my lady gaga

I just realized
that my troubles
come in doubles,
but yours come in triples;
so I am extending to you
my condolences
on your most recent tragedies,
the shit that happened to you
that won't be seen as comedies
on the small screen;
the stuff that really could get you
loosened, even if on a binge:
the sort of maladies
that discard all those vanities:
like you ever needed a mask,
you just needed a task.

December 30, 2009, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.


guess who?

there's this dude:
he doesn't "show it"
(as Lord Byron would say,
if this were still his day,
following general rules)
and still, and here's the kill --
he's a 'hattanite,
way far from a luddite,
or even a hittite --
but with all your wit
dark or half-lit,
can you figure it:
who should be granted
this title,
master of all entitled,
crafter of all manner
of pomes?

December 29, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.


First Church of Ned's Point

the ocean is angry
on this last Sunday morning of 2009,
with two-foot seas
kissing the fog, roughly,
as the tide charges the shore,
heading straight for me,
the lone scribbler,
once again pining for You;
my love cannot plumb
these surly waters,
it can only seek refuge
in the pavilion here
at the First Church of Ned's Point,
which You christened
on a sunny, more hospitable day
last August,
when Your eyes lit my way,
and Your laughter was my soundtrack;
this stormy day does nothing
to erase the mind's images,
caught and kept,
wrestling and surging,
floating out of my eyes,
surrounding me.

December 27, 2009, for the Wifey. Only four days!

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.


chickadee symphony

(your favorite poet is a bit low on the lively scale, and offers the following, written last month, as something for you to enjoy while he tries valiantly to find a reason to go on; well, okay, maybe I am not your favorite poet, but still, humor me, please)

outside my window today,
the chickadee symphony
plays away the day,
as my November soul
feels so old and grey:
wishing that it were
another day in May;
anything to remove this ring
from around my neck;
cast off the weight of repose,
and throw myself
at the feet of all those
who wish me well:
aw, what the hell,
I have done it,
just as I chose.

November 22, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.


Merry Christmas, Baby

the clouds have clamped a tight lid
on the whole of the harbor
and all of the bay that can be seen
from Ned's Point
this Christmas Morning,
as I sit, pensive, praying
to some god, somewhere,
thanking her for the gift of You;
I am, all told, not much of a man,
surely not one to be remembered
in history books
or nursery rhymes,
but I have had a few looks,
and more than a few times
that may be worth recounting,
the sum total of which
might be something amounting
to something;
but the best, for sure,
has been saved for last,
time with You, loved, and passed.

December 25, 2009, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.


O Christmas!

I remember the birth
of the mirth, of the joy,
though I was only a small boy:
I remember Christmas,
untouched, unblemished,
a simple time, one to relish,
enjoying the ordinary pleasures
as if they were new-found treasures;

now it all seems so stale,
so old and forgotten,
so much a sad tale
of times misbegotten;

maybe it's just me,
maybe I have lost all my
silly carefree serendipity;

in any event, I do not want
to dampen, or otherwise tamper
your merriment this night,
or to even temper your joy
with some of my sad employ;

go on, and you make the most of it,
and I will watch, from farther off,
and see the best of which
your good heart makes of such,
and cheer you on,
and cheer you on;

I am here with you, always,
just sometimes a bit further on,
just sometimes a bit further on.

December 24, 2009. To all my friends, Merry Christmas.

Copyright © Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

Christmas priceless

I did an inventory
a few minutes ago,
okay maybe an hour ago, sue me;
and I figured out that
there are, I think, four people
out of the billions on this planet,
who love me
without condition;
which is a big deal,
if you know anything about
and tonight, Christmas Eve,
will be the first time in all their lives,
those three,
each one,
that I will not be with them,
reading "A Visit from Saint Nicholas,"
and tucking them in;
too expensive, with too little income,
and if I don't work, I don't get paid,
just like all the working poor;
but the fourth one,
who loves me unconditionally,
I will get to see her
in seven days;
and part of the beauty is
that those three, my girls,
continue to merely want Daddy
to be happy;
and in seven days, I will be, again,
thanks to a woman beyond compare,
and three girls who unconditionally
love their daddy.

December 24, 2009, for my daughters and for the Wifey. I love you all four, with every ounce of me, including all the so-called legendary brain cells. Whatever. I'm just your dad, and I'm just your chubby hubby.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.


