This old Jeep coal-brushed, threadbare

Long ferried me with little flair

You stayed your task while bearing years

Through smiles, angst and even tears

But, temperamental you’ve become

You knock and waver, refuse to run

You now doubt my every turn

My mild voice to coax you spurn

Your showroom looks are long since past

That Detroit scent it didn’t last

Tainted now with odorous descent

To pumpkins rot to ripened scent

And brakes that cause all heads to turn

Instead of fuel it’s oil you burn

Your tires now worn as smooth as tape

And yet our bond I can’t escape

Not bothered by those curious glances

The secret reason I take these chances

The reason why my tolerance not lost

It may just be a new car’s cost


This one was a collaboration.

I wanted to call it “Ode to Jeep”, but Aldo didn’t like that idea.


Aldo and Karrie






I stroll the street my thoughts ride the air with every breath

The wind swirls to scrape my cheek reminding me to be vigilant of its looming bite

A young woman clutches hand to chest keeping the chill from becoming too familiar

Trees sway littering the air with their infinite supply of photosynthetic messages

An inquisitive child gazes skyward in search of blue but can only find its melancholy,

Weeping mist onto blushing leaves

All around ubiquitous creature scuttles about cheeks full like rucksacks crammed to capacity

Chimneys marked aroma signal it’s that time of year, aromatherapy for my soul

Ahh, autumn my capricious friend I’ve been expecting you






White is light thru morning glass

White is glimpsed motion on yonder grass

White is your smile transfixed on me

White is rolling fog billowing from the sea

White is sand on isthmus stretched far

White is a sticky fingered ice cream bar

White is flutter unified flight

White is a flurry on a blustery winter’s night

White are all these and these are all white

White is the color when I’m feeling quite right

D. Aldo


Belle was a gal of relaxed virtues

Shrugged off society and scorned the news

Practiced her special art of persuasion

While soaking her throat with the local libation

Not one to back down from life’s unbroken drama

Belle was a pistol, took after her mama

Some might say she was thick in the head

But, if you knew her you’d just say mulish instead

Her beauty not drop-dead, this was quite clear

I’d say she was handsome, with a whole lot of years

Belles’ clothes were worn like she’d lost a juvenile dare

And she had what can only be described as mug shot hair

Always an authority on all matters at hand

Politics, Religion, Life, she didn’t give a damn

Belle held daily court between tables and chairs

At the bar, in the back over by the stairs

Day in, day out no matter the state of her nation

Sammy’s was her place, her moment, her vocation

Then it happened sometime in Late November

Belle just stopped coming ‘round as I remember

Everyone questioned as to the fate of Ol Belle

Did she die in her sleep or just slipped and fell

Come to find out with some delving and discovery

The gal was in Florida with her pot from the lottery

another D. Aldo original