Us in the Shade

The shade there was swell,
Under the groping vines that ran up
then down the other barked side.
The picnic set was shining then,
and your teeth were purely white.
The sun backlit the scene,
and the hill provided an urgingly lovely sight.

The air was cool and your hand was warm
wrapping sulkily into mine.
I thought I was living in a dream
but that moment was in time;
a place where courting mazes solve
and you were thought to be mine.

On The Way Out

We should get going,
Yes! We should leave,
Right now. The time’s showing
We are late, and out the door
We should make haste,
With a steady leap
Or a hefty heave!

The party is over, Dear Friend,
And, oh, look at the time!
To stay would require
A second though,
And I refuse to pretend
To change my leaving mind!

My Candy World

I live in a chocolate chip candy world,
Full of Orange Slice daffodils,
And rainbow scented gum drops.

But out of my marshmallow window,
And jelly covered sill,
I see a world of burnt meat,
And feting, wretched heat,
That seems to want to burn me.

At least, it has my neighbors.

The Valley

The blistered lips of broken promises and lies leave you
Such a lonely victim of this darkness in the valley!
Find the sun there sunken, sullen, and hearty
Hidden in the cracks of the stone-faced walls
And revel in their wrinkling skin!

They crumble and rumble with every scathing plate,
But the light burning in you is bright,
And has weathered darker nights
Than this pitch black valley could ever hope to dim!

Scale the sized sides and find your truths within,
Dig into the dying disappointments
To find your promises kept yet again!

Winter Wash

Blissful, blissful winter wash
Always clean for I,
Has been too cold and so harsh
For anyone but I.

I humbled in the snow,
Always a fan of cold,
But those summer few,
Of whom I knew,
Needed someone to hold.

The angel flakes
And powered quakes,
Of which I’ve learned to love,
Have questered over
My friendly lovers
From somewhere far above.

I smile at a gray sky,
And lay awake through the night.
My known aren’t so lucky though,
And their now’s aren’t as bright.

Blissful, blissful winter wash
Always clean for me,
Help them over their troubled ends,
This once, just for me.

A Stolen Smile

The best smile you’ve ever seen,
So big and bright and golden,
Was so powerful at that time,
That nothing had seemed more solemn.

The eyes glinted with that certain spark,
And warmth drenched all receivers.
The sun smiled with it warmly,
And gave willing to the happy weaver.

Which makes it all so dastardly
That suddenly the sun sets.
It rises through its demises,
But it still doesn’t seem fair quite yet.

It warms, but feigns,
Lies of remains,
And shadows are so lonely.

“Stay today?”
Then
Fade away.
And again it is undone.

For My Friends (Sad, or Needing Support)

Enter yourself with that tough bit of hope,
Past all of your shadows to where you need to be.
Whisper away the bruises and be held through the night
They need you there, they need you there,
While you massage away the dwelling frights.
Nothing more to swallow you.
Nothing more to hollow you.
Love will fill you up, love will fill you up
And someday your smile won’t be stolen.
I swear someday your smile won’t be stolen.
Leave the huddle and fetal crouch
To the place where the world seeks you out.
Shout about the bruises and not being alone.
We need you here, we need you here,
Welcome back to your soft-gated home.

You Need A Necklace

You need a necklace to stop those things
That constantly encroach us.

You need a necklace to standby and hold to
When canvases suddenly lose all hue.

You need a necklace to keep you strong
And for a place to hang your charm.

You need a necklace to match your eyes
So when you’re out on the town
Things are given a chance to feel right.

You need a necklace to weight you down,
To soften the falls when you hit the ground.

You need a necklace to match that outfit
So when you wear it you smile to the world
And, finally, they can share it.

You need a necklace in a bright blue or pink,
Some sort of lovely color.

What do you think?

Oregon, Yukon, and Me

I am blank
And out of ideas
Perhaps tomorrow holds
Answers and inspirations.

And if not,
Then I’ll just fake it
And forge the river.

On this,
My Oregon Trail.

I don’t have measles yet,
And the oxen are doing well.
I’ve been hunting a lot lately,
And the snake bite never did swell.

I’m just blank
And need some sleep.
Maybe Yukon gold
Is easier to keep.

Coming In

I rivered into the house,
Quiet as a brook.
I avoided all the creeks,
Clever as a crook.

I climbed up the stairs,
Steady as a salmon,
I hurried into bed
So tired and frightened.

No drink, no story
Tucked in after glory,
I shrank and I withered
Because I knew
They just ignored me.

As a Man

The thundering of booms,
Across in the woods,
Is the destruction of life,
Functioning as it should.

Naturally selected
For a dominating position,
Grab a rifle and horns
To continue the institution.

Fight through all
the maggots and flies
In order to save
the construct of lies.

The meat in the middle
bleeds the very best
It tastes so tender,
And had it a choice
It would have bowed to surrender.

Your Call

The slick black phone cord,
All tangled in curls,
Shines white in some part,
Truly black, but in pearl.

She whispers to you
With that same soft voice
And you melt in her hand,
The same weak little boy.

The floor is hard,
Planked wood with no cushion,
Your feet rub the boards
Trying to avoid some scuffing.

You whisper to her
With that same steady push,
And you melt in the idea
Of wanting this too much.

For the Lost and Leaving

The window, the chair
The kitchen and rugs,
The table, the settings
The kisses and hugs.
The love, the care
The voice and the touch
The smell, the air
And we miss you so much.

Your smile, your breath
Your stories and cooking,
Your eyes, that wish,
Now lost in your looking.
Come back to us,
Please, I beg.
He needs you now
To help hold his head.

The journey, the trip
The home and the ride.
Burn like a fire
Surging inside.
Goodbyes and tomorrows
A held hand and a glance,
He tried to remind her
But never got the chance.

Hush

“The old man loved her, yes he did,
And always done right for her and the kids.”

“She could do better, and should have too,
She deserved so much more than some cow poke fool.”

“They don’t know all that he’s done alone,
Or how hard it is for him to put her in a home.”

“He could take care of her, and look what she got,
She might be sick but should get more than a view of the parking lot.”

“Why don’t they understand that he’d done his best?
He is a good man, always there for his blood and flesh.”

“Her mind been gone for such a long time,
But he still never deserved to call her his wife.”

It’s all circumstance, and none of you could ever know
The courage of a man that he refuses to show.
Stop your guessing as to why his head’s hung
And be there for the man while the birds sing his sad song.

Sky's Eyes

The sky has those eyes again
And I’m not so sure I like the look.
The green around the purple swelling
Looks so vile and menacing
That, even if it’s softer blues were to show,
I’d still be scared.

And I’d much prefer the bored,
Even if more depressing, gray.
At least I’d know that it might
Be cold or even snow then,
Right now I have no clues as to
What that look might mean,
And if you ever had those eyes
I’d be so scared.

I honestly don’t know how
So many puffs of clouds
Or flying scrambles of birds
Can stand all that bruised,
Ugly mass in those eyes,
And I am sure I don’t like the look.

Wishing

When the well filled
With my bronzed copper pennies,
I looked to the stars,
Remembering to stay humble,
And kept my reservations ready.

My eyes filled with you,
As they did before,
While I mouthed that special prayer.
But like the pennies, the stars ignored
And I knew that they’d never
Bring you close to here.

The Wave

When the weakened transparent wave,
tired from its failed surge
toward that place
where the high tide would sit,

raked over the small shells
deposited from bigger brothers’ grumblings,

the small shells sang and sparkled like rubbed crystal rims.

The mud-sand sank them deeper
and the sand dollars, starfish, and hermits
stabbed away from their new sinkholes,

back to the surface to chime in with the choir again.

Chirstmas on the Beach

I dreamt I spent Christmas on the beach,
and made myself a coral wreath.
I strung lights around a small palm tree,
and ordained it with shells from the cooling sea.

I plucked driftwood from the salted breaks,
and made a man of sand as if the snow he really is was a lesser fake.
I had seaweed mistletoe and an octopi menorah,
and when New Year’s rolled around I watched the tide fall
and stars lit the same old path in another silly new way.

Dove in the Overgrowth

Tripped by the Overgrowth,
and all it had overtaken
across the sand blasted beaches
with the rocking, broken water,

That dancing dove dipped
from the moon to drink there,
but stumbled and fell
with the fish she once hunted,
now muted and stunted by the Overgrowth:

That shady, dark canopy
that makes the beauty
of the rocks and the muscles
near that cold gray water
so hard to see
in the bleak February breeze.

Dust

The dust builds
And I sneeze into the age
But cover my mouth
And try to excuse myself.

You offer your tissue
And bless me before I have
The chance.

And the dust builds again
And my nerves build again
And I won’t make a sound this time.

