half-eaten body
of opossum: not the peace
i dreamt of finding

for On-Line Writer’s Guild

mr. right

I met my date at the Saint Benedict Hotel. He was sitting in an easy chair with a drink in his hand. First impression: a bit coarse for me. The shaggy distracted look of an armchair anarchist.

“Are you all right?” I said. “I’m Poppy.”

“Where did you spring up from?” he said. “You’ve given me a start.”

“I’ve just come from Westminster,” I said. “I work for the MP from Aberavon.”

“Bloody hell,” he said. “Plague on both your houses.”

“Oi, you are an anarchist.”

“Don’t vote – the government always wins.”

“Speaking of voting,” I said, “so far I’m giving you nought out of ten on the dating site.”

“If voting changed anything, they’d make it illegal.”

“Ta ta,” I said.

“Hang on,” he said. “I told them you’d pay for the drinks.”

for On-line Writer’s Guild

slow decay

my body is not decaying. not yet, because i am still alive and i am not plagued by a gangrenous limb or hosting any sort of flesh-eating bacteria.
it’s my life that’s decaying, and along with it, my soul.

lost my job and then my spouse and kids. lost the house and then the car. lost my respect and then my personal physical safety. lost my mind.

but wait. that is not slow decay. it happened in a blink. thinking back, it might have happened in a day, to be followed by a timeless gray and black stretch of sidewalks and doorways and featureless people.

i honor my body, though. it doesn’t quit. keeps on going. too dumb not to.

for The On-line Writer’s Guild


where am i now
on the path of time
halfway through
at the end
can i
could i
will i
would i
circle back

for The New, Unofficial, On-Line Writer’s Guild


“Don’t get up, gentlemen,” I say.

Shouldn’t have said that. Nobody was going to get up. Bad start.

“We’ve called you here because we have an employee who should probably be let go,” says Brad, the head of Engineering.

“Sorry. That’s not really my call,” I say.

Shouldn’t have said that.

“Of course it’s not your call,” Brad says, doing that thing with a pen where it wends its way through your fingers. “Just because you’re in HR, don’t start getting high and mighty. You’re a counselor. We want you to counsel this employee. You’re her last chance.”

I lift my head back up. Got to stop letting it hang when I’m corrected.

“Sorry. What’s her problem?” I say.

Shouldn’t have said that.

She doesn’t have a problem,” Brad says. “Just ask her. She’ll tell you, no problem. We’re the ones with the problem. Her.”

“Sorry,” I say. “What does she do that constitutes your problem?”

“Stop saying you’re sorry. You’re a counselor… Evelyn tells us that she’s decided to live her life in better balance. On the computer, she’ll only do her work with her right hand. She’s right-handed but she uses her left to do only what she refers to as personal work.”

“Sorry about saying sorry. I’ll do better… I presume when I interview her, I should look her in the right eye and speak toward her right ear.”

Brad looks at me like a lot of people look at me. I detect my head beginning to hang and bring it back up.

“Sorry,” I say.

for The Online Writer’s Guild


no meteor this time
when it all goes wrong for life
humans take the blame

for The New, Unofficial, One-Line Writers’ Guild

for The New, Unofficial, On-line Writer’s Guild (OLWG)


the grass grows uphill
in fact with nature’s changes
it’s uphill for all

for The New, Unofficial, On-line Writer’s Guild