Po Pgo Est Hewe a Sel

Allaro undth emulber rybush
Them onke ycha sed thewe a sel.
Them onke ytho ught’t wa sall inf un.
Po pgo est hewe a sel.

Apen nyfo raspo olof thre ad,
Apen nyfo rane edle.
Tha t’sthe wa yt hemo neygo es.
Po pgo est hewe a sel.

Upa nd do wnthe cit yroad,
Ina ndou tof thee agle,
Tha t’sthe wa ythe mo neygo es.
Po pgo est hewe a sel.

Hal fap oundo ftup pen neyri ce,
Hal fap oundo ftre acle,
Mi xit upan d ma keit ni ce,
Po pgo est hewe a sel.

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

L’Har’dro, l’Sssiks, lu’l’Anulo


Usstan inbal luthk rahi
d’har’dro a usstan
‘zil natha yugho belbol
t’yin cal’tuu tonaik
har’dro ‘zil natha umbren.
Fol klezn ph’naut natha olis’inth
nindel Usstan xun.


L’fa’la zatoast junissg uns’aa–l’sssiks,
l’medosek riser (L’sssiks
uriu mzild klezn ulu xun taga uns’aa
Usstan sieva)
Il morfethe ilta ehmtu ssussun.
(Xsa, Primadonna)
Ka Usstan gumash, Usstan orn’la morfeth
ussta ehmtu ssussun.


Ussta waess unl’r lu’l’anulo gos doeb.
Ol unl’r ditronw a l’junction vel’klar
Usstan orn’la tlu anulo.
Nindel’s shu, Usstan xun ol,
Lu’ol zhah naut natha olis’inth.

Leave a comment

Filed under Elven Poetry, Poetry

Once Again I Was Wrong About Monsters

MV5BMjM3Mzk2MDU3N15BMl5BanBnXkFtZTgwMzg1NTI4MDE@._V1_SX214_Well, once again I was wrong about monsters. I had at one time thought that, of course, vampires and werewolves naturally topple into that most vile and hideous category of creatures–the hipster.

My mistake.

This is what I once wrote: 

“Frankenstein’s monster is the only notable monster. Vampires are lazy blood-suckers. Werewolves, aside from being coprophagous, are nudists who have no idea where their clothes went. In contrast, the—monster loves flowers—Frankenstein attempts to make the best of monster life but to no avail. He is hunted down and hated—why? Perhaps it is his inability to successfully transform himself into a hipster.”


I had thought that at least Shelly’s monster was immune. Boy, was I wrong‽

The Young Frankenstein’s monster had been cool, not hip, in my opinion.

Mary Shelley’s Monster once said:

“There was none among the myriads of men that existed who would pity or assist me; and should I feel kindness towards my enemies? No: from that moment I declared everlasting war against the species, and, more than all, against him who had formed me and. sent me forth to this insupportable misery.”

I once reckoned that there was nothing less hip than being genuine and that nothing could change that. No?

Enter the new sexy monster.

Leave a comment

Filed under Movies, video

The Divine Nature of Boots

The best held love is love
held best through Summer’s rain.
Yet, my love, I wish for you to consider this
falling night
drizzle that does so drop decidedly
leaving wet places.

As with love’s lingering, here comes Summer’s mirth.
Rain arrives then leaves as Summer’s shyest guest
while my lethean boots transfer rain’s love
from Earth’s soil to spotless floors–

where wet dirt’s imperfect grasp falters. No matter
the grip, mud should indeed caress itself to boots
yet this does not stick. It stays only for an instance–
a magnificent flash–as boots spread muck around.
See all the smudges from my wanderings?

Lo, from on high love’s power shouts loud
with electrical bolts of thunder
ordering clouds to politely tip their heavenly
buckets spilling water of life upon Earth’s brow past
the laughter of immortal gods. Faithfully,
this is the feast that feeds all fowl, all mammal, and all snail.

So perchance, if all’s true about love, the sky,
and the Earth–as providence–then my boot prints
should surely be counted twice or even thrice
in some divine mathematics.

Behold my Earth laden boots, my love
–the souls of them–
for tonight’s rain, this shy fleeting suitor, has left
my boots with messages dear for the renewal
of the fragilest
of bonds among all Earthly things.
Thank heaven for these boots
and think not untowardly of love.

