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Posts from the ‘Non-Rhyming Poetry’ Category




“Souk” Watercolor & Graphite on Paper By J. Artemus Gordon

Please check out my new poem in literary magazine, Songs of Eretz, May 4, 2018. Just follow the link (or cut and paste it into your browser):






better to be lost
and find the way
rather than know
the way and be lost

— t. l. cummings
Image found on Pinterest



He read the lips of leaves,
sang replies with croaking toads
and cricket song. His laughter

tickled the trees’ ribs
but lacy shadows laced his life.
Breath curled inside a fallen nest.

Spring pressed a bud in his palm
wove her arms around his heart
carried him inside her veins.

We pinned our sights beyond
our view, leaned into his ripe
and distant world.

— t. l. cummings
Image of Conor Cummings

As she stares


through the window
sweating, with uncertainty
her finger paints
him on a pane
framed by a wooden sash

She draws his eyes, hollow
adds two hearts, filled
with their children’s names
and presses her lips on them

Warm breath thaws the scene
She scribbles peace signs
as she prays, Return, enduring
like a sun-baked rock from
Afghanistan’s mountains

— t. l. cummings
Image found on Pinterest


Poetry is



words penned
with a crowded heart
honed by a feather

t. l. cummings
Image found on Pinterest

The Simplest Matters


When my parents were alive

they said the world was kinder

when they were young. Now

I understand. Circumstances

are sorry enough that one

may raise a spoon, play with

a pet, whistle a tune, or smile

and achieve as much for our

universe as anyone.


— t. l. cummings

Image found on Pinterest

Why stop there?



lynched innocence

cocked pride like pistols

fired fear at targets of

walled opinions, drowned

daughters for sins, banned

black keys from pianos

saved from harmony

defined art until it slept


education beheaded reason

cut stars from flags

sewed them on jackets

scraped flesh from the page

burned it alive

nailed dissent in the air

bled it dry

replaced hours on the clock

with years

decreed all races end

except its own


— t. l. cummings

Image found on Pinterest



In the blink of a camera’s eye

Stop-action framed murders

Mother and child


Hung from bridge

Like meat in a cold locker

Arms at sides like moths


Pressed between slides

Microscoped to validate

Ritual rule – the mob


Pinned in a camera’s lens

Crazed, glazed opinions

Suspended stars and stripes


From a bridge too far

Necks of reason and tolerance

Snapped on the end of hope


— t. l. cummings

Image from Pinterest

Poetry feels…


itchy; an uncomfortable

rash of thoughts wrung

from truth. I scratch

the pen across white

bandages, soothing

the urge to scream


— t. l. cummings

Image found on Pinterest


The Phantom Read


He presented an iPad to his wife for her birthday.

Stellar white and gold, it held all the books

in the world. Saved her from driving to

the library or book store, eyes cloudy,

hands and feet bruised by time.


Can’t remember how to turn it on, she said,

place an order, adjust the font, the light.

A book I don’t touch doesn’t breathe

in my hands. A book I don’t smell

won’t make me hungry to read. A

book I don’t see, doesn’t see me.

Doesn’t call my name.

— t. l. cummings

Image found on Pinterest

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