The Mall

Whizz
Fizz
Hustle
And fuss,
No one
trips to
The Mall
exactly
like us!

A tasty deviation from
the defeatist persuasion,
signaling victory with finger ‘V’s,
abounds around the lull in war
and Christmas trees.

Murky is the meaning,
muddled in the message,
without a firm direction;
but huddle close
to the host
for a nice chunk
of broken suggestion.

Hide the face from
the fingers and linger
in the peace,
the body warmth warms
the body count until
there’s a softer bit
of release.

Who knew it’d matter,
with questioning eyes glowing
while plum limps
and yellowed teeth chatter?

Your book, your gift,
Your brand new obligation.
The pages, so crisp,
Demand your fascination.
The lines of small, black imagination,
That scroll across the pages,
Set your head all to crumbles,
Along with your gasps and your mumbles
That would be reviews otherwise.

The highlighting dabs of your little red pen,
Thin and quick like your wrists writing,
Or eyes reading,
Rip across the shreds of your interpretations.
The pages bleed with your questions;
Gutted by your mind’s eye’s imperfections.

Slither toward the ending and finish the execution,
Marked pages and a bent spine
Couple nicely with a ruined mind
And all that soaked, drowned, barrowed time.
Unwrapped and under-read,
Your gift now lingers wasted in your head,
Fingers still showing sings of how it bled,
And still no solemn tears of remembrance
For the hopeful glances of jackets or reviews
Fall down the cheeks of the head of abuse.

It’s done now.
Lower your gaze to the ground.
Stop staring,
Stop caring,
Stop wondering how.

Something Soft

Something soft,
In heaven blue.
I’m tired of
The harder hue.

You Figure It Out

Listen to music you found on the concrete
Ignore the scratches on the surface
And let it all play away.
Sip from the broken mugs,
The jagged edges kiss you.
Softer, you spill the drink,
It’s okay, clean it up.
You didn’t know it mattered
When you made all that clatter
But know you’re in trouble, now.
For shame, you woke the neighbors up.
Maybe someday, someone will stop
Throwing their music away
And you’ll stop breaking coffee mugs,
(they make great gifts)
So it will be quiet again
And you’ll make some friends
Other than the frowns of your
Cranky, woke-up neighbors.
Until then, ignore the scratches on the surface
And let it all play away.

English Airspace

I’ve seen a plane crash
And all the flames rise up
With that thick black smoke
Filling the sky
And just adding to
All the gray fog.

But I saw the pilot crawl,
Scratch and tear
Away from the wreckage
Stronger, smarter
And less alone than before.

I’d like to think
That because I saw the crash,
I can help the pilot heal.
But I don’t know
If I could even find the supplies
To begin that mission

Time doesn’t fix planes,
And makes for a poor parachute,
But I think Moms are right
When they say that: Time can
Fix all wounds.

“You’ll be alright, Pilot
I’ll be sure of that from my distance,
Or up close if you’ll let me.
You’ll fly again.
You’ll fly again.
You’ll fly again
And you won’t fall next time
Because you fell too far this time,
And I don’t know how much
Further you can go.”

For Evening Wind

With the window open
And the curtains blown
She crawled into bed
Naked and alone.

The fluffed feathered pillows
And paintings on the wall
Cocooned her in the room
Through the Spring and into Fall.

With ruffled down blankets
And a pitcher by her side,
She prepared for her Winter nap
And waking to a frozen moon rise.

The room grew dark
As the wind started to howl,
She would sleep so hardy
And she would sleep now.

Machine Head and Heart

The man with the machine head
Was stuck in a vestibule
With no one to ever tell him
Exactly what he should do.
Until his rock heart came alive
And decided to stand by his side
To teach him things about life
Like where to begin and why.
Soon the machine head could feel,
And all ones and zeros faded
Into something more concrete
Jaded, but still becoming real.
Then, the vestibule collapsed!
And the decision had been made
That the heart had severed his maid
And should deserve a proper grave.
But the machine head wasn’t free
And realized that all he’d need
Was something more than his reason,
More feeling, so he began pleading.
But the heart just wouldn’t hear it,
It’d never been used before
And why should it be now,
With the vestibule’s glass on the ground?
But the machine head wasn’t free!
And realized what he would need
And told his little heart
That it should be his something.

Wants

I wanna see the world brand new
I want chase away ghost
In go-carts with you.
I wanna sleep out on the street,
Get a thick blanket,
And have to cook what we eat.
I wanna never grow up,
Stay immature,
And never fall in love.
I wanna die a millionaire,
Give to the poor,
And not have to care.
I wanna get old with you,
Get gray and wrinkled
Until we both get the blues.
I wanna see the world brand new
We could both be ghost
And haunt the people of Peru.

To Paint Her

As she lounged on the couch
The soft golden sun light
From the window above
Caught in her hair but
Was hidden from blinding
Her beautifully still eyes.
She was a Goddess
She was Venus
And though I hurried to paint
Something worthy of her
(Or just capture a hint,
A small crumb, of that moment)
My heart wrote a poem
And my mind a song,
And that portrait I painted
Melted me back to my soft;
I was alive again by her posing view
And would keep her there until
That morning curtain drew
And the evening’s shadow shone,
But she was gorgeous and deserved
To be left alone.
Away from my own selfish gaze,
Away from all those poetic games.

There’s London in Your Eyes Tonight

Waiting for words that haven’t come
Or some sign that the right is not in the wrong.
Where is that face,
That pulls you in?
Where is that feeling,
Disappearing to again?
Not another thought, they come too hard,
Those stiff lumps in your throat still have to thaw.
But you’ve seen it all
And can see through this fog
Because

With the distance, the feeling grows
You count the days, but can you let him know
That there’s London in your eyes,
Tonight?

There’s London in your eyes,
Tonight.

Simple smiles have become numb
And the pain inside just fills you up. You know
That he is there,
But won’t let go.
Where are his words now?
You need to show him, but how?
Not another dream, they leave so fast
And this time you swore there’s no looking back,
And you’re flying now
Because he put you there
But still

With the distance, the feeling grows
You count the days, but can you let him know
That there’s London in your eyes,
Tonight?

There’s London in your eyes,
Tonight.

I Love Dancing

The tree bark is rough
And crumbles in my hand
I love dancing in Nature,
Though I do not understand.

The stars shine bright
From millions into the past
I love dancing in the Sky
Even if I’m not as fast.

The floor cushions under
And gently rocks to sleep
I love dancing at Home
Though I have nothing to eat.

The chair rocks steady
As the wind blusters by
I love dancing on the Porch
And don’t need a reason why.

A Moment's Beauty

On a hot night I was with someone
And we pulled into a gas station,
Because they needed gas.

They filled it up and went inside
To pay what they had owed,
They were moving fast, but my mind
Was moving slow.

Then, a car pulled up with an older couple up front.
They had a newer beige sedan who’s teeth hadn’t been cut.
And I looked and thought little of it
But then found the back seat.

There was a teenaged girl, laid down,
Crying but still looking sweet.
I wondered why she was crying
And why see’d look at me.

But then the sedan drove away
And I was left alone to question a moment’s beauty.

To L.H.

You would be sad today,
I think,
If you could see how
It had slowly become.

How the foundation you laid,
With such power! And conviction!,
Had fallen so surely numb.

The bricks you cast for those
High rising walls
Were all sold off
And now just prop up
Old motor homes.

But some still try
To build new walls,
Strong, sturdy,
And into the sky.

It’s just harder because there’s
Fewer Yous around
To help show them how.
Or to tell them why.

Top View

The view from the top
is only had after first
looking down.

The cool gravel ground
smiles back at your frown
and it reaffirms that all
too distinguished belief;

That success is gained
on the back of the bereaved.

Gray Geese

Gray geese feast
On the flesh of
Their fallen feathered friends.
The swans they wish
They were smile because
The geese have so much to learn.
So they soar away from
The blood stained water
Of that pond and plain.
But what of those fallen geese?
Are there no second chances
For devoured romances?
Does the red water still
Flow as fast as that clean,
Crystal iconoclast?
If no, then it is because
Nothing is left and the
Gray geese are out of breath.

Lifting (A Start of Sorts)

He lifted the weight over and over in that whitewashed, sterile room. One wall was all mirrors, so he could watch himself. But the opposite wall was a large window, but large white Phoenician blinds were always drawn. The walls were white and the carpet on the floor was beige and not very soft. But the weights that made him perfect and strong still shone in the room. The bright silver handles picked up the florescent lights gorgeously, and even the black rubber mass on each end of the handle reflected some light, even without any sun light.