The Best Christmas Gift of All Time

Mom stared at me, like she had never laid eyes on me before in her life: "You have a special gift for me, but I have to close my eyes? I'm sorry, but I don't trust you. I haven't trusted you since you were in your late forties. No, late thirties. Eh, scratch that, late twenties. Eh, screw it, late teens. Okay, fine, not even then. Whatever. I am not closing my eyes when you are in the room. Got it?"

"Yes, mom, I got it. So fine, you won't close your eyes. Okay. Stick out your hand."

"Stick out my hand? What, are you fuckin nuts? I am not going to close my eyes, and yet somehow, you think that I will then, nonetheless, stick out my naked hand for you to drop some perverted shit into it? Do you think that I fell with the fuckin rain last night?"

"No, mom, I am fairly sure that you did not fall with the rain last night. I would have heard the gigantic thump, thump, thump, bump, bump, badadadada, bang bang whump, if you had."

"Wait a minute, mister, are you sayin something about the size of my butt or something?"

"No, mom, I am fairly sure that even with the available twenty-six letters, and all of their possible combinations, that it is not possible, in the English language, to say something about the size of your butt. That would require several more languages, a whole lot of vowels, a few major consonants, and probably a little K-Y."

"You are mocking me, aren't you? You think that I can't figure out what you are sayin, and so you are sayin cruel, spiteful things to me, about me, when you think that I can't tell that you are, aren't you?"

"No, mom, I know that you can tell when I am considering you as a mouth-breathing, totally dysfunctional moron, incapable of much more than tying your shoes. And I also know that, notwithstanding all of the immediately available evidence that I think you are a complete waste of oxygen, that you will smile, nod, and agree that I have your best interests at heart. Ain't familial love grand?"

"Famiminalial whatevah. What is this gift that you have for me, you misbegotten total failure of a man, what is it?"

"Now, mom, don't be waxin sentimental on me, or even mental, or for that matter, metal; no Gene Simmons moves, ok, mom?"

"No worries, regrettable spawn of my loins. Not even one Ozzy move, no Iggy Stooge replays, nothing. Lay it on me, you major league disappointment, put it right over the plate."

"Okay, mom, as you have asked, so it will be done. Hey, I sound like a priest!"

"Calmate, niño, you are no priest, believe me. So show me the freakin gift, already!"

"Okay, here it is, mom. It's a petrified turd of mine from when I was two years old. I saved it, because I knew that many years later, you would find it precious."

"A what? You are kidding me, right? You are giving me a gift which is a turd from when you were just off my tit? Am I getting that right?"

"Yes, mom, that brown, dusty little bit of crusty nastiness is your present. I feel like it is a secret bond that only you and I share."

She stared at me, like she usually does, a cross between a coyote sizing up dinner and an old lady who can barely see. I could tell that she was formulating a response, as I saw the steam start seeping out of her ears.

"What kind of a goddamn Christmas present is that, you worthless moron? You are giving me a piece of your own shit for a Christmas present?"

"Yes, I am, mom. Because it is a lot less injurious to my future."

"Injurious to your future? I can't believe that you were able to use "injurious" correctly in a sentence, you mouthbreathing cretin."

"Yes, and thank you, mom. If I had given you what I really wanted to give you, it could have resulted in a felony arrest and prosecution. So I settled on the turd instead."

"What were you planning on giving me before, nitwit?"

"I was planning on giving you that carving knife, the one that you don't let anyone use. I was planning on giving it to you between your third and fourth ribs, mom."

"Oh, I get it. You are too cheap to give me a gift that you selected, that you purchased, you just were going to give me something that I own. You are so worthless, it makes me laugh. Here, keep your petrified turd, you dopey sonovabitch."

"Well I don't want to disappoint you, mom. So here, here's the carving knife. I hope you enjoy it."

The look on her face was priceless, as the blade sunk in. Not just shock, but a strange maniacal look, like she had been waiting for it for a long time, but never expected it to arrive.

"Well, shithead," she gasped, "I guess you have just injured your future."

"Not really, mom, this is just a story. You know that I would never do such a foolish thing. You're fine. You haven't been murdered. You are just overtired. You ought to get some rest, maybe lie down for a while."

"I can't believe my ears," she gurgled with her last breath, "but I actually agree with you, you imbecile. I think I do need to take a little rest."

Her eyes closed, and the blood began to turn brown, and I knew that I had given her the best. The Christmas gift of all time. I was proud of myself, and I knew, that somewhere around the seventh circle of Hell, she was proud of me too.

