The big things or little

(can’t say that it mattered)

they all left me scared

all left me unflattered

even the notion

of happiness faded

for fear it’d not last

so it was evaded

I’d run and I’d run

the fear kept me away

but then I met you

. . .


I’m longing to stay


Background Noise

I can hear what you’re saying

but I choose not to listen

I see the spark in your eye

but will leave when they glisten

I will listen to questions

and I will do so with poise

but it is all about me–

you are just background noise








I’ll probably make a more in-depth post about this idea down the line. Obviously, it is not my feelings about anyone on here or anywhere else for that matter. Normally I’d let you fill in the blanks that it is an exercise in perspective but it seemed a little harsh. None of you are “background noise.” You matter.

Until next time. God bless y’all,

the real C. D.


The Fool’s Gold

High fived a dead man,

gave him a ten dollar bill

to turn his life around–

seemed funny at the time–

now the floor’s about to give out


and ain’t nothing

going to change that

but still thoughts

turn to change,

change that will never come

but change that

might have been nice.

Ask the dead man.

Photo by Jeswin Thomas on Pexels.com



Photo by Fernando Arcos on Pexels.com

Romance is dead . . .

I buried it in shallow grave

near a handwritten letter to her.

The ground

was all too willing to take

its next meal.

It had no gravestone, only neighbors.

The Bottle of Whiteout lie next

to its beloved Typewriter,

Eraser next to the Pen

though Paper was close by.

In the end Paper was the champion

of Romance’s cause

but we didn’t necessarily know it

because no one cared about what was erased–

Paper did. Paper kept the indents.

Paper kept the words we misspelled,

the words we originally wanted to write,

the words still slightly on the page,

the raw material of the heart and mind.

Now romance is dead. Words go unspoken,

unwritten, not meant,

words don’t stand a chance against

the despot


mentor of the unconvinced









How fun to type out a poem about how bad typing is! 😁


The Riverbend Waltz

Could it be

you and me

are drifting apart?

Could it be

you and me

have separate hearts?

Could it be

you and I

who tried to be true

were away

gone astray

to wherever new?

Got to go

so you know

I’ll always love you

even when

river’s bend

in new shades of blue


On an Island

Words are best unspoken

But feeling is the token

To my soul, my identity

What confined anonymity

Sixpence, none the richer

I’ve gone grey like a witcher

Eyes are on my every step

Ears for every rumour prep

But I keep it going, throwing

Rhymes and words in mourning

Like a drunk throwing a dart

At a board, and falling apart

It’s hard to describe, to dictate

What phrase or word could placate

But I’ve broken my one rule

Sitting like an idiot on a stool

Feeling is just a token

Words are best unspoken



“You’ll never miss the water

’til the well runs dry”


I hoped that’d be true

’cause there sure ain’t nothing

good ’bout stagnant,

poisoned water either,

a well refreshed by acid rain

and bitter tears

but maybe we’ll get by.

Maybe, just maybe. Well,

it’s like an ocean ’round here:

surrounded by water

but we’ll still die

from a lack of it . . .

Just don’t. Or do. But really

don’t . . .

Arms folding in the distance

as if to say

Well, well, well.

Nothing deep, nothing to draw

from it? Well,

maybe I do miss

the water after all.

Maybe, just maybe,

we’ll float away on dry land

to safer waters.

I said “I will” but

it had ill effects

but we?

“We will”? Will do what?

Will go where? Well,

we’ll know full well what,

we’ll get where we need

to be



“See ’em?”

The second my eyes close

your forlorn stare

opens them again

only for a familiar

apparition to remind me that

there is no way away

from it

from you


that is only

when I’m awake

“See ’em?” you ask

as if the

nights are not sleepless,

but they aren’t

–only restless–

eyes open, eyes shut,



that one thing . . .

I can’t shake it,

the feeling,

the look

“Yes,” a cry escapes.

“What of it?”