Reverberation, The Novel, is a story of love and friendship, greed and survival set amid the changing social, religious and philosophical mores of early nineteenth-century America.

Paperback and ebook available:

Share this:

Posted in historical, historical fiction, historical novel | 17 Comments

“I Am The Vessel That Stands Watch”

I am the vessel that stands watch
as confiscated olives pour
from carefully concealed clay casks
and spread across the airport floor.

I am the vessel that stands watch
while green flesh blends with dull red hearts
and random bits of wild fruit scoot
and cockamamie circling starts.

I am the vessel that stands watch
as olive owner waves her hands
then protests as the agent probes
and on small gemstone his hand lands.

I am the vessel that stands watch
as stone is plucked from olive jam
wrinkles crinkle the lady’s face
the lioness becomes the lamb.

I am the vessel that stands watch
I grin as entry is denied
passport and stone are stuffed away
their fate unknown, her hands are tied.

I am the vessel that stands watch
as paisley shawl of olive green
with arrows etched pimento red
folds round her as she leaves the scene.

I am the vessel that stands watch
and moves into her spot in line.
He never looks, just sends me through
my passport, fake; agent, benign.

I am the vessel that stands watch
I smile, knowing my contraband
is larger than an olive jar
or papers held by alien hand.

My head’s the vessel that stands watch
o’er diagrams, materials
time and place of detonation
safe source for gas, bacterials.

My head’s the vessel that stands watch
As numbers grow and passion mounts
I tout the ideology
my perseverance is what counts.

I am the vessel that stands watch
as other olive jars arrive
no stones this time, but flammables
to spark the change for which I strive.

I am the devil that stands watch
while rent flesh blends with dull red hearts
and random bits of wild fruit scoot
I dance as Armageddon starts.

(Written for dVerse Poets Pub, Open Link #160. November 12, 2015.)

Posted in Poetry, Short Fiction | Tagged , , , , | 13 Comments

“Fall Fury”

Winds whisk hard-driven rain water
into mini spouts
and twisted peaks

Street lights beam reflected patterns
onto swirling rivulets
and flooded tarmac.

Stranded cars and boats are toppled
as nature flogs
the vanities of man.

The fury of a hurricane
levels the playing field.

(Written for dVerse Poetics, “Weather You Like It, or Not”. November 10, 2015.) This is a bit of a stretch–it’s raining here, but certainly not a hurricane, and our boats are moored in backyards rather than on water.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , | 15 Comments


The street crowd
clapped their hands
and stomped their feet
as a man in a gray hoodie
threw a jab
a right cross
an uppercut
a hook
at a non-existent opponent.

A passing patrolman
judged the man and the crowd
He started to leave
as the boxer advanced
toward him.

The pugilist
increased his speed
and the power
behind his punches.

The tenor of the crowd
A heckler called out
“Hey, man.
Throw a real one.
Show us your stuff.”
“Yeah, your stuff,” others echoed.

The policeman’s retreat
was prevented
by onlookers
who had gathered
behind him.

“Get that cop,” a voice rang out.
“Yeah, he don’t belong here.”
“We don’t like his kind.”

The man in the hoodie
landed a jab
on the chin
of the officer of the law.
Then he reached in his pocket
flicked his thumb
and planted a hook
in his victim’s abdomen.

The policeman staggered and fell.
The boxer
pulled his switchblade
from the fallen man’s body.
“Only good cop’s
a dead cop,” he muttered
as he pushed his way
through the crowd
and disappeared.

The observers
scattered like startled geese.
Some returned home
to their TVs.
Others climbed
onto stools
at the corner pub
and pretended
they’d been there since noon.

The police questioned the locals.
No witnesses
were identified.
No informants
came forth.

behind closed doors
the community consensus
that the cop was messin’
where he didn’t belong
and maybe
he got
what he deserved.

The patrolman’s brothers in blue
took note
of the locals’ attitude
and vowed
from that day on
they would stay
far behind
the outer ring
of the neighborhood crowd.

(Written for dVerse, Open Link Night #159, October 29, 2015)

Posted in Flash Fiction, Poetry, Short Fiction | Tagged , , , , , | 14 Comments

“Frozen Dreams”

The wild winds of January
spiraled o’er the gray bay
stole its mist, its frigid waters
absorbed its basest core.
The wintery gusts iced purloined beads
exhaled on sailing ships
left sleet in cracks and crevices
of cobblestones and bricks.
Half-frozen seas spat on glass panes
of crude homes, lush mansions.
They settled in the beards of gents
on bustles of their dames.

A shivering girl whose shawl embraced
yet never could repel
the bitter bite of raging winds
or winter’s frosty sting.
She waited for a man who sold
escape from life’s cruel whip.
The hope of freedom warmed her skin
as her torn wrap could not.

The bright promise of midday sun
faded in dark of night.
She stood alone as sun met sky
and blurred the great divide.
The link to Freedom Road was cut
as no one did arrive.
The spirit of the dark-skinned girl
fell with the death of hope.

Rebirth of yesterday’s clear sun
split the horizon line.
Its light shone on ice-shimmered sea
and signaled dawn anew.
No longer pensive dreamer she
the girl at last succumbed
to shackles of her servile birth
and treachery of man.
Before she died, she thanked the Lord
for lifting off her yoke
and severing her iron chains
for one sweet slice of time.

Posted in Flash Fiction, historical fiction, Micro Fiction, Poetry | Tagged , , , , , | 4 Comments

“Let There Be Light….”

Firebolt hot.

Thunderstroke bright.


Octopi ink.

Curtain dropped.

Ancient father covered eyes.
Heroic mother pried them open.
Sky sequins sparkled.
Shadows sheltered.
Solitary sentinels saw.

Day breaks.

(Written for dVerse, Meeting the Bar with Time Travel. June 25, 2015.)

Posted in Flash Fiction, Poetry | Tagged , , , , | 20 Comments

“The Catharsis of Song”

I start to hum.
A black tale
love found
love lost.
Like a funeral dirge.

The inmates
in adjacent cells
join in.
up and down
the line
words and volume
to the
monotonous murmur.

halt their patrols
as jail-hardened
their tough facades
and allow themselves
to acknowledge their
and lost dreams.

It is
a memorable moment
of peace
and conciliation
on Cell Block C.

The voices
of fifty
melancholy men
in song
cover the hum
of the battery-operated saw
I use
to cut a hole
in the wall
behind my bed.
The singing
tapers off
as I slip
into the opening.

I drop
to the catwalk
between prison walls
and softly hum
“swing low
sweet chariot
to carry me
as I head
the white light
of freedom.

(Written for dVerse Poetics: Black and White. June 9, 2015.)

Posted in Flash Fiction, Micro Fiction, Poetry, Short Fiction, Short Story | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 20 Comments

“Too Late?”

Cutthroat men are slashing
bitter boys are smashing
their way through the city.
Victims of their hatred
mortals, objects sacred
destroyed without pity.

Is faith validation
for human damnation
and slaughter of the past?
Is fostered cruelty
behind brutality
and decency outcast?

Where is the word of truth
needed by man and youth
to save them from their fate?
Will they face early death
one last regretful breath
aware that it’s too late?

Written for dVerse Open Link Night #149. May 21, 2015.

Posted in Flash Fiction, Micro Fiction, Poetry, Short Fiction, Short Story | Tagged , , , , , , | 18 Comments