Tag Archives: Writings

field & sky

bewildered scarecrow
he must want to cry
in a faded golden field
beneath an auburn sun
wilted scarecrow
she must wonder why
in a hazy neon field
beneath a winter moon

looking for the answer
sweltering sky
mindfill of shadow
a mind full of shadow
ever mindful of shadow

bewildered scarecrow
she must want to sigh
in a jaded golden field
beneath a forlorn sun
jilted scarecrow
he must thunder why
in a crazy neon field
beneath a splinter moon

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2009

all that remains

we are born
empty phials for memories
accumulated & preserved
for all time
drop by drop
warm & cold, sweet & bitter
laughter in sorrow & love
fumblers of rhyme

leaving’s never easy
but look, there, the stars
hopeful like our dreams

shade by shade
a unicorn’s funerary wreath
a pallbearer’s rainbow raiment
all is sublime
& then we die
caulked in eternity boxes
blest in rot for posterity
our burial heim

leaving’s never easy
but look, there, the stars
hopeful like our dreams

by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2025

white man (go ooga booga)

you keep hunting brown people
how does that make you feel
are you feeling big enough yet
did you get those extra inches you needed

this caveman mentality of yours
it makes you more tribal than them
why fear those who bleed out like you
& why hide your proud face behind that mask

a clear & present danger
but not them, it’s entirely you
& something has to change

now you’re moving on to the woke
on to the alphabetic people
the different, blamed & broken
the compassionate who use their words & hearts

this gunman mentality of yours
it makes you more brutal than them
& now you’ve moved on to ice fucking bitches
don’t you see, to the face equals fascism

something has to change
but not them for you
it’s you, little man, & only you

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2026

TATI’s AND TONY’s DEAD POET TOUR // The Dove And The Ant. by Jean de La Fontaine

The same instruction we may get
From another couple, smaller yet.

A dove came to a brook to drink,
When, leaning o’er its crumbling brink,
An ant fell in, and vainly tried,
In this, to her, an ocean tide,
To reach the land; whereat the dove,
With every living thing in love,
Was prompt a spire of grass to throw her,
By which the ant regain’d the shore.

A barefoot scamp, both mean and sly,
Soon after chanced this dove to spy;
And, being arm’d with bow and arrow,
The hungry codger doubted not
The bird of Venus, in his pot,
Would make a soup before the morrow.
Just as his deadly bow he drew,
Our ant just bit his heel.
Roused by the villain’s squeal,
The dove took timely hint, and flew
Far from the rascal’s coop; –
And with her flew his soup.

by JEAN DE LA FONTAINE (1621-1695)
Public Domain Poetry

a joke is born

more bad poetry
& scribbles in the margins
ready the tissues
cue the gothic orchestra
sackcloth, keening & ashes

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2025