Ten p.m. drapery of fog

Mere inches ahead

In an obscured backyard

Now unfamiliar territory

Feeling freaked

And not reassured

By my dogs’ growls

Peering through concealing mist

Goliath-sized creature

Wings slowly lifting

Smudging the sky

I close my eyes

As it ascends into the dense ceiling

Almost hearing the futile pounding

Of the waning crescent

On its stubborn Impenetrability

Dogs begin a low protest

Crescendoing into a shattering howl

Live Oaks dwarfed

By what can only be

A dragon in the fog …


© 2017 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)

Image:  The Mist Dragon, Andre Ma, Deviant Art



Nothing like riding a storm

To a flooded-out fish festival

Driving back out

Heat-seeking lightning bolts

Aiming for my car on US 19

Craving shelter, and food,

At Hudson Beach

Running for a rest room

As wind whips the umbrella

Out of my cold, wet hand

Only to find out it’s too early

For lunch on the beach

Waiting as time barely ticks

Gazing at the high tide

Crashing against the Gulf-wall

My hair caught between shivering lips

Needing to be heated up

But that not happening

So back home

Wet and spotted with mud

Nothing like a huge plate of

Foreign cholesterol

Shoveled quickly



Nothing like it all

To finally knock me out

From a sleepless night

As I lie wrapped in several sleeping bags

Dogs gathered around

Living their dreams

As we all dance through

Our own surrealistic adventures

While deep breathing through

A much-needed nap


© 2016 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)

IMAGE: Seawall, no identification



Repost: Max & Kali

O-two-three-o hours
My two dogs howling
Tumbling out the sliding glass door
Into the 85 degree darkness
First quarter moon lights up Live Oaks
Dressed in shawls of Spanish Moss
Remnants of the meteor shower showing
In a sky littered with a Southern Cross, planets
And suns dead for billions of years.
Whatever set the dogs off escaped across the fence
Disappearing into the cacophony of the swamp
Little Florida floozie struts around the yard
Looking for a good time
Big guy recalls his dignity and patrols the perimeter
I stumble around with a flashlight, finally convincing them
To leave the humidity to the nocturnals.
Back in bed the little one
Nudges me to the edge of patience
Snuggled against me, she is a bio-heater
The air con cannot keep up
I count to one hundred
I alphabetize Beatles’ songs
I rhyme words for future poems
I get out of bed and fire up the computer
While the dogs sleep the sleep of the innocent
Twitchingly reliving their middle of the night
Escapade as I debate the merits of o-three-o-o coffee.

(c) 2014 Poetry of Memory: Six Decades from the Space-Time Continuum