The weight rose from his chest where he was laying on the hard black metal bench. The back was padded though, she he could lift in comfort. The weight rose toward the ceiling with every heave and fell back to his chest after every triumph. He sweated and got stronger every time. The lights in the ceiling, covered by glossy plastic sheets, approved as the bar and rubber were offered as a sacrifice for perfection.

Once he couldn’t breathe or lift the weight any more he laid the shiny silver bar back over his head on the bench. He lifted his head to look at his own tired body in the mirror. He had to gaze over his tired chest and sweat drenched little gray shorts. He couldn’t see his white high-top tennis shoes or the large bunch of sock that worked there way toward his calves. Work is good. He stood up and grabbed his small white towel from under the black metal work and wiped off the bench. He didn’t need the leftovers from his struggles left around; others would have to make their own.

He searched for his bottle of water he was sure had made it into the small work box of a room, but did not find it. It was small and rounded at the bottom with a dark blue label. The girls thought the bottles were cute; they made the water inside look darker that it was because of the tint of the bottle anyway. He decided he’d just put his shirt back on, walk out of the hotel’s weight room, and go drink some water from the faucet in his tiny room’s bathroom. He might need ice, or more little cups, and later he decided might be a good time to take a dip in the hotel’s small, plain pool with the dark blue painted bottom. It made the water look darker and more refreshing that way.

This is a Maelstrom

This is a maelstrom.
It is seeing a room,
Getting to know the furniture
Knowing the corners and contours
Memorizing the patterns on both
The carpet and the wall paper,
And then being blindfolded
And moved into another room,
Breathless, nervous
But brand new.
This is a maelstrom
And there will be baptism
In the rain, waves, and flood.
The storm has no eyes and we cannot see.
Suspended in mystification is a good place to be.
This is a ride, a white water rapid, but it is exciting.
There is a pretty sort of distress here.
No one knows anything.
I am just going to revel.
I used to know things but
giving that up is freedom.
I am just going to dance in the rain,
In the middle of this maelstrom.

From Poverty

From poverty; unslain, preferred by the wisemen,
From which the broken wisdom came
Upon the thrones of the philosopher kings,
Came the royal scepters, brilliant crowns, and golden rings.

The rags the old beggars wore, torn and feting,
Breathed a new life into that golden lining
Of robes and roses the ruling class wore,
That the poor wrapped up their children
In the cobbles but still hobbled down them sore.

Broken spirits and bent backs, crying children and empty sacks,
Sourced the power that should bring repose back,
But what of the crimes, until now committed?
Who shall determine if the punishments are fitting?

They, and they alone, away from the shadow
Of the ruling wisemen’s throne. Step to the challenge
And deliver the sword, to the throat of the mind
That left you and your children broken and poor,
Bent and sore!

A Wretch Like Me

Amazing grace, was a nice idea,
To save a wretch like me,
But what once was lost
seems bound to be.
And now, I think, I’m stuck.

Or at least struck by those
Lightning bolts Whoever
keeps tossing at me.
He or She? I don’t care
I just wish they’d stop
Lightning striking me.

If a little drummer boy
really played for a baby,
The parumpapumpum would
wake up the baby up and that stillness,
That all infants deserve,
Would be all disturbed.
So that gift was dumb.
And that little percussionist
should have to lull that baby back to sleep.
Or get struck by some Lightning.

Amazing grace, was a sweet sound
but someone stopped playing.
There are no harps or trumpets
and the sooner we realize
that sometimes it’s nice to be blind,
The sooner we can relax,
Find some sort of piece of mind
(In what’s lost),
And try to relearn that beautiful
(But mixed up)
word: fine.

Or at least skirt the real issue
and talk about things in riddles
that you will never understand
because sometimes I don’t want you to.
Rock a bye baby, on the tree top,
When the wind blows, that drum will pop.
When the sticks break, the cradle will
rock
And down come expectations,
Hopes, dreams, and all
that might have saved
a wretch like me.

The Rotting Words

These rotting words will die
Like the growing rot and mold
Of the pages that they occupy.

The form will fall from fashion
And the letters will lose their meaning,
These silly books are full of dead passion.

Some day the ink will fade away
And all that will be left is the memory
Of those beautiful words; just the memory.

I'll Try

It’s funny
That you should say
I stand steadfast in those tidal pools
Because I don’t have a choice to stand
It’s a power and a force
And I am a slave.
But truthfully,
I am a slave
And I will remain as steadfast as the water requires
No matter the waves
And I will never drown.

Driving Past a Crash

Rubber neck
Drive by
Blue Flash
No crime?

Rubber neck
White truck
Blue flash
No crime?

Rubber neck
Yellow tarp
Blue flash
No crime?

Rubber neck
Some crash
Drive past
No crime.

A Quirky Rhapsody

For you, I care.
I come eagerly.
With smiles for despair,
I would love to set you free.

For them, I sigh.
I’ve learned to hate their lie.
They just don’t seem to know
That they’re living in real life.

Depressed, No! Happy inside!
You and I can always run and hide
From those sad, sappy suckers
Who always want to cry!

For you, I care.
And I would hold your hand.
But for them, I’m tired
Of trying to understand.

For them, I sleep
While they learn to weep.
I will be so quiet!
And not even make a peep!

Refrain, No! Happy again!
They want to learn our ways,
How to fight a darker amend
And count their smiles in days!

For them, I hide
Somewhere they can’t see.
I don’t want to get
Their sadness over me.

For you, I listen
While your blue eyes glisten.
It’s like they go right threw me…
Initially, I think that’s what drew me…

I Have Seen Your Fall

I will not cry for you,
Or those sad things you do.
You just want me to care,
And I refuse to ever be there.

Stop trying for my sympathy
And grow up a little bit.
Just because it’s hard for you,
Doesn’t mean that you need me.

Look in the mirror and
Pretend if it’s not true,
That you can learn to love yourself
And, someday, won’t need me to.

I can deal with me.
I can smile and I’m happy.
That doesn’t mean that I don’t feel,
I’ve just learned how to deal.

Look past the pain and find
That happy place you left behind.
Smile and lie that it will be alright
If you care to make it another night.

Or just end it all
And leave no regrets.
I have seen your fall,
And eventually will forget.

A Dead Copperhead

On an old wooden fence
Once strong, but now needing mending,
Laid a dead copperhead,
Once vivacious, but now surely fading:

The brass sphere my father had shot,
From his old air riffle,
Had caught the snake in the heart;
And surfaced its death rattle.

So he caught it by the tail
And strung it ‘cross the fence.
It slithered toward and tether,
But dying all the while.

Once it stopped, on the fence,
The wind began to blow.
The snake was caught in the breeze
And swung too and fro.

It hung limp after it quit
And my father was quite proud.
It had put up quite the fight,
Or at least was told the crowd.

Before the Movie

If the black screen
All of a sudden seemed
More usually and lonely,
Would you break down and hold me?

If what pictures that were supposed to play
Would not show up, being gone away
Like those rabbits of who you used to tell
Who would run and jump and drown in the canal,

Would the screen have to stay blank and still?
Was it something I said, in mind or in real?
Does it have to stare back at me and you like that,
And would you comfort me without that fact?

If the black screen
All of a sudden let out a white scream,
And it hurt our little eager eyes,
Would you then get your hand off of my thigh?

You are those stories you told
And you only love me when the movie won’t show.
No, just watch, I’m sure I’ll be fine.
I can find some other hand for my thigh.

Evening Plea for Entertainment

Trouble me in a new riddle, dear
So your thought stained eyes can tingle,
At the way my head turns away in fear
Of those witty bells you love to jingle.

Speak or cast, in your merry way
Something elegant and lacy.
Come now, I will prepare the day,
I’ll ensure room and that it is spacey.

Lie to us if you must
Just pour out another tale!
You weave them so well, my darling,
That we all fear you’ll never pour out the tale!

I’ll build a fire to burn you a muse
And conjure up a gift.
A new story from you, earned through a ruse
To whom I have not yet given credit?

Let us listen, or let me read
About the giggles of majestic we.
Sit back and develop a plot
Of what happiness has, but sadness does not.

On Stage

The bright stage light beats down
On the old black painted wooden planks.
My eyes blink, and sear, but soon recover
And begin to scan those shadowed sitters.

My mouth moves but I am else where,
In a place where mind and body disconnect.
“Did I get flowers, are they even here?
They said they’d come, they must be sitting in the rear…’

It goes and comes, you flow and burn,
And if it’s right then by the power of the night
Something new and beautiful can be learned.
You can be more you than you’ve ever been
By being someone else and committing their sins.

Be a Man

Shut your mouth and be a man
Or put a gun in your hand.
So no one will understand—
Shut your mouth and be a man.

