She calls this place “The Devil’s Workshop,” asylum of idle hands and unkept promises.

A sarcastic travel agent issued her a one-way ticket in a vintage handbasket, not the best mode of travel on an empty stomach.

Who knew the junket would entail steamy back roads paved with good intentions gone incredibly bad?

But wasn’t that always her luck?

She seemed to forever place her last five dollars on a snowball’s sucker chance.

And now here she is, employing female fury to open up damnation in this awkward place she calls “The Devil’s Workshop,”

Arriving uninvited,

Searching her pockets,

Empty as always,

Surprisingly annoyed

That hell must be paid.

ONE WRITE WORD (Postcard Poetry)

Once there was a boy with a cage instead of heart,

an empty enclosure to capture and keep.

He filled it with birds, rocks, and overheard conversations,

at a loss when it all

brought no meaning to life.

Then one day the door to the cage was left open,

the boy tired of the routine

of bait, wait, and trap.

That’s when a word,

abandoned, neglected,

entered the cage

and wove him a heart.

WHAT ARE THE ODDS (Postcard Poetry)

“Guess how many jellybeans there are in my heart?”

She tossed out the challenge without much of a thought.

Two could play this game so he answered immediately.


Not one more,

Nor one less.”

Her throat coughed up a laugh covered in pectin.

Then she tossed up a jellybean, smacking her lips,

swallowing it whole.

“Nice try for an amateur.

But it’s 214.

And every single one is nasty black licorice.”

NO ROOM AT THE IN (Postcard Poetry)

She stroked the back of his neck

where the hairs met the collar.

“You must be getting tired.

We should stop soon.

I heard there’s a great motel

at the edge of Reason.”

He turned to smile at her,

the ghost of a relationship stuck in his teeth.

“Just a couple more hours.

We’re almost to the center of Gravity,

Halfway to Paradise.”

His eyes returned to the hypnotic lines of the highway.

She sighed and offered no response,

Never having been a halfway kind of girl.

AUTUMN’S LAST BREW (Postcard Poetry)

September is at the end of an evening

sitting on a stool at the neighborhood bar,

The shutdown of nature’s grill,

Chlorophyll scrubbed off leaves,

Yellow, red, and orange residue left behind.

Last call for insects, birds, and butterflies to down their dregs.

Taps closed.

Bottletops screwed shut.

Cabs called for migratory patrons who stayed too long.

Neon lights whisper sweet nothings to the night.

October, as bartender, flips the open sign to closed,

Signalling an end to summer’s night out.