December 22, 2009, just in time for Christmas.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

Baby Jesús

millions of music notes
and that many more
words wrote
as adoration;
please, tell us,
that it was not just

that Paul was not just
the ancient equivalent
of the modern-day
shopping mall salesman;

that Gethsemane was not
just an event for you to be
available for the cameras,
a failing of us, for which
you could hammer us;

that when the cock crowed
for Peter that morning,
that it was not just another
myth to ensure your adoring;

that when the stone was found
rolled back quite a way,
that it was not just your plan
for added media play;

oh, and happy birthday:
Feliz Navidad, Jesús.

hey, wait, weren't you
a Palestinian?

December 22, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

no surplus

you can never get
too many hugs,
or too much relief
from things that bug you;

there's no such thing
as too much wishin',
and if you have cancer,
you're always up for
a little more remission;

ah, too cutesy, you say,
and you turn your head away;
too many rhymes,
and not nearly enough time,
spent on things that are
Oh So Important To Say;

eh, with all the death and
destruction around,
and all the lives in need of
we ought to declare a special
holiday, when everyone gets
to say what they want to say
in their own special way,
without having a goddamned
election or some such other
opportunity for the majority
to stick it to us one more time,
whether or not they've a
decent rhyme, or the sense of
meter to make the rhythm shine;

no such thing as a silly song
to sing, if all you have left is
one simple melody, even off-key,
if a song helps you along, it's your
own serendipity, your own picking
of the lock for which there is no key;

you never can receive too much
unconditional love; it's what makes
falling down make us reach up above;
nor is there a proper quota on fun,
try it, have some, and you will have
won; maybe not the war, but certainly
the battle at hand; and then sing your
off-key song, sing it to beat the band;

oh no, there goes another cliché:
will he spout them until he is carried away?

maybe I will, and maybe I won't, and
I will not say, save only that I never let
naysayers stand in my way; I am here to
preach love, and to ensure that you do not
forget that I hope that all that is wonderful
is all that you get, and then some;

and then some more.

December 22, 2009, for all of you.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.


we are together

outside, baby, the storm rages,
dropping all that white all over,
while I flip through care-worn pages,
and realize that You are like no other;
I may need You to save me,
from all that accumulating nieve;

blessing me, every day, with Your love,
such a silly fool that I remain, still,
no showers of frozen water from above,
will ever let me complain,
while I enjoy all the charms that
You employ, as You take us down
that primrose path, past all the bad,
past all the past, past the wrath
visited so unfairly on You, and
by extension, on me;

now, just the capture of what we wrought,
a souvenir of all that we bought,
lock, stock, and barrel:
You and I, cemented in the middle,
maybe a new life to seek,
maybe not so very meek as to say,
today is the first day
of forever, whatever, and ever
shall be: me for You,
and You for me;

as I have You, here, the distance
makes my love for You everclear:
part, momentarily, my dear,
as we always must,
but for always, we are together.

December 20, 2009, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.


to never leave you

this night, especially,
the sound of You sleeping,
inches away,
comforts me more than my silly words
can say;

comfort now is found,
but reality always rebounds,
as I realize that I almost lost me,
but more importantly, You,
earlier today, when
something seized me,
held me tight in a grip,
and yet somehow,
there was a small click,
a switch switched, and I continued
on my zigzag trip
to somewhere,
at least to now,
and tomorrow, but somehow,
the elation of survival
is the second cousin of sorrow;

another day to love You,
more chances to show my true self
a little bit more than just words,
my arms holding You tighter,
this life, feeling just a little righter
than when I started this day,
unaware that something might conspire
to take me away from You, again,
like those lives before, way back when,
when the way was lit with smoky torches,
and all I could see were Your eyes,
and That Smile, through the haze,
those days, dimly lit now,
but burned in my eyes so clear, and
yet somehow, for a time today,
I did not remember You,
and lost my focus, lost my bearings,
and I was adrift;

I cannot measure my determination,
my will, my strength, my ardor for You
in any useful way, but I hope that it will
suffice to say, that I am now dedicated
in more ways than I can say,
come what may,
to never leave You.

