September 2021


About Poemography

To commemorate the tenth anniversary of my Poem-A-Day Project, I am reprising my daily poetry challenge in 2021.

Every day this year—from January 1st until the 31st of December—I will create a new poem inspired by whatever moves me at the moment I sit down to compose that day's poem, publishing them here with subscription-free access for all.  

Every Tuesday throughout the year, I will write and publish one bonus poem that will be available exclusively to my Patrons on Patreon.

In 2022, I will publish a book of my complete poems, spanning more than 40 years of poetry writing. The complete collection of poems will be published in a limited edition hardbound book available for purchase. As an added feature, I'm considering releasing some of the poems in this collection as spoken word recordings by a variety of special guest readers. Enjoy the year!


Brayon M.


January can be a cold and cruel month

Hearts hardened by the winter's frigid

Frost do slowly thaw; but what was it

That really caused you to kill a man

To lash out so violently against your

Own father who, according to all

Accounts, was generous, loving,

Kind and who provided for you

Looked after you even when it

Was clear that you were not

Well, that something was

Very, very wrong going

On inside of you; and

You killed your father

Like I killed mine in

My dreams of yore


One Evening at the Beach


I never expected to find myself at

The beach on that warm summer

Evening on the cusp of autumn,

But somewhere out of the blue

I was overcome with the desire

To walk along the seashore

And feel the sand beneath

My feet and the icy water

Rushing between my toes;

And never in a million years

Did I think I would see Emilia

As she sat on her blanket reading

A book with the orangey sunset in

The reflection of her sunglasses;

And for a fleeting moment, life

Suddenly seemed worth living


Madame Wongs


It was one of a handful of dreams

That had accompanied me to

Los Angeles; to play on the

Same stage where Sting,

Stewart and Andy had

Played only but a few years

Before; I had taken our demo tape

To Chinatown a month earlier and soon

Received a message on my answering

Machine with a date and time for

Our debut at Madame Wongs;

We were third on a bill of

Other local acts and the

Experience was unlike anything

I'd ever experienced before; a dream

Come true and then the club burned down




The changing seasons always

Bring a certain malaise, an

Often disquieting meld of

Symptoms and sadness

It is mostly exhausting,

The strain on my body's

Vital systems; the sneezing

And wheezing, coughing and a

Gentle but firm tug on my overall

Emotional state of mind; and

These doldrums and brazen

Decline of my health are

Reminders of the fragile

Milieu in which I exist; where

Life and death emerge to remind

Me that they are but one and the same




I would be quite content to

Live out my years in the midst

Of your rolling hills and endless

Country roads; where blue skies are

Bluer than blue and shiny white clouds

Meander unhurriedly above dreamy

Landscapes; a place where my

Needs would be few, where

I could quietly stroll along

The sunny promenade on the

Blackpool seafront eating vanilla ice

Cream from Notarianni's and biding my

Time listening to choirs of seagulls singing

Their afternoon chorales; and one hazy

Morning I'd run into Emilia walking

Her rabbit through the meadow


Perpetual Decay


It's why humanity is stagnant

Why we can't progress and

Why the world seems to be

Spinning out of control; it's

The cycles of decay that are

Constantly and forever null;

Reproached and rescinded

While cleaving an endless

Chasm of devastation in its

Wake; we're nothing more

Than cookie cutter people

Following in the footsteps

Of those who came before;

Lost in a perpetual decay of

Of insolence, incompetence

And an utter lack of decency




I used to be young, once, before

The pangs of aging began to set

In, before my breathing became

Labored and my belly grew wide

I used to be fit and trim, able to

Eat to my heart's content; able to

Walk and stand and run and sit

Without being reminded of how

Vulnerable and fragile the human

Condition actually was; and how

Very aware I have become of the

Foibles of an aging mind, when I

Can't recall the name of the group

That sang the song whose lyrics I

Can still sing word for word after

Not having heard it for thirty years


Your Hardened Heart

I tried to look the other way

To turn the other cheek; walk

Away and be done with all the

Drama; after all, there's no sense

Trying to convince you that what

You said—what you did—were

Despicable beyond reproach;

Not an ounce of decency or

One iota of humanity was

Lost on the abominable and

Unforgivable behavior spewed

So wantonly from your hardened

Heart; but I'll take the brunt of the

Blame, live with the contriteness

And lingering anguish that all

But annihilated my will to live


The Delightfulness of Purity

What if I were able to convince you

That our hearts belonged together;