Shut your mouth and be a man.
At least do the best you can.
No one’s here to hold your hand.
Shut your mouth and be a man.

Shut your mouth and be a man.
It looks like you should have ran,
But you lost your chance to plan.
Shout your mouth and be a man.

All's Fair...

Let’s limp past the roses
And not stop to smell,
The fetid pedals of lost poses
And that scent of burning Hell.

I should drag you away
To save you the pain
Of seeing the white rose you let go
Die and turn red in the waning day.

Hush your whimpers
And mute your whines,
I’ll be back with the clippers
All in due time.

And then, when you hobble,
Broken and sore,
Past that flowered cobble
It won’t hurt anymore.

That is, unless,
Your blood and scabs
Leave you blank and painless:
Still and frozen in bed.

Then, I’ll limp back to the roses,
Stop, and have my pick.
Because, before this war closes,
I swear I will not leave sick.

Night Owls

“You know what it is Jim,”
He began to explain with
His head hung low and both
Elbows on the bar. “I think I
Just feel alone.” Jim gave the
Comment its due respect then
Slighted; “Well, you got me
Don’t you?” He looked up,
But not toward Jim, and sighed
A little. “Yeah, I do. But it just
Aint the same, Jimmy, as a
Person I can truly get to know.”

Jim should have been offended,
But knew exactly what he meant.
And suddenly, Jim realized they
Were both alone. Two men, friends,
Just sitting at a bar; alone together.

I Don't Know

I am awkward, but something good’s about to happen.
I just feel it tingling inside of me. But I’m a little scared,
Because I have no earthly idea of what it could possibly be.

I am excited. And nervous because this is new.
I felt this before, but when I was much younger.
This is that feeling you get, the last few days of school,
When you know you have nothing else important to do.

But I still have to wake up early. I still have to work.
I still have to deal with my friends and my silly quirks.
I have obligations the summer can’t hide, so why?
Why do I feel like I am going to be so surprised?

My legs are restless, watching my feet bang on the floor.
I can’t stop talking and I’m walking so much more.
When did this energy get poured into me? And how?
What good is coming my way to justify my feeling this way?

Gone Away

When I was little
My friends gone away.
When I was older
My house gone away.
When I was needed
I just gone away.

Every four years
My family gone away.
When there’s a war
My Daddy gone away.
Sisters and Brothers grow up,
Now they gone away.

My whole life, every now and then
Stuff just gone away.
But now that I found you
I won’t gone away.
That is until, justified,
You gone away.

But I’ll wait until
He gone away.
I’ll find a smile and hope
It don’t gone away.
This is my way of making my
Mistakes gone away.

That, and I’m tired of
Everything gone away.

Just So You Know

Just so you know,
I am not this deep in person
I am more charming
I am more charismatic.
I will chat the small talk
And give my opinions
But if you want the deep me
Just know you’ll have to dig a little.
I thought I’d give you some foresight,
Just so you’d know.

I’d hate to ruin your crystal, pristine
Little expectations of this poetic me.

Hands Down

I am able to babble on the edge of a broken gun,
I just drink my pistol-whiskey from sun up to dust,
I aint never hollered at a homeless beggar man,
And aint never met a woman who could understand.

Hands down
Hands down
The sun has gathered down
Hands down
Hands down
The Son has fallen down.

Slick black hair under dusky razor lights,
The lounge singer belts but could never think twice.
Chicken wires scratches, so throw some dirt in the cuts
I would give the world to you, if you’d just face front.

Hands down
Hands down
The sun has gathered down
Hands down
Hands down
The Son has fallen down.

Angst in Ramble

I want something deeper and ideological
Less of the lying and the pathological
I want something real, but something pretty
Mostly I just want out of this broken city.

Tell me there’s hope somewhere to be
That perfect person every one sees in me
I would hate to let all their aspirations down
But I need a raft in my potential so I don’t drown

I want to break away
In the best possible way
I want to pretend I that create,
When all I do is poorly relate

I’m happy and hate that they are sad
But I still get mad at the little I never had
So, call me selfish, at least I can smile
And this time I decided to stay for a while

I want to be that pain in your neck
I want to be your knotted back when you stretch
I want to be your flowers and your cure
Mostly I just want to doubt less and be sure.

I hate teenagers and their excuses
Stop crying and find more releases
You just need another person
So you can demand all their affections

Be desperate for some attention
Be pathetic to get their correction
Yes you’re sad, but you got them to smile
Maybe you should stick around, for a while.

I want something vain that truly is ugly
I want something jagged and that's snugly
I want it to rain with no clouds on the sun
Mostly, I want those possible disappointments undone.

Street Sign Critique

Streets signs are no help
In telling me where to be.
I don’t know which neighborhood
Is a bad one, or which is good.
The name on the sign,
Usually green under white,
Should tell, or at least hint,
Whether or not I,
Should stay or forget it.
Street names like:
“Loud White Boys”,
Or
“Old Black Women”,
Something to give clues
About what’s there hidden.
I don’t mind having to find
A place to walk down.
But if the signs
Could save me the time
I could do more where
I know I need to be.

Do You Remember That Time We Met?

Do remember that time we met?

(I saw your face and started to sweat.
You were so pretty, and I was sure
That you’d be mine right then and there.
But I’d have to win you, a gaze could work,
And trying to convince love to do wouldn’t hurt.
So I hoped you saw me from across the room
As I walked over to you and made my move.
You wore that dress and started to smile
And I thought I’d like to see it for a while.)

Do you remember that time we met?
Because I forgot, and only remember regret.

That Sassy Wind

If you thought you knew
Why that sassy wind blew,
Keep guessing
Because She’s not confessing.

That old maid just blisters
And splinters
And blows houses down,
And, I’d bet, does it with a frown.

So I just assume
Some other lady took her groom
And She’s just as mad as can be;
Stirring up dirt and tussling the sea

And it had to of been lately
Because the wind just got crazy,
So if you know why she’s fussing,
Please kill that bastard reason for her cussing.

Cadillac

Sit back, Cadillac,
And sip your coffee now.
The show’s playing for you,
So let your sorrows drown.

Lay back, Cadillac,
And dream your hopes some more.
She’s dancing for you now
And her feet will never get sore.

Jump back, Cadillac,
And let yourself be scared.
The future’s teeth chatter, too
Because, like you, it lets things loom.

Come back, Cadillac,
And just wait a little more.
The moon shines because of the sun
So we'll start again after she's done.

Sit back, Cadillac,
And sip your cider now.
The show played for you,
To let your sorrows drown.

Piece of Mind

Give me that piece of mind
I’ve waited so long to find.
Let me revel in the moment
And have my piece of mind.

Hand me those lovely flowers
I’ve waited for through the showers.
Let me revel in the scent
And have those lovely flowers.

Sit with me and hold me tight;
I’ve waited so long for this night.
Let me revel in the mood
And have you hold me tight.

Keep that smile on your face;
I’ve waited to know that only grace.
Let me revel in the joy
And have a smile on your face.

That Fight

…so she said…
…Then he said…
And she cried,
And he left.
But by morning
They were both sorry.
And they could build a house,
On the foundation of that regret.

Untrapped

I am not trapped
By any sense of the word,
But I still feel cornered by
My imaginary trappings.

Nothing should hold me back
Being white, protestant, and male,
But I still feel the string of a leash
Tugging on the collar round my neck.

I am not a caged bird
And no walls stray my dreams,
But there are still obstacles
To what would make me happy.

But the depressing thing is
I am not trapped,
And that little thing holding me back,
Might just be only me.

Readers

All readers are alone.
I am a reader.
I am alone.
But I write.
And I read.
So is the reader
Alone like me?

Your Own Personal Sin

“Your own personal sin,
Handcrafted by our professionals,
Was late getting in,
So accept our apologetic confessional.

You will have it
In a short bit.
Until then, if you could,
Don’t try too hard to be good.”

"A new question to answer..."

A new question to answer
For the task at hand,
Has the threat of cancer
Grown too bland?

Do we even try,
To not let them die?
What could we send,
That might get them in?

Attitude

Nothing’s right anymore
Because of that attitude.
You always seem sore
And make me mad at you.

I deal with mine
So that you won’t mind.
Please deal with yours
Behind closed doors.

Counting

I wish I could count so high
That I had nothing else to think
And that everyone passing by
Would excitedly watch on brink.

1, 2, 3, 4...
Here’s the way to something more
...7, 8, 9, 10
The problem lies in when to begin

Flowers

Flowers could grow
On top of a grave,
But we bring them to show
That there’s an easier way.

We gather and place,
To remember their face
And those times we’ve had,
The good longside the bad.

"So, that is what you meant..."

