the towers begin to rise

over the beaches of the city

and in windblown fields

of bluebonnet and stone

at the edge of her borders

and in environs beyond

soon they will loom

beneath the face of the sun

over the coastal plains

and the waves of the Gulf

where the ships push through

walls of choppy water

to harbor and port


yes, they will look down,

towers, without number,

higher than the air trails

blazed by the eagles of the East

their outer walls bedecked

with hanging gardens

from which pour waterfalls

into guarded pools below

their windows like mirrors

of glimmering gold, lit

by the daystar on high

like shimmering seas of silver

reflecting the moon at night


a glut of humanity

pours into the City

swelling her ranks

Gotham is emptied,

all her finest things

transplanted here

Gotham the great

a metropolis reborn, here

where heat and humidity,

fossils of a bygone age,

are pressed to extinction

by the mind of man

like finger to thermostat


the festivals spring up

all around, in every district

galas inaugurated

decreed into perpetuity

the confetti raining down

from the greatest of heights

the sound of popping corks

matching in number and kind

the beat of the drums

which sound in the streets

where the people sing songs

and even the old ones dance

as they did in days gone by


in time, the stars are born

the greatest of the greats

walking the City like giants

each of them on the ascent

climbing the limelit ladder

to their globes of fame

thespians and poets

painters and sculptors

musicians and athletes

each of them fashioning works

envied by the Olympic powers

whose mythic glory grows cold

as the years march forth


and abiding in their estates

within the sky-piercing spires

and in mazes of mansions

stretching to the horizon

and in diamond-made palaces

submerged in the waters

the people live out their days

here, in this City about the Bay

forged anew, and made young again

by the years of suppression

of a tired and aged element

who thought to keep her hidden

from the eyes of the world


Slowin’ The Wheels

a moment in time,

when everything’s right —

a point on the wheel,

rolling on the way, turning

faster and faster now

the moment, when it comes

comes too close

to nothing, like the life

of lightning in the day,

but the moment comes

on this road, the journey

when the point hits it —

the asphalt, kissing the road —

and the magic happens

everything’s right

everything clicks

more than peeps

at the pool table

in this world, the moments

it’s all we got…the moments

but we slam on the gas

the wheels movin’

cyclones spinnin’

too quick, too fast

even for the eye

the moments, the hours

they’re cut short

to less than nothing

so brief they fade

from the timeline

never existed, erased

from things past

never to come again

in the future, near or far

this world, rolling too fast

gotta slow the wheels

slow the moments

and let them come

ever so gently, rolling easy

roll the windows down

let the wind — style the hair

sippin’ on a little something

take it all in…and breathe

yeah, just take it all in

and let go, let them go

the wrongs and worries

toss them out the window

while we head on

straight to someplace

we’ve never been

off the road somewhere

let’s go there slow

and stay there

never come back

back to the road

with its moments

yeah we’ll do this

ditch this grind

sick of the rat race

so let’s just go

just up and leave it all

for that life we had

even just for a single day

rediscover what we lost

before life piled it on

the life of the job

lived almost every day

since we were still babies

back in high school


The Loitering Stones

I went searching for a place

under the Texas sun

somewhere, anywhere

where my ears might take in

perhaps, the sound of stones

loitering on the ground

or the voice of the air

before it forms into waves

I went looking for someplace

a void unfilled by sound

where eyes can’t stray

pulled to this or that

mirages distracting

yes I went searching

for a place apart

to stay and to pray

to study, meditate

ponder and reflect

wonder, put pen to paper

a place to just be

and to be nothing

so I drove to the church

and I heard the singing

praying, and conversing

there in the pews

a public living room

so I left from there

to the library

and to screaming children

running in the play area

so I up and left

fleeing to the beach

where my eyes were seduced

at the sight of bronze skin

glistening like olive oil

in the Texas sun

then escaping to the outskirts

to the edge of town

I came to a park

to teens with nothing to do

smoking, lollygagging

shooting the bull

it took me not very long

to tire of their clamor

so I made for a field

lonely field of wildflower

with those loitering stones

yet, the sun beat down

and I had neither hat

nor cover of any kind

and but for the shrubs and brush

enjoying the shade of the trees

I’d have had a shield

some relief from the heat

and so I threw in the towel

and went back to that house

where the roommates hang

like spiders on the web

straight to my room

locked within the same four walls

for hours in the day

and for hours in the night,

for hours in the day

and for hours in the night….


