stale, but he ate them anyway. There would be nothing besides that and frozen dinners until the weekend when he had time to drive his father to the grocery store. Cyrus glanced into the living room as he slipped a handful of chips into his mouth. Sure enough, he saw his father’s face illuminated by the TV. His hair was a couple months past due for a trim, and it hung over his blank face like scrawny fingers, clawing towards his lips.

The beer cans were spilling over the top of the trashcan that sat just within arm’s reach of the stained recliner his dad inhabited. Cyrus sighed and tossed the now-empty bag of chips into the garbage. Without a word, he approached the trashcan and began pulling the bag out and stuffing the runaway cans back in. his dad didn’t even flinch at the noise; he just kept his glassy stare glued to the old westerns that always moved across the screen.

However, unlike every night for the past seven years, it wasn’t cowboys, guns, and Indians on TV. Cyrus froze, his eyes fastened just as tightly to the screen as his father’s. He watched as a white dress billowed into the frame, its occupant dragging a stick-figure of a man as it moved. “That’s right, Carl,” yelled a voice from somewhere off-screen. “Your woman wants to dance!” Whoops, jibes, and girly giggles echoed around the sad room where Cyrus stood near his father. The voices and music were like a syringe, trying to force joy into the atmosphere. It couldn’t penetrate the darkness filling both men’s hearts.

The difference between the bony man dancing with the joyous woman on TV and the beer-bellied sad man sitting in front of the TV was unbelievable. That boy was obviously a nervous dancer, but he was still so full of happiness. The man in front of the TV was empty.

“Dad…” Cyrus started to say.

“We would have been married twenty years today.” The dry words fell from his dad’s mouth like stale chips from a bag. “We always said that we would renew our vows for our twentieth anniversary.”

Cyrus had nothing to say. This was the first time since his mother had died seven years ago that there had been something besides reruns of westerns playing on that old screen. Cyrus nudged some cans away with his worn sneaker and sat on the sticky floor beside his father.

They sat together for an hour that night, one reeking of warm beer and the other reeking of fried food. They stared at the grainy film, watching the woman who had taken their lives with her when she had taken her own.

Thanks for reading once again!

This post was queued last week because I am in New York visiting one of my best friend Dawn. I drove here with two of my other best friends, the engaged duo made up of Judy and Billy. I’m not sure what I’m actually doing write now because I am writing this a week in advance!

Anyway, I need to give some credit to my friend Alex for helping me brainstorm this idea. I almost turned in complete garbage as homework, but he helped me generate some awesome ideas and I ended up with this not-so-bad piece.

I hope you enjoyed!

Franklin Mason-Mahoney

Franklin Mason-Mahoney stood by the door to his basement apartment, hands folded in front of his denim-clad waist and feet square, shoulder-width apart. The white walls of the apartment were as pure and spotless as the day they had been painted. There was almost no color in the space, excluding the tacky sage patterns on the love seat and chair, the dark plastic of the old TV, and the pale wood of the kitchen cabinets. Everything else, from the carpet to the ceiling, was white. The art on the walls framed with cheap gold-colored metal (purchased with coupons from the local Michael’s) was the only thing that kept the apartment from resembling a typical hotel room. The frames bordered white paper. The paper, however, was not as pure as the walls. Across the smooth surfaces were smears of a darker substance. The crusty brown had been speared on the different sheets in a variety of ways. Some were as simple as a child’s finger paintings, with monochromatic rainbows and piles of abstract shapes. Others, still just as singular in color, were more intricate, clearly having been created by the collection of brushes Franklin Mason-Mahoney always carried, rolled up neatly in a worn artist’s bag. These detailed paintings depicted mountains with streams, a doe and her fawn, an old water wheel with no liquid to move it, and many other things one might encounter on an old Bob Ross rerun. Every wall in the apartment was covered with these paintings. Well, every wall except those that formed the back bedroom. Those walls were covered with dark brown tarps and silver duct tape. In the middle of that room was a table with what would have been a partial sketch of a decaying barn had the cup of red liquid been spilled across the paper. There was a thin trail of the same liquid dripped across the floor and out into the living room, where the bright red dots lead straight to the door. Franklin Mason-Mahoney knew what the trail meant. He knew that, with the preteen free, there was no point in running. Franklin Mason-Mahoney stood calmly waiting.

Hey all,

Sorry again for missing a blog post. I haven’t been sleeping hardly at all during the week while I am at school, so my weekends at home have become super lazy. However, I managed to get this piece up tonight! I’m even going to queue a piece for next week!

I promise to try and be a better blogger!

I hope you enjoyed!

The Common Tragedy

Aislyn knew how to play the game.

She batted her lashes and near the men came.

She could catch any target that her heart did desire

And fill him with lust, hot like a fire.

A careful touch there and a coy word here,

Winning the game with her girlish cheer.


She was at the top of her profession,

So she was surprised by her own confession

made after an evening of x-rated play.

“I like you a lot,” she’d whispered, “so what do you say?”

He’d cocked his head and was silent awhile,

Then he had kissed her and pulled back with a smile.


One short year later, they were married

And eagerly awaiting the child she carried,

But their happy family was not meant to be

As she cruelly found out when she started to bleed.

With a distant husband and her baby now dead

Aislyn turned to alcohol instead.


While she sought comfort in the arms of a bottle,

Her husband was on the highway, full throttle.

In the passenger seat, just to his right,

Was the other woman, encouraging his flight.

Aislyn knew he was tasting the thrill of a one-night-stand,

But she didn’t know to expect the officer with his cap in his hand.


With no hope left to her name

And no desire to return to the game,

Aislyn released her pain to the night

And grasped that whiskey bottle tight.

With no reason left, she became no more than a shell

Silently waiting for life’s waves to smash her to hell.


Though she may be entirely alone,

She still goes to work and still answers the phone.

When she gets home, she gives into temptation

Like so many others she turns to intoxication.

She longs for the bottle to drink her to death,

But it will be decades before she breathes her last breath

I have been a terrible blogger and allowed myself to get swamped with school work. Because of this, I am posting another piece created as homework for a class. Apparently, my professor loved it. The assignment was to write a rhyming poem portraying a serious event. I’ll try to finish my schoolwork early enough in the week to write something better. Thanks for being so patient with me!