Good news, my book "Collection Of Dog Poetry: Poem About Dogs Vol V" has been published. You can find the paperback version either on Amazon or search for it at other online retailers.  The kindle version is also out for purchase on Amazon or by search. Amazon link for both Paperback and eBook can be found here: Throughout the year there will be Amazon eBook promotions and maybe paperback one too. Look for new poetry books down the road.

My love, my muse, what words pass between us? I miss seeing you, lying cozy on your bed, A cloud of snowy white fur, a curly tail, Which could write words of just you sleeping, With poetic lines weaving in many directions. My words had briefly left me last year, Helping you in your final time you had left. I still miss the fun times we had,

Once, they guarded kingdoms. They were best at hoarding treasure. Now, in the basement archives, where air smells of warm centuries. Visitors complain about smoke. They call it “archival ambiance” and speak in smoke rings that settle on shelves like dust. Wings folded so tightly, resembled misplaced furniture. They Use their tails as bookmarks, knock over entire eras. They keep a hoard of mislabeled boxes no one may touch.

Prompt: Choose a noun and an opposite of that noun (ex: sun and moon) and write a double elevenie. Double elevenie has two stanzas of five lines each, and twenty-two words. For more on elevenie go here. Compass Gives direction Drawing paths forward Guiding with every step Intention Drift Loosening boundaries Falling into elsewhere Following nothing at all Surrender…

I sit on my chair, computer open, the television on in the background. The phone lights up my hand again, a small square of attention I never asked for. I scroll without thinking, the way I once sifted puzzle pieces on the card table, hunting for edges, for something that fit. The card table was always a small universe, corners and colors slowly falling into place.

There’s a city I could never live in— a place made of bright noise and hurried footsteps, where the sun hangs too close and the air keeps changing its mind. In that city, the streets glitter like restless thoughts, and the ocean never stops talking, its voice a constant, crashing argument, forever reinventing itself every morning. But I am built of quieter things—

The afternoon already half-gone, like someone ate the middle of it. I have tasks still yet to finish, did I ever have a full day to begin with? There should not be an expectation and yet I keep measuring myself against one.

Walk the dog, she insists on a different direction, tugging hard toward something unseen. Is the dog wrong walking down the other path, or am I ignoring the obvious? A truth about control or surrender is that the dog always knows before I do.

"Why do you leave the house so much when you have me right here?" my cream‑coated Shiba asks. Because the world insists I participate in it, even though you’re the only part I actually look forward to. "And the food. You eat things. I observe. I receive nothing but tiny broccoli and one apple slice!" Because your stomach is dramatic,

it is a huge responsibility that shouldn’t be taken lightly. Begin with the checklist you carry quietly in your chest. Don’t trust the shelter’s website alone, those bright portraits posed for strangers. Go in person, walk the long aisle, pause at each cage. Notice the tremble, the tail’s question mark, the eyes that follow you like a held breath. Choose a handful, let possibility…

I feel tired. I feel nothing. I feel everything at once, overwhelmed like I am losing ground, as if the earth keeps shifting a half‑step before I’m ready. Some days I’m a quiet room with the lights turned low. Other days I’m a storm that doesn’t know where to land. I believe—well, I’m still working on that part, trying to hear my own voice…

The muse runs into the room on four soft paws— her presence alone pours out the words that shape themselves into a poem. She was poetry before I ever wrote a line. She circles twice, settles, and suddenly the world softens. The noise quiets. The heart remembers what it came here to say. Nature follows, beckoning me to put words to paper,

I was seven, maybe eight, small enough that the world tilted above me like a giant stage. Florida heat, humid and sticky, like cotton candy melting between my fingers. I don’t remember all the rides, not really, just the blur of colors, the way the castle rose up huge in a child’s eyes. I do remember the merry-go-round, circling and circling,

Ships as pawns in a geopolitical chess match, waves carry whispers of conflict. A narrow strait tightens— a pressure point for the world. Tension rises between two nations— one raising the stakes by capturing ships. A strait now close to open sea, where vessels seek approval from both sides just to transit safely. April 25th prompt: Write a poem about a national event that took place this week.

Night descends, and twinkling stars open their eyes. They yawn and stretch, blinking away their drowsiness looking at the quiet town below. Stars drift into a backyard like curious fireflies, the air humming like a tuning fork. They peep through windows, watching people sleep. From house to house they giggle, gliding quickly, the grass glowing blue beneath their weight. At one window, a constellation rearranges itself…

In silence I stood in the bath, soap bubbles clung to me like tiny accusations. Yet here I stand, soaked in your choices. My patience thinned beneath your warm consolations. You said “good girl” as if that would save you—do the math. In silence I stood in the bath, the storm you summoned without hesitations. I paced, slow and deliberate, each step a reminder…

At dawn you saw him running, Montgomery, running hard Through thick forest. Behind him, thundering strong, Bright shields and helmets, Casting off from dawn rays, Vikings, all-braids and battle-songs, On the chase to get him. From the tree-line lumbered the Bears, Massive as mountains, their breath fogging the air With the heat of the old winters, They want their territory undisturbed,

The wolf means well, I think. He only wants me safe, even if that means running from everything I want. He lives somewhere between the ribs and down toward the restless feet. I want to travel by myself, but he says, "are you sure? There could be danger there." I tell him I’ll be in a group, but he rattles off the possibilities,

I’ve been meaning to write, though time works differently where I am— not in years, but in the way a smile keeps echoing long after the room goes quiet. You were small when I left, small enough that the lawnmower rides felt like voyages, and your laughter was louder than the engine. I still hear it. I wish I’d stayed long enough…

She had many names, more than I could ever count, more than I ever had myself. I called her my fluffy cloud— fur soft as breath, a place to rest my cheek as if I were lying on sky. She was my marshmallow, small and sweet, a creamy-white puff too lovely to eat. Princess, plushy, my little s’more, powder puff, tiny star,

He drifts in from the far‑off northern white, a ghostly wanderer with frost for skin, moving through streets without a footprint, silently wandering through, claiming the night with his hollow breath. He exhales as he comes and the world goes still, windows trembling into crystal masks, trees stiffening like frozen sentinels, waters crystallizing into brittle sheets as every surface learns the meaning of fragile.

Moves through the world trying to pass for something ordinary, his shoulders angled inward, head down, as if to hide the shimmer, that keeps leaking from him anyway, and people call him special, they see the shine in him and think it means he knows everything as though the word were a blessing and not the soft, relentless cage…

A dream house, the one my child-eyes built, stood bright with blue siding and a band of red brick hugging the bottom like a warm smile. Two stories stretched upward, taller than any giant I knew, and a blue front door waited as if it already knew my name. Inside, the living room and dining room held hands— one big space where voices…

By the blank canvas, I stood waiting— waiting for inspiration that would not come. The brushes and paints were ready, yet my mind held only silence. Then you placed a bouquet in my hands: purple Lupines to open the imagination, Asturtium to let my colors pour out with splendour and exuberance. A few Angelicas, interwoven, to steady the breath of inspiration.

"I’m a dog person," I tell the cat. It blinks, as if I’ve confessed to preferring gravity over air. “You want loyalty,” it says, voice like a hinge opening in the dark. “You want a creature who runs toward you, not one who waits to see if you deserve it.” "I don’t understand cats," I confess. The cat tilts its head,