A Day For Monet

This is a little thing inspired by Joe Robinson’s song “Misty”.  There are no lyrics to the song…but the point of the song is to convey an emotion, or feeling, without the use of words.  And to me, the feeling that the song is meant to convey is one of simple joy and joyful simplicity.

But also, it’s about something of the experience of perfect happiness, free of every problem and worry, that state of soul we all long for and wish to experience continually, without interruption or end.  Thus, the spirit of my poem.  So, I “translated” the musical notes and sounds of the song into words so as to express this feeling in a written piece.

— Vercey

not a wisp in the sky

grey or white

a blue dome sky

for my hat

I boogie on down

across the way

to the park

tap dancing

and whistling

with the wind

and I can see

the smiling faces

greeting me

as I make my way

to that old fence line

where the horse is

in the park

where the children play

run and play catch

rollick in the grass

climb the tree

and fly their kites

drink their punch

and ride their bikes

while I’m on the path

circling the park here

walking my lunch off

and then I go

heading home

to that place I know

but I’ll come back later

in the cool of the day

to do it again

yes I’ll be back

back this way

today, and every day

for as long as I can stay…

for as long as I can stay



Is Poetry An Art?

If poetry is an art, then why do bookstores exclude it from the section labeled “Art” where the works of painters, sculptors, photographers, etc. are offered for sale?  The same goes for libraries.  There’s something to be said about having a separate section for the works of poets and poetry anthologies and other books about poetry, as if it were to say, “poetry is the art of arts, therefore it deserves a section reserved unto itself”.

But perhaps over time, due to that very separation, and in the minds of patrons and other customers who happen upon it, the poetry section tends to become that part of the store (or library) where one can purchase (or check out) books by people who, like philosophers, tend to sit around all day thinking about things, reflecting on them like monks in a cloister.  “They analyze things like philosophers, and thus become philosophers of sorts.  But philosophy is not an art, thus the poet is just a psuedo-artist who uses catchy words and images to paint a mental picture, but the real artist actually paints the picture”.  At least on a subconscious level, this might be the thought that runs like a thread through the web of conceptions which most folks have weaved in their minds concerning who and what a poet is.

Such a stigma seems not to mar the reputation of “artists”, such as those who practice the visual arts.  But these same artists also think and ponder and reflect, as do poets.  So I believe that there exists a sort of subconscious distinction in people’s minds between “artist” and “poet”, and this needs to be destroyed.  I think we as poets should make an effort, if one has not already been made, to correct this misconception, to the best of our ability, in whatever way we can.

The bottom line is this:  art at its essence is an arrangement of things in order to convey an image, an idea, an experience or any other reality whether it be in the actual world or an imaginary one.  And this arrangement is common to all the arts:  those visual, musical and written.  Painters arrange lines, forms, colors and textures, et cetera, to paint an image or convey some reality.  Musicians arrange notes, chords, melodies, et cetera to convey aural realities.  And poets arrange words and phrases, perhaps even sentences sometimes, to convey the essence of things, things both real and fictional.  Thus, we as poets should move to make the world aware that poetry has always been, and forever will remain, an art form, alongside both painting and music.  My two cents.

— Vercey


Secrets In A Bottle

the secrets we hide,

the thoughts we hoard,

we shelter them like daughters

caged within four walls,

never letting go in,

never letting go out,

they’ll run away one day,

before you know it,

pouring themselves onto a page,

ink onto the paper,

stuffed into a bottle,

corked and thrown into the sea

never to be found

until the shores of eternity come,

come into view, sharpened

by the degree to which we hid

and masked those things we kept

kept inside, never wanting others to know,

and then at world’s end, the bottle found

the writing etched into the sand

for every soul to read, to see

and then you’ll ask, “why did I do it?”

why did you bother to hide them…

those dark, deep thoughts

you thought were forever yours,

and yours alone, never to be thrown

into the light cast by myriads of eyes unseen,

the souls which do now behold it all?