So, that is what you meant
When you thought I’d scare.
You thought I loose intent
Or maybe not fight so fair.

Just know I’m here
Now, without fear,
And wait I will
To that day until.

The Sure Sky

So sure was the sky
Of its cobalt hue,
That it bet the night
To prove it untrue.

Without the sun
The blue was done.
Black was the sky
As it began to cry.

Bees!

Bees! Bees!
Yellow and black
Killers from the Trees!
Back! Back!

Away! Away!
From here, I say!
Dive! Dive!
In the water, to survive!

"You're just distracted..."

You’re just distracted
By this new romantic.
But you’ve been impacted
And’ve acted quite frantic.

Where to go and what to see,
You don’t know what to believe.
Where to go and what to do,
What if the lies in those eyes are true?

"If I came to my senses..."

If I came to my senses
Would I know I was there?
Would I stop building fences,
Or would I even care?

If I stumbled on a clearing,
Would I remain endearing?
Or, would I loose my charm
And cause my chances harm?

"That great usurpation..."

That great usurpation
Surprised all the troops,
It shook their foundation
And questioned their roots:

“Take the hill!
Show your will!
Win we must!
In God we Trust!”

Dreams

So it seems these dreams of mine
Are far-fetched and far away.
But they stay in heart and mind
Until they seem the right way.

Feign the crushes! and steer the tide!
There’s hope yet; for their pride!
Grow the roots, because it seems,
They’ll blossom later: my far-fetched dreams.

Friends

How many friends have passed
Before the sun set and was alone?
Did the ship loose its mast
Before they sailed back home?

Did they disappear or drown?
Are they on dry land or in the ground?
How many friends have gone
Before the sun rose and made a new dawn?

Have You Seen the Breeze

Have you seen the breeze
That blows cool then cold?
I long still for that gentle breeze
That blows across the ground and over leaves.
Has it grown so bold,
Or gotten so old,
That I can no longer call it the breeze?

Hungover Breakfast

The muffins steamed hot on the plate
Waiting to be made breakfast food,
But last night he was drunk and home too late
to be considered anything but crude.

She would not give him the baking
While he was still hungover; shaking,
But maybe if he sobered up
He would get some coffee in his cup.

The Best Man

He looked toward the groom
But found no answer
There, or elsewhere in the room,
So he assumed right to romance her.

They gasped, while he grasped her waist,
And wondered how his kiss would taste.
They hinted, not completely letting
The groom know this should be their wedding.

Diamante I

Fate
Sure , Decided
Reassuring, Trapping, Continuing
Forever, Neutral, Spiteful, Hateful
Hurting, Harming, Changing
Desperate, Alarmed
Curse

Cinquain I

Slug:
Slimy worm
Writhing and wading
To scare and disrupt;
Shell-less snail.

Haiku I

So many chances,
Why only now does it work?
So many questions…

Sizing Up

She forced the pants
Over her thighs and
Decided to try for the
Hips. ‘Almost!” She
Grunted as she realized
That the old jeans would
Not fit. She titled her head
Back and smiled at the
Textured white ceiling:

Mission accomplished.

Fall in December

In December, Fall leaves drop,
Like the bombs of wars
Of any armored Lords,
From the trees tops.

Swings sway soft in cold breeze,
Like the necktie of a broken man,
Sad to hold life in his hand,
In the bathroom on his knees.

Cool nights deepen in their harm,
Like the needle of the addict,
Surging through the vein with such panic
That he ignores the hole in his arm.

But: piles of leaves that rustle
Remind me of warm fires,
Second chances for liars,
And that busy Christmas hustle.

The oranges and reds, bright and strong,
Are hugs from aunts and uncles
That make your knees buckle
Because it really has been too long.

Strangers smiling on street corners
Are like the good feeling of eye contact,
Not wanting to take a present back,
Or speaking the language of foreigners

For Peter

Once with all my eyes aglow,
(But so diverted that you
Would never know)
I found the style lines true,
And admired your outfit’s flow.

That crimson flame and pearl hue,
Swirled together in professional match,
Switch on that noble renew
So that you have earned the patch
Of that gorgeous swan the old tale drew.

Deviation from proper constraints, you don’t,
While professionalism sharpens your wit.
Dress down for right restraints, you won’t,
Style hatches from your every bit.

Reflection

“Oh, she knows
How I feel,” He
Said with a little
Chuckle. He just
Stared back through
The mirror almost
Smiling, but still
Disappointed. “Then
Why don’t you tell
her,” he attacked,
“And make sure?”

He lingered for a
Moment and thought
About replying, but
Soon learned that he
Really didn’t have
Any sort of an answer.

Window View

Diagonal sun lines
Drip from the window
Onto the floor under
The whitewashed sill.

At quiet times
When clouds roll
Through the muster
I have to kneel

And watch them take
On the lines
While they pass
Over it all.

There is no hate
But sometimes
The floor saddens
From being raw.

The sun’s diagonal kiss
Is enough to make the floor miss
All that stilted warmth
Dripping on the whitewashed sill

But the clouds’ remiss
Is their own bliss
And the sun’s warmth
For them is not silted.

She Waters Flowers

Right before the gate closes
all of the air
is pushed from the hoses
and the flowers are left bare.

She runs from what she planted
and hides in the house
away from the bad hymn
of a work-ruined blouse.

Now the flowers won’t grow
because they don’t have water
and the sky can’t loan
enough to keep them softer.

Right before the door closes
She remembers that all She knows is
the garden and its glee.

She runs from why she ran
back to the flowers
trying to understand
their mysterious powers.

Now the flowers can grow
because she will water them
and through the narrow
they will hear her softer hymn.

The Porter

The fresh suited man
Looked toward the
Old and tattered man
That was the porter.
He began talking
And asked his only
Question of the night:
“Porter, where does
This train go from
Here? Does it stop
In St. Louis or go
On down further
To New Orleans?
I need the ride to
St. Louis but a trip
To New Orleans
Might not be so bad.
I could get some
Decent Cajun food
Anyhow.” Then, the
Old porter’s eyes
Stared to swell as
He looked over his
Own tattered suit.
He pulled out his
Old, rusted pocket
Watch and gave it
A good once over.
A little ashamed, the
Porter just looked
Down and was still.
He was sad and was
Waiting to answer
Until he couldn’t
Cry. “I’m not sure,”
He said with a soft
But frowning smile,
“I don’t know where
This train goes from
Here, and I’m sorry
I can’t be more help.”

Fresh Air

The fresh air
Is nice to
Breathe sometimes.
But my lungs
Can only
Hold so much
Of it at
Any one time.

So I breathe,
When I can,
But I leave
The rest for
Another
Day and hope
That it will
Understand.

The air should.
After all,
It stays here
While I am
Inside for
Whatever
Reason and
Can’t come out
To enjoy
It’s fresh thrall.

The Lost Mockery

Where doth that black magic pure
My hollowed heart away from sour words?
And when hence shall the swords of saviors pierce
That lovely flesh never worthy of any kiss?

What shame is learned in the loss of the lie
And how cane truth be returned to nobler supply,
When which that we contort is lost of all support
And the Goodman cometh with no found retort?

Thou shall feel the fire of a thousand suns’ tears
For the tyranny ran forth on this castle for years,
Let the colors of our scared flag cover you mighty grave
And the devil smile at the pleasant way you seldom behave.

Good curses are spoken with haste, so shall I make it.
When the good Lord blesses me, count me to take it,
That black magic scourge shall cower in shamed fear
When it doth realize I, the foretold hero, am finally here.

You lie to amuse those fiendish sorts
But I caught you and fought you and ended the mort.
I saved the day the way the wicked nights stayed
And in my path left children happy to have played.

Where doth that black magic pure
My hollowed heart away from sour words?
Not here for those gleaming dear departed
Have been sweep away; alone and outsmarted.

When You Walk

When you walk down the hill
On the sidewalk, from the parking lot
Under that cold November sky,
Please remember that I offered
You a scarf to cover your
Face because I knew that
The wind would be biting
At your face even though
It would be at your back
Walking down hill.

But when you come back home
That hard grey sky will be
Closer to your cold and
Blistered face from the slant.
You should have taken my
Scarf. Now you will have sore
Legs and a Fall weathered
Face
When you come back to me
Walking up hill;
Back to me so I can
Heal your cold and blistered
Face.

As the Train Tunnels Down the Track

As the train tunnels down the tracks
It sounds like wind howling back
To the car horns and gentle breeze
Of this untypical warm fall evening.

The yellow glares of head lights relax
As cars gather with less darkness to attack.
And the railroad crossing brightens with such ease
That trains, cars, and crossings become silly things.

