The final April moon will soon take leave.
Contentedly, he navigates the sky.
He knows not that his passing makes us grieve,
Nor hears the tone of our collective sigh.

For thirty eves, the moon has cast his spell
Releasing inspiration from his core
Yet, now has come the time to say farewell,
As April’s moon will strum our hearts no more.

No gathering beneath his fetching smile,
Nor once-upon-a-timing ‘neath his glow.
Though next year, he will once again beguile;
Inspiring prose and verse to daily flow.

Our melancholy hearts will melt away,
For there will be a new moon come what May.

Marie Elena



  Polish lad
    Friday’s child
      Smidgen wild

        Stuff fixer
          Rhyme mixer
            Beach walker
              Ed talker

                Hard worker
                   P.A. lurker
                    Bills fan
                      Buckeye man

                        Poem writer
                          Sleep fighter
                            Word gifter
                              Mood lifter

                                Lake dweller
                                  Funny feller
                                    Smile bearer
                                      Blog sharer

Marie Elena

There.  I KNEW I’d seen a photo from your BeatleMagic Ed Sullivan gig.  Hope you don’t mind that I snooped through your FB photos and snatched your Ed Sullivan impersonation pic, Partner. Too fun! Now maybe my “Ed talker” line will make a little more sense to people, eh? 😉  


Just a crazy old guy,
collecting poems as if they were cats.
Stumbling, sometimes mumbling to himself.
“Moon, June, bafoon…”, this lyrical loon
searches for the right word. The way
he plays with nomenclature, they’re all right.
Off to his outpost, with a host of other
rhyming things, he sings words to a song
he had once written, smitten with a lovely.
Above him a placard bearing quotations,
and random notations; nuggets to ponder.
Yonder is a file box, stocked with pages:
rants and rages, laments and upstages.
A poetic pariah, lost in a world
in which every street leads to the
center of his worded thunder.
It’s no wonder others of his ilk
seek distance, with some resistance
to be sure. Purely speaking, they are seeking
his persistence and reticence. He pens in perfect
solitude, an attitude he’s acquired
to be all he’s desired; full throttle ahead.
Damn the torpedoes. Across the lake
he takes his stand. Just a crazy old guy.


With penchant for the written rhyme,
He’s now in his poetic prime.
The years have only added days
To wheedle words, or turn a phrase;
To woo a reader, pierce a vein —

And it is here that he’ll remain.

Marie Elena

Happy birthday to the best mentor a girl could ever ask for. Here’s to future decades of sweet-talking your muse into dancing ‘til the sun comes up.