But if truth be known, I am as a man so stuck
to the purest of ideals–these things of love–
that at times I forget to bathe my feet.
Smell if you must but no, my dearest one;
my boots must stay on in your fresh house
like keeping on love’s lights.

So as the sky kisses the earth, kiss me now.
For on this floor lies the result, the oeuvre,
the sum, the lifework of all of the heavens–not
solely the travels of a mere man’s muddy boots.

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

The Earth, the Sun, and the Sky


The Earth
I have thrown fists
of earth at myself
as a wondrous gift
then swallowed gritty
earth as a consequence.
Some things are unintended that I do.

The Sun

The bastard beats me–the sun,
the early riser (The sun
has more things to do than me
I suppose)
She makes her own light.
(Damn, Primadonna)
If I could, I would make my own light.

And the Sky

My skin ends and the sky begins. It ends
right at the junction where I would be sky.
That’s shit, I do it, and it’s unintended.

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry


What becomes of a man who has nothing
to complain about?

Does he cease to exist
–in his own bubble?

Or, does he just retire to a life of spinning
foolishly around
on a ball in space

which itself revolves around
an even more silly
full of hot-air star?


Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

Solitary Life, A Richard Thompson Documentary

Originally posted on Biblioklept:

View original

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Gertrude Stein

“A rose is a rose is a rose.”
Gertrude Stein’s studio had many

paintings by Henri Manguin,
Pierre Bonnard, Pablo Picasso,

Paul Cézanne, Pierre-Auguste Renoir,
Honoré Daumier, Henri Matisse,

and Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec.  Look,
not one Rockwell has been found there.

And, “Toasted Susie is my ice cream.”

Leave a comment

Filed under Poetry

Whatever it was was it, wasn’t it?

Originally posted on Life UnMarked:

stove blurry B&W.

Whatever it was that I set out to do
Just now
Didn’t get done
But the oven is clean

To be honest, the oven did most of the work
While we were out it was
Burning, turning whatever that gunk was
To ash

It was a letter
I was composing a letter
Just a moment ago
Reluctant, muddy drafts

But what led me in here, just now?
Whatever it was
Is forgotten
In the cinders in the bottom of the oven
Vacuum, scrub, wash, scrub, rinse
Wipe away the last and

And there I am with tiny you
Fragments of your bones sifting
Through my fingers
Brushing my hands together and
On my jeans
Grit and fragments and silt
Tiny you, slipping through my fingers

To hope to just
Slide into the next space
The audacity of forward, going
Forward with silvered ashes on my hands


View original

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Under a Toenail Moon by Terry Gresham (Release)


by Terry M Gresham

“Like a reverie I fell into this collection of poems, vivid and strange, and I find myself returning afterwards, holding it like a dream in the morning light, studying the facets of meaning, jewel-like in my mind’s eye.” — Weodi Squid, Author of Monsters at the Kitchen Sink published by Rose Rock Press.

“Terry’s work takes you for a cab ride that starts in Oklahoma, ventures through your soul, and leaves you with fond memories of Whitman’s writing desk and the place where Kerouac threw up.”  — Jason Poudrier, Author of Red Fields published by Mongrel Empire Press and In the Rabble at Our Feet, Published by Rose Rock Press.

Under a Toenail Moon is available at LULU.com

I once studied the chair and desk of Whitman
while standing behind the sectioning off rope.  —Terry Gresham

Click Preview

Terry Gresham’s poetry is always surprising and always delightful. He works to pleasantly unsettle the audience from any expectations we might have. He says, “I try to think of the words on the page as not being the most important thing about the piece. Like a DNA or a protein molecule that has a primary structure (words) a secondary structure (words folding upon other words) and a tertiary structure (how the poem coils even further around due to its environment) I like to have the poem doing biology and somersaults. I like to have the poem doing things that it shouldn’t.

“One day, I would like to be like a song
and I want Annie Lennox to sing me.
I would love to be notable like that.”

The lines, I think, are beautiful–sweet and surprising. And what made them even more charming was the way he laughed after every one of them. – Teri McGrath

Enjoy it

Support independent publishing: Buy this book on Lulu.

Under a Toenail Moon by Terry Gresham

Leave a comment

Filed under books, Poetry