That somewhere, in some distant

Fantasy, truths were discovered

And our truth was love born of

The ages and times long ago in

A moment of innocent pleasures

And all the delightfulness of purity

If only your eyes could see what I

Have seen; your heart felt what

Mine has felt; and to know the

Yearning of a life long lived

And nothing compares to the

Euphoria that overcomes me when

You are near; your presence fills the

Abyss where once there was only despair


The Last Day of Summer

So much upheaval

And spiritual chaos

The full moon and

Last day of summer

My emotions are a

Whirlwind, swirling

And tossing end over

End like tumbleweed

Drifting through a sad

Desert town in a bad

Spaghetti western; my

Heartstrings tugged on

By the immense power

Of the supernatural; so

Many secrets to reveal


The Pillow at the Foot of My Bed

I keep a pillow at the foot of my bed

So when I roll over I feel the weight

Of it as my foot gently bumps into

Its soft, weighted presence and

I imagine it's your leg that has

Met mine in the warm darkness

Of the night; and through our innocent

Encounter, I'm reminded I am not alone,

That you are there beside me as I sleep;

Comforting me, keeping me safe from

Nightmares and the insanity that

Lurks in my mind; it's the point

Of contact that lets me know

All is well and peace is upon me;

A subtle reminder that I am not alone,

That you will keep me safe until morning


An Unfavorable Influence

I'm fairly certain you're reliving

The most hopeless, angst-ridden

Moments of your teenage years

Recreating the saga to appease

Whatever malignancy has been

Kept fertile and lean throughout

The decades; and what is most

Disturbing is that you're surely

Aware of what is happening and

Seemingly contented by the great

Unhappiness you're inflicting on

Everyone around you; pleased by

Wreaking havoc on those who so

Need you to be their rock and not

A manipulative and sinister remnant

Of days better left buried in the past



I oftentimes struggle

To put things into 


To fully


What seems

Clear and simply

Easy to comprehend

And when my reality

Is most skewed

I look to the

Light for


For a deeper

Understanding of

All I don't understand



They are inescapable,

These feelings of guilt;

Undesired companions

Hangers-on complicit in

My misery; ever-present,

Lingering, thoughts that

Penetrate my thoughts

Interrupting serenity

But the most painful

Part is that the guilt will

Be my everlasting legacy;

Metamorphosing into bitter

Hatred that will remain long

After I am gone; a morbid

Souvenir, a reminder of

Everything I never was



I had to wonder,

And it's not the

First time I've

Wondered it

But what if

Every moment

I have lived in my

Life has brought me

To this, here and now;

Well, the easy answer

Is, of course, it has;

That is the very

Nature of life

And destiny; but

It's an answer that

Leaves me asking more


A Failure of Sorts

History rarely judges the insignificant;

Failures made by mediocre men often

Go unnoticed, unrecorded and mostly

Unacknowledged; history is kindest to

Those whose lackluster existence is all

But a digression of the unremembered

And what they tried but unquestionably

Failed miserably at accomplishing; but


There is one small concession in that a

Lingering afterthought remains of their

Efforts; an opaque souvenir that sits on

The mantelpiece collecting dust that is

Occasionally gazed upon by lookers-

On whose odious and wanton cruelty

Serve to only deepen the scars left by

A lifetime of disillusionment and pain


Guardian Angels

There is something exquisitely

Comforting believing that my

Life, right now in this very

Moment, is the best it

Will ever be; that all

The dreaming, hoping,

Wanting and longing have

Converged on this very second

In time; that I can lie in my bed

Tonight knowing that fate was

Indeed on my side, that my

Guardian angels not only

Exist, but have been the

Catalyst of the blessed and

Wondrous life I have been so

Very privileged to have experienced


The Burr Under My Saddle

I seem to be a repeat offender

Making the same mistakes

Over and over again

Fingers in the fire

Patterns seldom

Discarded for lessons

Learned; and yes, it does

Appear that I'm attracted to

A certain type; emotionally

Unstable, narcissists, those

Lacking self-esteem and

Even a schizophrenic;

But there hasn't been

A single person yet who

Has been a burr under my

Saddle the way you have been




The straight line

The unbroken line

Breached by intruders

Strangers and infiltrators

Those who come breaking

Down the barriers of a

Safe, serene though

Vulnerable home

Outsiders who

Inject self-serving

Venom into what was

Pure and perfectly innocent

I am complicit in my having

Chosen to shut up and

Turn a blind eye on

Virtue and verity


Unmoved by the Distortion

Waiting the storm out

Taking shelter beneath

A canopy of tall trees;

Other than the sound

Of softly falling rain

There is a calming

Silence that brings

A seldom-noticed

Calm and silence to

What is oftentimes

Agitated and ear-

Splitting; I won't

Be sucker-punched

By the past and I

Remain unmoved

By the distortion



Nothing is ever as it seems;

We only get bigger or smaller,

Smarter or dumber, darker or lighter;

There is an overabundance of abundance

Too much of everything and not enough of

Anything; people talk yet say nothing

Bla, bla, bla, bla, bla, bla, bla;

Distracted by the ringing in

My ears but that doesn't

Mean I can't hear what you're

Thinking; and whose life is it anyway?