December 19, 2009, for the Wifey, my beacon, always.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.


blind success, so temporary

I still manage to put one foot in front of the other,
and generally get to where I need to go,
even though you constantly push me aside,
your eyes on the prize of the day,
as you let nothing get in your way;

I breathe pretty well most of the time,
even with your foot pressing down on my neck;
I still smile when I see something beautiful,
even though your grimace looms over the landscape;

I believe in the innate goodness of people,
even though you manage to make malice seem
like the order of the day, in every way;
While you worry about whether your latte will be freshly brewed,
I wonder what I will do tomorrow about food;

You laugh at those whose frailties show, you snicker,
but what will come to you, in time, will make you sicker
than you seem to me now, all attitude and eyebrow;

I used to be on the top of the pile, like you are now,
and I learned how easy it is to fall, and how fast it can come;
I can see that in your eyes today, that simple slip
when misfortune takes everything, and makes you run for cover;
one day, you will be down here, though you will likely not see,
you will probably not discover that having nothing to lose,
means that you are really, really free;

Of course, in your mindset, you will never have a regret,
you will never appreciate all that fate and pure luck gave you,
even when you hit the bottom, and there is no one left who cares,
no one who will even try to save you, even yourself,
and all your accumulation will amount to nothing,
rotting and corroding on some too-high-to-reach shelf;

Every time I feel especially low, I take a moment, like now,
to feel really sorry for those like you, who would not know
what to do, or where to turn, if you were in my shoes,
and I wind up, oddly, having so much pity for you.

December 15, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.


facets of You

tonight, yet another in a long line
of nights that I wish that I was there,
with my hands full of You,
juggling nothing but Your voluptuousness,
seeking nothing but a little more,
willing to take the boat of romance
quite a ways off the shore --
discoverers and lovers
share something important:
the willingness to explore --
and I never tire of turning over
one more time,
and finding another facet of You,
a surprise not quite plainly viewed,
but one that widens my eyes,
gives me a view that is new,
reminds me of how complex You are,
a lover quite simple,
but a lover beyond compare,
a thousand million things,
and all right there.

December 14, 2009, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

act later!

okay, let's be brutally honest:
candid, frank --
hey, we could even shoot for truthful --
there are no "operators standing by",
and if you do not "act now"
it simply means that someone will
finish their crossword book
sooner than they otherwise
might have,
and pull out a new one,
or reach for the latest issue of
The Star;
so relax,
don't worry about the doubled offer:
someone will be "sitting by"
on their big fat ass
anytime tomorrow.

December 14, 2009, from the forthcoming collection, Spoken Rage.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.



I wore your leather jacket,
the one from years ago,
out in the rain today,
but the pain was not good enough
without you around to grimace
as the big raindrops left their
dark splotches
right about where I would place
a bodyshot, if I was not so
enamored of headshots;
and then I ripped a photo of you
into two
or three
million pieces,
sprinkling them on the ground
as the rain beat down,
turning your jacket
into trash;
and I hoped that forever
you moan and thrash,
and know no peace,
and die a slow, painful death,

December 13, 2009, from the forthcoming collection, Spoken Rage.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

holding secrets forever

the Huey glides by,
inches above the far horizon,
close enough of a speck to see,
but barely close enough to hear;
something rises from these distant hills,
some magic, sent
to inspire with thrills
or certain death,
beneath icy, salty barriers
to immortality;
and so the search
for the wayward vessel,
caught in some lurch of the sea,
until at last, every inch has been
mapped, studied, frozen in the eye,
and there is nothing,
just nothing to be found,
not more time,
nor more hope,
only waters
holding secrets forever.

December 13, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

just right

the "good girls," of course,
are really boring, until
hopefully, you have the luck,
or the good sense,
or even the skill,
to bring out the inner "bad girl" in them:
that's when life gets interesting,
when you spend at least half the time,
covering up, dodging flying shoes,
guarding the bottle,
sleeping with one eye open,
as you lie on a bed of nails;
luckily for me,
You only play a good girl on TV
(I know it's not my skill,
it's at best serendipity),
and so life is just one long
hold-your-breath-and-hang-on-tight thrill,
from the first thing in the day
until way into the tomb of night,
rockin', rollin',
feelin', knowin',
that everything here is
just right.

December 13, 2009, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

solitude on sunday morning

this morning, after a week of winds
strong enough to turn your head around,
there is no breeze at all at Ned's Point,
only clear blue sky,
some distant nimbus clouds,
and the water in the harbor
looks like Nana just finished ironing it;
hardly any people here either,
as if they were all led away in the night,
last night, the night that
I most recently waited patiently for You,
and You never arrived;
this stillness, broken only by a couple
of somber cackles of gulls,
gives me a concrete sense
of what my world would be like
if You were no longer in it,
and the feeling, that feeling,
starts to sicken me,
and so I decide that I must write it
all down in order to remember it, as I
have high hopes to never know it again.

