She was my Texas gift.
I found Joe Ann at a strip club. Only place near Fort Hood that played my Detroit sports. She would sit with me and hold my hands. She told me often. Johnnie, Johnnie.… Continue reading
I found Joe Ann at a strip club. Only place near Fort Hood that played my Detroit sports. She would sit with me and hold my hands. She told me often. Johnnie, Johnnie.… Continue reading
My wild Texas rose. Kind mistress night brought her to me. The Austin, Texas bars brought people from all places together. When the moon took over the night sky. People from different places… Continue reading
Delia A Poem by Coyote Poetrylove can be sweet.. Love can damn us (The name Delia is of Greek origin. The meaning of Delia is “visible”. It is also of English origin, where its meaning… Continue reading
The last chance motel. Summer Texas night, cold drink and no-place to go. Michigan dreamer, drinking his Long Island teas and writing into a journal. “Song of my father, songs of the long highways,… Continue reading
Pretty pictures. I loved love, but love didn’t love me. I told the pretty Austin, Texas gal. I adored her bare shoulders and her black dress that draped her skin tightly. She smiled… Continue reading
The family tradition. A godly man tried to save me. He told me to quit the drink, and he told me to leave the dance-hall gals alone. If you don’t. You will be… Continue reading
Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. My friend told me. Be careful Johnnie. She is a feral cat. Can’t tame or keep in the house. She had ginger hair and eyes… Continue reading
1- dreaming’, Pleading’, Wonderer in’. And he was lost in her. He was curious to hear her voice, hold her close on the dance floor. She was curious too. She wanted to hear… Continue reading
The parable of the flowers and the lovelorn man. She was a perfect beauty. She danced nightly on a stage in Killeen, Texas. I went nightly and I waited for my tainted beauty… Continue reading
Just a Black Velvet lullaby. I wrote to an old journal in an Austin, Texas tavern in 1993. The poet doesn’t cry, he just writes some more. Hemingway told us, we, who love… Continue reading