August Poem 21: Believing in Angels

To eat or just smell genre writing or

Literary fiction writing has been

The dark poetry. Affected weight from

Literature as whatever process.

Hangover stories. My working novel.

Alex’s clockwork is like rephrasing.

The novel as representation of

Gaging workers. Asking of the readers

Again. They fear the similar people

Of Southern Mississippi, I worked a

Terror out through my heart. Were they to leave

This tome of writing as an antelope.

But they say writing fiction is easy,

And writing is believing in angels.

October Poem 24: Hit Me

I am waiting here

With my guard down

Trying to anticipate the next move.

Trying to see the next attack.

The next punch.


When I had moved in, I swung.

I swung wild,

And I was rebuffed

With a punch to the face.


My nose trickled blood,

And you stepped back.

I stumbled a step forward,

And you stepped back.


You say you won’t swing

If I can’t defend myself.



Is there a word?

Is there a name?

Is there an epithet

That I can whisper

That I can say

That I can scream in your face

That will make you hate me?

Make you hurt me?

Make you hit me?

Because I need to feel.


I drank myself numb

So I can feel.

October Poem 3

(From two tweets ((Now it’s three tweets(((Now four))), and I may add more)) I tagged to #FieryVerse. Check them out on Twitter. I tweet at @TheRichardBraxt.)


Cornered by anger

That grabbed her

By the arm and shook

That smashed her face

With two hairy knuckles


She walked

Into his words


She tasted his argument

A white hot flash of iron

Static and sour shock

Angry thieves of sanity

Mothers of aggression


Tear drops mix

With crimson and

Drip from the corner of

Her mouth

The elixir of love


It was her fault

She knew

He loved her

But blood


A shimmering

Lipstick smear

Her lips dripping


She blots Rorschach

A drenched rose

Bleeding into white tissue


August Poem 11: Cocktails

A memory in a glass.

A poem retold.

The poet forgotten

But the words remain

As proverb.


Barkeeps recite it from memory.

A little too much lemon

Or the wrong base spirit.

The rhyme, too sweet

Or the fruit juice has lost its meter.


But the people,

They order their rhymes

Straight up or over ice.

Sip them and enjoy

With the old friends they just met.

2012 Poetry: Glorious Joaquin the Brave

Through the stately streets of Clear Water

Where the oil lamps lit the way,

Steadily stumbled a mighty man

With a jug tilted to his face.


His dress was that of nobles

With coat, boots and blade.

His body was a veteran brawler,

And his hair was iced by age.


He parted the oaken doors and entered

The jolly old Gentlemen’s Club.

The blazing hearth chased out the cold

with the smell of fine tobacco that he loved.


He strode with purpose through the tavern

Where he was known to spend his time.

He meant to stop only for a moment

To refill his jug with wine.


Yet, he stayed for all the patrons

Who sang praises to his name,

And he longed for tender wenches

And the comfort they once gave.

2012 Poetry: The Lost Boy

When Billy was a small kid

He lived with wild dogs.

He ate the prickly bushes,

And he slept among the logs.


Billy was a small kid

But strong and mean and quick.

When he was teased by the other kids,

He would hit them with a stick.


The other children’s parents

Would raise their voices and say,

“Billy you’re a bad kid.”

Then, they’d chase him away.


But Billy was a smart kid

Although he lived with wild dogs,

And ate the prickly bushes,

And slept among the logs.


The parents would soon get tired

And turn to walk away.

Then, Billy would circle back,

And not a word he would say.


Although, Billy was a small kid,

He was strong and mean and quick.

When the parents weren’t looking,

He would hit them with a stick.