As it gets later the chill on checks grows
And blood surfaces for an even redder nose.
The warm front falls to the cold of the season
And the train ends seemingly without reason.

The cars pass over the tracks as traffic flows
And red tail lights run away in couplet rows.
The trek of the train has merely just begun
But in cars time is counted just for fun.

A Leak

Slip, Slip
The porcelain dip
Captures all
The drops.
down, down
The darkened drain
Swallows the
Long and small.
loud, Loud
The faucet falls
into the
hollow basin.
Slip, Slip
The seconds tick
Towards the
Early morning.

Pearls and Whiskey

Pearls are white and round.
Their value remains sound.
When they are worn
New chances are born
For women to look
So elegant and classic.

Whiskey is warm and tan
And feels nice held in hand.
When the drink it done
The party is just begun
And the young night
Refuses to yield to time.

People are broken and strange
When they are forced to rearrange
From the night before,
Trembling and sore,
Bust still so elegant,
And still so classic.

Water Faucet

The sound of water falling from a faucet
Is not the sound of a flowing waterfall.
Simply, it is the sound that water makes
When it falls into a sink from a faucet.

The Bleachers and Grass

The soft slated metal of the bleachers,
With their silver slates dug into the ground,
Absorb all the sun before the field,
And only cast shadows on the ground.

The field grass glistens wet and green with dew,
With drops dangled from every blade,
And where it is painted white it stays the same,
Shining in the sun with every blade.

Past the grey fence of the arena the bleachers stare back
Into the end zone and all around the track:
Bright red, soft gravel and dulling white lines,
The grass, grey, bleachers, and track.

At night at the game the stadium lights glare
Off of the plastic looking grass and players,
All covered in what lingers of competition,
The grass is on the field and under the players.

Hag Wants City

That old hag sure is tired
Of keeping those chickens clean.
She rather go out and be hired
To drive a long black limousine.

The dirt of the farm
Keeps her scrubbing.
But it won’t cause any harm
If the farm player stops strumming

Life goes on away from cows
And the stars smile so pretty.
Life goes on away from sows
And the stars smile in the city.

Early in the Morning

Early in the morning,
Suddenly, without warning,
I found a gift at my feet
Where my paper awaits on the street:

Some small bird,
Of whose name I had never heard,
Was crimson and twisted,
Broken and blistered,
Stiff against my news.
Awkwardly, I stared toward my shoes

Than walked into the house.
My cat had grown tired of its squeaky mouse
And decided bigger game was key.
But I didn’t mind, as the gift was for me.

I just hosed off the mess
Of fetid feathers and torn flesh
And made sure to pet Moe a little more,
To show her that I was not sore.

Summer Progress' Memories

Away from the houses
And side streets, purged
From the love of the
Tight sprawl of suburbs,
Are the mangled bits
Of construction yards,
Filled with yellow metal
And the hopes of a softer
Feel than the force of
Creation and Destruction
That currently progresses.

Fences abound around
The quant backyards,
Keeping in Barb-bee-qs
And the kids’ pool parties.
The vibrant green grass
And hyper dogs learn
To depend on their
Constant summer memories.

White pickets fade to
Warning yellow tape
And bright orange
Plastic gates; progress
Is an ugly duckling.
Shoveled dirt is piled
To be steam rolled
And the smell of poured
Concrete is nice, but
The vandalism of wet
Cement is such a soft
Childhood memory.

Long live the era
Of feigned manifest.
Our destiny was
Fulfilled ages ago
So now all we have
Left is our silly sort
Of modern progress.

Tire

Hard gunmetal steel,
And thick black rubber:
Dirty with grease and
Grime, lies in the well
Waiting to be plucked,
Screwed, and twisted
Into place where the
Old, flat, and useless
Tire now hangs: stuck.

The smooth and sharp
Black jack raises the
Frame and the deflated
Old, flat tire comes up
Off of the gravel. And
The jack grinds rocks
Under the weight of
The heavy older model.

The pages of the Manual,
Rectangular and tan,
Flip in the breeze
Away from the page
That told just how
To do everything
The right way.

On and secure,
The smaller spare
Will do for the
Short, quick trip
Downtown to the
Mechanic’s shop.

Screen Door

The mother of pearl
Screen door is pushed
Open and creeks from
The rusted hinges grinding.

The screen bends out,
To support the weight
Of the opening hand,
All grainy and wired.

The door slams behind
Whoever just left from
Wherever and bounces
Back from the frame hard.

The metallic thuds and bumps
Fill the air on either side
Of the door and air passes
Through the graded screen.

Eventually it stops bouncing
And the thin door is silent.
The black metal handle waits
To be used, but everyone

Always pushes on the screen.

Where is my Ring?

Sliver shinning loop
Upon my lonely finger,
I toss and tremble
In utmost terror
When, I fear,
I have lost your splendor.

Have you rolled across the floor,
Or bounced upon the desk?
Have I hid you in my drawers,
Or taken you off for something more?

My sore stained finger
And callused bit of palm
Of course, will always remember
The place where you wore along.

My ring, my circle,
My sparkling bit of wealth,
Return to my naked hand
So I may again feel like myself.

Moths Flutter Gray

Moths flutter gray in the humid summer air
Against the deep purple sky of midnight.
They fly towards lights to sooth the need;
(But candlelight can kill with the greatest ease.)
They wisp and whirl towards the horizon’s soft curl,
Now, draped in the deep purple sky of midnight.

Blue and White Vase

Blue and white vase,
Undisturbed on the table,
Sitting against the black
Lined grain on the chestnut desk.

Long brown stems
Growing from a blue and white vase
With pink and white flowers
That sag the stems under their weight

Pink and white petals
Falling onto a black lined brown desk
Are blown and whirl in the air
But fall to the black lined, wood planked floor

Peach and textured walls
Are the background of the blue and white vase
And are dull behind the pink and white flowers
But soft across the black lined chestnut desk.

How Shallow, How Hollow

How shallow, how hollow
How deep, and how full
Can sorrow, can tomorrow
Can the newest grave grow?
Should tears, should sobs
Should wretches and should pains
Define the hurt that persists
When her sun is hid by the rain?

To stand, to watch
To look, and to remember
Those glory filled months
They’ve had since the Summer.
Her face, her skin
Her eyes and her peace
Are all that remains
In our search for release.

I carried, I held
I cried, and I ached
But it was nothing
When I look back
To how the earth quaked.
She returned, she left
She’s gone, and we miss
Her soft kiss, Her soft touch
Now gone, away from us:
To reminisce, To blush
To remember, To hush.

A Fair Ride

The twisting, wrenching pull
And all the bedazzling lights:
Bright blues and piercing reds
That blurred with the shining emeralds
And all of the burning oranges.

The blaring music
and thumping beat
Propelled the ride along
faster like the flashing lights:

Making every other moment a snapshot.

The wind tugged at my face and limbs
While my eyes stayed ahead
Of the mechanical spinning and swaying.
The painted background
of the ride heaved
To and fro
With each passing rotation.
First near then far.

My feet dangled beyond the fitted seat.
The hard plastic firm underneath me,
Steady and sure and unchanging
Unlike any other part of the ride.

The harness let me loose but pulled me back,
I felt danger but under the guise of slack.
I was a child in the ocean with its mother,
Swimming and vulnerable,
But not allowed to go out in the water too far.
The ride flowed, the riders rode the wave of excitement.

It ended too soon I am sorry to say.
But on solid ground I still will diz and sway

Light the Candles

Light the candles and pour the wine and
Love the candies and patterned chime and
Live the cozy and postured crime of
Lamenting corruption proctored in rhyme.

Scrape the mud off of dirty shoes and
Steal the muster from doubted clues and
Strip the mask off a dreary muse that
Smiles at meat that dogs refuse.

Dawn the dagger and spare the bud and
Doubt the danger and spill the blood and
Dig the ditches that spur the flood which
Drenches the dealers and spoils their mud.

Forget the fragrance the old flowers showed and
Fein the fulfillment that the forefathers owed and
Fight the fires of the fragmented mode that
Forge on flakily through the fretted bestowed.

If the crack of the words is muted and
If the castes of the world are routed and
If the course of the wake is well-suited then
In the cure of the war we are saluted.

Johnny Wrongcrowd

He had a slender young frame
And typically inquisitive eyes
That captured the sunlight
In their sapphire prisms.
But they are closed now
And almost completely covered
By his wild blonde hair.
He had a sort of folk fame
That is the cause of young girls’ cries
And makes older boys want to fight,
Cause ruckus, or any other sort of schism.
His parents always wondered how
He had flown free as a song bird
Without a single worry or care.