December 13, 2009, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.



framed in doorways,
some looking mournful,
others glaring right through me;
and those in repose,
with the same downward cant
of the hips,
trapped in the motionless sea
of twisted sheets,
rumpled bedclothes,
some sneering,
others, with full lips,
always the curves,
every one of them
deadly, ready to take a man
and toss him over the embankment,
for crimes done,
or simply for fun;
short and tall,
dark and fair,
all in all,
they remain frozen there:
captured beneath my eyelids,
as I seek what is hidden,
unwritten, underscored,
as I stare, mesmerized;
this begins all,
and ends with a fall,
a stumble, a misstep,
and suddenly,
all that is left
are silhouettes.

December 11, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.


simply meant to be

our friend says that she doesn't condone
our relationship, which of course comes
as no surprise, since few people would;
most anyone would see nothing but bad,
their view clouded, blocking out the good;
but we never sought this love, it
came as a bolt to hit the mark, and we were
both caught flat-footed, stunned by
what sprang up before us, consumed us;
and we chose,
yes, we chose,
not to deny it, which seemed a sin,
and probing deeper, we both came to believe
that we had been lovers before,
many, many times over millennia --
too much that fit so well, soulmates --
not in some pop-psych sort of way,
but in ways that are hard to put into words,
and we knew,
we just knew,
that we had been each other's before,
and pure chance had brought us together again,
after who knows how many lifetimes;
in this life, the most unlikely of couples,
but yet, such a perfect fit
in a world filled with imperfect puzzles;
we cannot explain the inexplicable,
nor can we apologize for this bond,
this love that runs so deep, so true --
who apologizes for real love, true devotion?
who turns their back on something so
magnificent, so rare, an unending pledge
to always be there?
we do not know where this path leads,
only that we must follow it,
embrace each other, and know, in the quiet,
still moments, that we were always
simply meant to be.

December 10, 2009, for the Wifey. Only you know, and I know.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.


better number 2

I adore You:
You are better than any sunrise,
better than Ned's Point,
or chocolate,
The Beatles,
apple pie,
Cajun seared catfish,
fresh fruit,
ham and eggs,
smoked oysters,
fig newtons,
ribeye steak,
buttermilk biscuits,
down comforters,
scallops wrapped in bacon,
linguica and chorizo,
pastrami on rye,
all nine symphonies,
salsa picante,
free drinks,
smoked Gouda,
every known songbird,pot roast,
Billy Collins,
jumbo shrimp,
ice cold beer,
William Blake,
grilled cheese sandwiches,
rock 'n' roll,
hot showers,
oysters on the half shell,
sleeping in,
Adrienne Rich,
Vidalia onions,
bologna sandwiches,
any pome I have ever written,
better than any of the things that I enjoy,
and all of them combined;
all of the women that I have ever known,
laid end to end,
would never measure up to You;
it's true, every bit:
I am so lucky to have You,
that it is a wonder that I am not
black and blue from pinching myself.

December 8, 2009, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.


his belt
was used mostly
to hold up his pants;

your cat-o'-nine-tails
had only one purpose;

funeral arrangements:
"paper or plastic?"

December 8, 2009, from the forthcoming collection, Spoken Rage.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

disconsolate as I depart

my fingers struggle mightily with these keys
as the petrification begins,
but still, there might someday be something useful
to be gleaned from this, some glimmer of something;
and as always, I am dutiful,
I am the last one to leave the scene of the crime,
absorbing every detail, my mental vacuum
sucking up every bit,
testing one two three

he pushed,
and I pulled,
and between us, we now have four empty hands,
having managed to do not much but tear You apart;
who could live with this?
who could go another day,
with Your blood on their hands?

