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A California writer/photographer whose dreams are more vivid than his waking life. Poetry, Humor, Sexuality, and Short Stories.

Poetry by the sea

Photo by author, Mark Tulin

In the foggy morning,
I sit on driftwood,
and watch a lonely woman
write cryptic messages
in the wet sand,
to a former lover

I see a curious girl
with the wind in her hair,
searching for a conch shell,
hoping to hear the ocean
tell her a secret

It is a cooling comfort,
during a misty day,
a pleasure,
to scratch out ideas
in my head,
to form a poem
from a line, I see

Along the beach
are uprooted flowers,
and memories
left behind,
only to imagine
their legacy

There are dogs
excited to be unleashed,
who chase red balls,
as if it were a trick,
to snatch it from
the sea’s grip

But for me, it’s simple,
to sit quietly,
watch the fog
burn away,
as the bright orange sun
surfaces in the horizon,
christening the morning.

Mark Tulin

A freeballing poem

Photo by Jakaria3704 on Pixabay

I ain't gettin no vaccine
I’m not afraid of sheeeet
I’ve been raised in a cave,
and can’t see the forest for the trees

I score high in ignorance,
majored in tomfoolery
I’ve got nine lives,
and I’m convinced,
I’ve only used three

I’m a freeballing willy,
who refuses the Covid jab
That crap could kill me,
and ruin my sex life

Sure, I’m ugly
Of course, I’m dumb
I’m a freak of nature
Do you know what they say?
Idiots like me live forever

That’s why I love tattoos
I’ve got one on each cheek
Donald Trump is on my right,

A daily sports page fix

Photo by viarami on Pixabay

When I was a kid, I couldn’t wait
to find the newspaper at the doorstep,
taking off the rubberband,
unfurling its headlines
and smelling the freshly printed ink

My mother poured milk on my Trix,
while I had my daily sports page fix,
although I knew it wasn’t good manners
to read at the breakfast table

I gave the Entertainment section to mom,
and the Business pages to my dad,
while my sister got the Fashion,
and I hogged the Sports section

I memorized the box scores,
read the columnists’ opinions
and relived Jim Bunning’s perfect game,
and imagined Johnny Callison’s home run

In dreams, there is a promise

Photo by Stefan Stefancik on

As I fed more wood to the fire, I questioned whether you existed or if you were a figment of my loneliness. Then, finally, I convinced myself you had to be real and remembered your sleepy brown eyes and alluring smile with the Siren Red lipstick, as you called it. I longed to hear your soothing voice again. The gentle way you whispered when we made love.

Each rap on the door made my heart beat faster. I didn’t bother to look through the peephole. I knew the sound of your knock and imagined you standing there in an unbuttoned…

Photo of a Giant Cactus ( or Saguaro) by Mark Tulin

A succulent photo essay in Palm Springs

I rarely notice the cacti in Palm Springs. It’s part of the desert landscape, standing tall in the distance, trying to be incognito. It is a succulent that weathers great heat and uses very little water. If it were human, it would be a big green John Wayne, a waxy, thick-skinned Western cowboy.

Mark Tulin

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