He did not often wear shoes
We he explored the woods
And ran through town
So his feat were tough
And strong because
He liked to run.
He had everything to lose
Hanging with those hoods,
They’d only drag him down.
He was not as rough
And respected the laws
When he had fun.

So it is strange to see him
Still in the oaks
But in shiny black Sundays
And an uncomfortable suit.
Now, when the porch light starts to dim
He won’t be in to tell jokes
And that special way his grace would amaze
Deserves all of our tears and a noble salute.

The Kids in Schools

Those mocking calls from the school house’s walls
Were all the fodder that some cannons need to lauder
In all of those perverted, bent, twisted, gold star prose.

The heroes we hark forth with like dogs only bark tiffs
Like leaders of packs feast upon the weak like cats on rats
So only the mass may think for the lumbering, stupid class.

Where’s the headmaster or dean to cheer up the prey and wipe the slate clean?
Sitting in a corner, no doubt, sad about not being published; all prone to pout.
But all is sunny as long as their favorite students’ parents have influence and money.

Sad, that those full of spirit cause the weak to cry yet never hear it
And receive praise for their activity and popularity with the passing school days.
Yet the weekend demons only wake to worsen in the holiday seasons.

Inspired, are we, by the system of unfairness we see?
The answer is no and we answer by our lack of show
Of any want or ware to make that prison hell for our kids fair.

Sweet Chariot

Sweet chariot you better not swing so low
Cause if you cut too close
You might cut my soul
And Lord knows, And Lord knows
If you cut my soul
That I aint got no where to go.

Sweet chariot you better come to carry me home
Cause I don’t have a ride and I need to go
Toward my kin so I’m not alone
And Lord knows, And Lord knows
If I’m alone
That I aint got no where to roam

Un huh
Un huh

I Dare Say

I dare say,
the fair play
is getting quit hectic
And the moonlight
is too bright
for any other skeptic,
So while we dance
and romance
let the questions ask
About our lives,
Their pretty wives,
and any troubling tasks.

The Fall Rain is for Widows

There is love in the rain
When it falls in the small
Hours of the growing morning.
It makes all the same,
Coming down in the Fall,
While widows start their mourning.

The sky cries for their losses
And offers up its trees and their leaves
The reds are blood for the broken hearts,
The oranges are for graves like crosses,
And the brown is a warning for life’s thieves
While the raindrops fall like darts.

It is cold and lonely early in the darkness
And no blanket can make that special heat
That settles the body but warms the soul.
The only cure for the heart’s failed fitness
Is family to love or a stranger to meet.
Company makes half empty glasses seem full.

But when no one is near
Or hermitting seems an answer
Then rain can fill the cup just as well.
When the sun is refused its clear,
So the moon stays a dancer,
The stairs forget they always fell

Even behind clouds the night remains,
Left lingering in an August downpour
For those sad hearts missing that love.
The widows shuffle, cowered over canes,
Across the bent and twisted hardwood floor
Of their darkened porches and smile at the gift from above.

The rain pours as a blanket
And covers and drenches,
Pooling on the cooled ground.
Without a single regret
It is swallowed and quenches
While thrusts die and then drown.

The morning is dark early
So it is harder to see the drops
While they plummet toward the shadowed grass.
The moon shines a clean white pearly
Onto the sleeping shrubs and tree tops
With amazing grace and timeless class.

Somewhere in the world beyond
There is always a golden yellow dawn.
But in the world that the lonely left-living mark,
Sometimes it is best to wakeup in the dark.

High Paid Homicide

What good would running do now?
None, as far as I can tell.
Your fortune you avow
When you’re in gold and pastel

You are already gone,
And the storm is now here.
I won’t be staying long
But you are gone, my dear.

What good would crying do now?
None, as far as I can tell.
Your fortune I can’t allow
When I see how you do well.

You are already gone,
And the storm is now here.
It’d be nice not to wrong
But who am I to care.

Fire on The Farm

It wuz good not ta fight the temptation ta run.
When the fire starts ta blaze it’s best ya get out a their sun

You got ta know barns full of dried dead hay
Tend ta light on fire an stay that way

What ya did was wrong, playin with the matches
Stop strugglin, yull only rip where the skin attaches,
But by the will of God, he let ya live
Gave ya burns, but boy he did forgive

An I would not be a good man
If I did not try and make ya understand
That he does work in mysterious ways

An when ya come to ya end of days,
Yull remember back to when ya burnt ya pa’s barn
An ran screamin, burnt up, round ya pa’s farm

There’s a lesson there boy I don’t want ya missin
About lookin past some pain toward the Lord’s blessin:
That sometimes bad things could very well be worse
Cause we might not need an ambulance, but a hearse

So when ya on that hospital table
Remember that ya daddy was willin and able
To show ya the light that come from the dark
An the healin power within God's spark

Ya gonna be in pain, make no mistake
Just think back to how I told ya everythin’s fate
And I know in my heart God’ll let ya learn
That ta get ta heaven some angles have ta burn.

Beasts

Back, back with the beasts that wish to trot
Over the fields of daisies and ash
Toward higher mounds of fetid rot
Where knifes help bleed through and slash.

Tame, tame the raging wretched where they stand
And push back against their four legged assault
Grab hold of their manged pelt with either hand
And, with swords drawn, wait for them to fault.

Though, though their teeth may tinge white in the moonlight
Their souls are as black as their devil dog tongues,
Take this opportunity to defend that which is right
And sing glory out to every victory bell to be rung.

Defend, defend the fields of flower and sand
From the beast and their scarlet drenched fangs.
Are you willing to die to defend your land
And look past that great noosened corpse or the way it hangs?

I Walk Around My House Aimless and Confused

I walk around my house aimless and confused
Looking for something to keep myself amused
But wonder still I do down the halls
While sand from The Hourglass falls.
Neither books nor reading can fix my boredom’s bleeding
And reflecting on my figure, I will not satisfy it with eating.
Perchance I should search for my evening cap
And retire to bed for an early afternoon nap.

But perhaps, in order to gain success
In my quiet quest to kill restlessness,
I should try to write through my woe
In a poem that The Hourglass would know.
And If those eternal sands, that fall and shift,
Shall not accept my humble gift,
Then cursed shall I be to meander still,
Trapped within my consternated will.

Walk

When I walk down empty sidewalks,
The cars in the street stream past in session
And their breeze steals my breath, I can not talk
Nor make any grave notice for confession.

Somewhere, had I been walking ages hence
I would have seen oaks, pines, and blue jays.
The forests would not have been broken by lines of white picket fence
And I could have strolled there for the remainder of my days.

There would be no sirens nor concrete nor mass intrusions of man
But only the delicate touch of man’s gentleness toward nature.
No lights could possible dictate when we walked or where we ran
And we would be left to harbor that beauty and save it for the future.

Roses

I dispise how a potted rose is made to sit
Soaking up evening sun through a window.
At night, the light fails its hit
And the flower can no longer grow.

I remember when a dozen or so
Of those beautiful red kisses
Would make any lover’s heart glow
And grant most romantic wishes.

But slowly at first and eventually quicker
The sunlight breaks still and sets,
And lovers health out of their liquor
To return to their despair and regrets.

While true that sweeter names remain
And thorns might rip soft skin,
Blood from the heart flows all the same
When poured over forgotten sin.

Cringe not then for the memories
That those flowers retort,
But for the grass and tress
That do nothing of the sort.

College Life and a Fun Story

College is such an interesting place to be. Everyone is over stressed and under slept. There is always a chapter to read and a paper to write. Nutrition, whatever lofty concepts we had of it at home anyway, is a thing of the past. Diets consist of candy, greasy diner food, pop-tarts, and soda. When you do eat a proper meal it is always preceded with the hunt for someone to eat with you. It could be a stranger, a friend or roommate, professor; it really doesn’t matter. But companionship is a must, if you are alone—something is wrong.

No one has money. And yet, there always seems to be books or food or supplies that need purchasing. If you can bum a ride, you do it. If you offer people rides, you do it in the hope of being reimbursed on a longer trip. You remain cautious of the University Police, if only for the simple fact that they love to write parking tickets. You cheer for Alabama football and attend the home games. Every home game day, you wade through the sea of tailgaters--people who drives hours to watch the game on television on the quad--to get anywhere. Travel becomes impossible because the world stops when the Crimson Tide plays.

But I love college and am starting to get the hang of it.

It is such an exciting place. The fraternity and sorority parties help keep life interesting on slow nights. They throw parties called ‘swaps’ where there is a different theme for the frat boy and sorority girls that attend. One was ‘dirty old men and school girls.” The outfits, which are determined by the theme, are ridiculous; but I guess that’s the point. Public humiliation is supposed to humble you I suppose.