over millennia, You and I, playing cat and mouse, playfully
playing house, challenging each other to love's brightly-colored games,
all tried-and-true, even though I forget all their names;
one lifetime together, and two apart, yet
each time we found each other, it was never a new start:
we knew each other like the moccasin knows the foot,
like the glove knows the hand,
like the hourglass feels each tumbling grain of sand;

and yet, this time, this time it hurts like never before,
like the window keeps slamming shut,
in perfect syncopation with the heavy door,
and I sit here, my mind on fire and my heart on the floor,
and I wish it were not so,
that You felt that You had to go,
I wish that it were not so,
wish that it were not so;

of course, this life has been just another in such a long string,
appropriate for much and yet apropos of nothing;
another testing ground for philosophy,
another set of challenges for You and for me:
charting the hidden paths of love's deepest courses,
holding each other so close in spite of wild horses,
living in each other's hearts and arms so comfortably,
seeing everything at once, knowing just what to be,
to be the alpha and the omega of two beating hearts,
the sine qua non of passion's endless starts and stops,
actors enabled by fevered pitches without any need of props;

and I told You, even as I begged you to stay,
I vowed that if You left, that I would follow,
that today melts into tomorrow's sorrow, and yet even so,
if You left, that then I too would go,
and so I will, I am leaving tonight,
hot on Your trail, following the wisp of vapor that is Your tail,
taking in Your scent, as You make your descent,
breathing in once again, as You breathe out,
and it being fresh this time, I know I will catch up to You,
if it is the last immortal thing that I ever do;

then there is the matter of our six orphans left behind,
what is to become of them?
they are left in capable hands, You told me,
and although I could not accept such glibly,
I acceded to Your assertions, and pray only that You were,
once again, entirely correct, flawless in Your estimation
of cause and effect, of how things turn out, century after century;

I shall be with You again soon, mi amor,
Loving you True, siempre.

December 7, 2009, for the Wifey. False alarm, but the path lies waiting.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.



the oriole, the robin, and the wren
are engaged in a lively conversation
this Sunday morning
about how rapidly the tide
is going out, creating
one-foot swells as it races out to sea;
the oriole wonders
if the harbor might be emptied,
leaving lots of food exposed
to the winter sun;
the robin cackles a laugh,
as she spits out a chokeberry,
mistaken for bittersweet,
and the wren keeps her opinions
on the end of the harbor to herself;
the dripping of the melting snow
provides the only rhythm
for this sun-drenched conversation,
and I imagine you and I
as birds, flitting from branch to branch,
singing, laughing, loving,
and certain that at some point,
the tide will stop going out,
and return.

December 6, 2009, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

Facebook | Edit Album - FarmVille Photos

Facebook | Edit Album - FarmVille Photos


yuletide greeting

snuffed out candles,
black wreaths,
moldy food on display,
and the winter cold
escapes your bitter heart
and appears in shadows
that seem as determined
to gleam as they seem
certain to stay;
your winter's death,
a cause for much
dark celebration:
no more your vile bile
cast out upon Creation;
your last rattle of a breath,
a welcome hello,
as home now
can once again
really be one,
oh monster mine.

December 3, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.


live through this

live through this,
live through this:

at the end,
on the other side,
is You;

live through this,
live through this;


live through this,
live through this:

get to You,
get to You.

December 3, 2009, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

time served

every day
the bleak
looks bleaker
the meek
look weaker,
as this stone rolls
back down the hill again;

I'd ask for the time,
if I thought you might
spare some,
or maybe a dime,
if there was something
that I could do with one;

when I make that
long, slow march
into Hell,
I am asking for credit for
time served.

December 2, 2009, from the forthcoming collection, Spoken Rage.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.


evermore number 2

I look down at the floor:
Your two tiny lime-green slippers
sit next to my size 9 waterproof boots;
they may seem disparate,
but they have more in common
than can be readily seen,
and are more than comfortable
next to each other,
like You and I:
down through millennia,
each of us, catching the other's eye;
our reunion, now nine months old,
is our ageless story,
only once again retold:
a love of all lifetimes,
a love so bold,
that it ventures to places
both new and old;
You were mine once,
and hence, evermore.

November 29, 2009, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.


most beautiful

in Your cute Christmas pajamas,
fresh as a daisy
from Your shower,
hair damp,
a million-and-one ringlets of brown,
Your former frown
replaced with That Smile,
and not a speck yet
of makeup:
and I tell You
that this is when
You are most beautiful,
and You give me
a p'shaw,
and blush,
and I remind myself
that I am a most fortunate man,
to have Your love:
You amaze me,
and You honor me with such.

November 28, 2009, for the Wifey.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

Great Phone Conversations 17

"Hello. How have you been?"

"I was fine until about five seconds ago. What do you want, you sick pervert?"

"I was hoping, in the spirit of the season, that we could let go of the past -- start fresh -- so I called to tell you how to spread cheer at the holidays, sort of a peace offering."


"Well, you grab cheer's right thigh with your left hand,"


December 1, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.