There is a draft coming in from under the door

But I guess there always has been and I'm only

Noticing it now that the wind has picked

Up and the skies have turned pinkish

Grey and no one can see me


Number One Bullshit Guy

My eight o'clock appointment called saying

He'd be five minutes late; just then the door flew

Open and in walked this huge dopey-faced cretin

Who looked like he smelled of gasoline accompanied

By a floozy blond trophy girlfriend who set her purse on

A chair and walked out while the vile excuse for a human

Being, speaking in tongues with an accent I recognized as

Romanian, insisted I trim his beard and hair despite my telling


Him I don't take walk-ins, was fully booked and my next client

Was about to walk in the door; but this real bullshit guy refused

To leave and sat down in my chair, so I trimmed his repulsive,

Sweaty beard and buzzed him while he squirmed about like


An autistic baboon; he at once stood up, took my tools and

Finished trimming his beard and mustache himself before

Handing me some tattered bills and lurching out the door

Without as much as thanking me for my time and effort


Fat-Back Joyce

It's been a lifelong quirk

Anointing nicknames to total

Strangers by giving these bit

Players in my B-movie life odd

Hackneyed names

Representative of some

Idiosyncrasy or peculiar

Physical characteristic

It started in my teens

With Green Man; a loco

Who roamed our neighborhood

In a green jumpsuit shouting at nothing

And Mr. Cool, confirmed bachelor who

Lived with his old mother; walked down

Washtenaw in a suit, tie and hat with a

Long dangling-ash cigarette in his mouth


The Invisible String

Sometimes I wonder if we’re

Connected by an invisible string;

Two souls communicating over time,

Space and visceral electrical impulses

I so often lie awake in my bed at night

Thinking of you, certain that you're

Thinking of me but never sure if

They are thoughts of animosity

And of course this all takes me

Back to thoughts of him and how

Very alike the four of us are in our

Pain, conflict, journey and resentment;

And what if, by some extraordinary

Power, the four of us were joined

Together by this invisible string;

Oh, to dream of such things



There are certain mistakes

I've made over the course

Of my life that I simply will

Not own up to as doing so

Is too painful a reminder of

Loss and longing and of the

Self-made tragedies my soul

Has had to endure; but there

Have certainly been lessons

Learned, tears shed and a few

Regrets along the way; but I

Live each day in a perpetual

State of serenity despite some

Obvious trepidation and fervid

Desires that make the journey

Feel like trudging through mud


What Now

What do you do

When you've done

All you set out to do

Except for the things

You knew would be

Too difficult to do?

What comes now

What's next on

The to-do list?

Where shall I go

And if I go, what

Will I do when I get

There? These are the

Conundrums I face

On a daily basis,

Oh, woes is me


Ode to Stupid People

Have you ever seen what you look like

With smoke billowing out of your head

Sucking in, blowing out, sucking in and

Blowing out; record it on your phone and

Play it back and give it a good long watch

Really look at it, study it, contemplate it, see

What it is you're really doing; sucking in and

Blowing out like a complete and total imbecile;

And you, the pretty girl with a fag in one hand

Pushing the buggy with a Red Bull in the other;

Or the sporty guy on the bike waiting at the

Traffic light with the smoked-down nib you


Seem to have forgotten squeezed between

Your fingers quickly smoldering down to ash;

The Chinese guy racing for the tram with a fresh

Cigarette dangling from his lip in the pouring rain



I’m resigned to the idea that I will

Probably never see you again;

Adding to the ever-growing

List of people who, for one


Reason or another, have

Chosen to walk out of my

Life; sometimes the passage

Of time becomes an overbearing

Burden; but when I realize all of

These absences are no longer

A burden but a blessing, it

Eases the load and creates

A place of healing where

Pain is obliterated with the

Memories of those who can no

Longer cause sorrow or longing 



I've been trying to remember

What your voice sounded like;

Reminiscing about conversations

We had about so many trivial things

I think the timbre was somewhat low;

Soft yet incandescently calming like

A purr or the underhumming of

Thunder out in the distance 

You spoke very little, though

Your smile said everything you 

Wanted me to know; your eyes told

Me stories that were better kept untold

Perhaps one day I will awaken to the

Sound of your voice bidding me a

Good morning and realizing that it

Was nothing more than a dream


The Illusion of Reality

I try not to ponder things

Too deeply; but the more

I try, the more the illusion

Of reality becomes evident

And I fear these illusions

May be slowly taking on

A life of their own as they

Creep up on my faculties

There are days I question

Everything and there are

Others when I am simply

Too derailed to even care 

But there is always a light

That shines deep inside me

A light born of love, music

And the memories of Rose