Well, I have had a fun personal experience with the afterbirth of such parties. One night a young man was escorted, stumbling, into the dorm lobby wearing a black-tank top and black short underwear. Garnishing his ensemble were nearly knee-high boots covered in electric tape and electric tape wrist bands. He resembled either a professional wrestler or a gladiatorial combatant. We, in the lobby, dubbed him Testicules after the ancient hero Hercules.

His helpful companion pressed the elevator button and asked where Testicules’s room was. The companion received gnarled mumbles for an answer. The elevator opened and the questioning continued while Testicules took a seat on the elevator’s chair…and tipped-over directly to his right side, slamming his head against the elevator’s wall. A hazy eyed chuckle was soon followed by a frown and a rubbing of the quickly knotting area of cranium. In honor of the occasion, or perhaps to prove in retellings that the events were actual, several members of the lobby party snapped pictures of the incident on their cell-phones. They still make me smile.

Later that night, I received a phone call from my room mate alerting me that Testicules was naked and running wild in the dorm! I grabbed April, deciding for her that this life experience was too valuable to miss. We jumped into the nearest elevator and raced down to the lobby, hoping all the way down we would garner a glimpse of a drunken, wildman streaker.

Our hopes were soon dashed. What we were greeted with were stories of the remaining lobby party bearing witness to Testicules baring it all. Apparently his companion had left him on the wrong floor because Testicules was unwilling, or unable, to dispel the proper answer. Apparently the night’s excitement had gotten to our hero, and he took time to vomit all over a bathroom on the third floor. None was in the proper receptacle. He then ventured down the third floor hall, which is occupied solely by girls, smearing his vomit down the length of the hall as he went. He found what would have been his door, had he been on the right floor, and beat it until his hand was sore. When his phantom roommates would not yield, he got back into the elevator and managed to press the lobby button.

When the elevator doors opened onto the lobby he had removed his underwear and revealed himself to the crowd there. How appropriately named Testicules proved to be. I think he might have been kicked out of the dorm, but I am not sure. But any group of so-called brothers that would allow one of their own to disgrace himself, and in proxy the entire group, is suspect. But they are rich and influential and keep political control on campus because the system is run by the machine. I accept this, as do most college students. That does not mean it is right, and something should be done about it. Where does public drunkenness fit into networking, community, and social service?

This is what I get to experience on a weekly basis and I love it. There are few dull moments and many great conversations. I am constantly broadening my horizons with our required readings and I feel like I’m finally becoming a person in society’s eyes. Now if I could just find a way to participate…

For April (Because She Makes Me Happy)

In aging brick buildings on old town squares
Maids open up windows to let the breeze
Into stale, musted offices of aging capitalists
And it reminds them of their mothers or fathers
Doing the same thing when they were children and young.
The maids get in the way of the wind
While dusting the banisters and Phoenician blinds
So the cool air blows around their French uniforms,
Ruffling their white aprons and feather dusters.
But Mother wore summer dresses and Father smoked a pipe
When they would open up the window for their kids at night.
The aging capitalists regret the missing details. And then--
They notice they have sprawled out their files
And notes and type writers or pens
To be blown by the blusters, when the maids are out of the way,
Across the sturdy oak of their antique desks
Because they have more fun reorganizing
Than they do remembering old wives and divorces.
Which happens easier at work,
Because their minds wonder there during the day.
They might think of their maids and files while restacking
And, if lucky, their mothers or fathers, but it seems
They’ll mostly think of their Imported cigarettes
Smelling of chocolates, good tobacco, and French creams
Because smoke breaks are distractions from foreign thoughts attacking.
Those poor fools will never know
The happiness to me you are willing to show.
Sometimes I shame the smile in my eyes
Because you let my spirit live, and we can watch theirs die.

My BUI 104 Paper

The cool breeze drifts through the branches and limbs of pines and maples sending any loose foliage onto the dark brown earth below. The sun stretches across the sky. It is nearly halfway through its daily cycle. The sun gets caught in-between intermingling braches of different tress. Only individual columns of light hit the floor below the canopy. They illuminate the ferns and mosses. Bugs scatter even lower. Red ants gather bits of dark dirt and march them toward the mound. Some carry food to feed the rest of the colony and to help increase the kingdom of the queen. Large worker ants move small rocks out of the path's way with their giant pinchers. They don’t have eyes and can not eat for themselves, so smaller ants clean and feed the larger land movers. Black spiders patter up trees towards large webs strung out between the trunks of trees and low hanging branches. Small wads of silken thread denote future meals for the eight legged trap layers. Large sacks of white signal the next generation while the layers of the eggs guard their investment. Their hair covered legs scramble over their mazes of thread-like web, one stops to repel down back onto the floor riding a single strand of its entrapping and constructing tool. Squirrels dart back and forth over the grass banks between sidewalks and roads searching for whichever morsel of food they may find. Grey squirrels precede their bushy tails up trees and shake limbs sending down their desired dish. Red squirrels with black and white stripes running down their backs hide into holes in the ground the food they’ve found.

The cool breeze is a break from the humid air that hovers over. Patches of grass have faded from the bright green that the majority of grass shines to pale yellow and light browns. Orange leaves crumble on the side walk and in the grass. They were sent to the ground not because of the coming Fall, but because of the heat and lack of rain. The gentle bluster scrapes the dead leaves across the grass and concrete. When they collide they rustle. The wind gathers them in groups at the bases of trees and areas where the grass has grown over the sidewalk. The edges of the sidewalk are covered with the corpses of leaves and lined with mosaic concrete. The square slabs are a steel gray and hold chips of black, cyan, and tope. Each one is different and each one is separated by the spaces in-between the slabs. Kaleidoscopic wax paper, burnt cigarettes, and caked in dirt fill the valleys between the concrete blocks.

Sprinklers leave puddles and tiny streams of sprayed white water on the dirt and sidewalks. They spray water mechanically into the air that mists down onto the grass leaving water droplets. The water makes mud of the rust colored dirt. Pools of filthy water collect in dirt basins. Darting into the puddles, mosquitoes leave ripples that surge outward on all sides to the muddy banks of the tiny lakes. Bike tires slosh the water and mud onto the damp grass and the wetted sidewalk.

The cool breeze blows a haze of clouds near the heat of the sun. They meander in front of the glowing orb and cast shade over stretches of the landscape. When they move away sun light slowly reilluminates the land, stretching and reshaping the shadows. Chill spaces under trees get colder when the clouds create a general shade, but warm up again when they sun beats back down on the land directly. Groups of clouds move together and change color. They turn from a soft white to a steel gray and then to a hazy blue. The threat of rain covers they sky, but the breeze picks back up and blows the would-be storm to another down poor.

The cool breeze stops blowing and the humidity makes the air thick. Fewer animals are seen scurrying about. The squirrels and insects that remain move briskly across small fields of grass. The sun begins its decent toward the horizon and the sky’s color reddens. The bright greens of the grass mellow into light yellow tinged greens. The yellows turn to pale browns. The browns grow darker. The silhouette of the move slowly fades into view. With less sunlight pouring onto the ground and pavement, they start to cool down and the humidity subsides. Squirrels and insects start moving again across the grass plains and sidewalk barrens. Joggers bounce around the brim of blocks of crabgrass and walkers bring curious young dogs onto the sidewalks. They sniff around the ground. When they locate a squirrel they become alert, as does the squirrel and it runs away. The young dog goes back to its sniffing. A faint gust blows by and rustles the dead leaves. They get crushed by any forced applied and crackle when the force is taken off. The vanes of the living leaves carry nutrients to all parts of the leaf and protect it from falling off of the branch. The sprinkler water feeds the trees and grass it reaches. Some trees do not receive the drink and lose their leaves.

The bark of the trees is hard and ridged. Knots and tumors litter some trunks. Others lead to exposed humps of solid roots. Pine needles gather on dusty patches of pale purple dirt under their trees. Some lay in pairs connected at the top by a short sleeve grown over the ends of the needles. The needles do not touch, save for the sleeved end. Fallen needles touch and overlap in piles. The ground is sectioned off in groups of alternating piles. Patches of pine needles circle under trees near the bases while dead and dying leaves cover the ground between the shadows that the tree’s branches and leaves create.

The sidewalks make a web of walk ways. The web divides the large yard of grass into triangular sections. Blue grey fences separate the side walks and grass from a plain of red dirt. The dirt is smoothed flat. Small mounds of earth still rise up against. Tiny red rocks of packed dirt are scattered across the expanse. Tire marks curve and sway over the face of the rust packed earth. The red dirt shines with an orange tint in the lowering sun. It crumbles and falls between the spaces of the metal fences. The steel fence is spotted with white and black. The specks are wrapped all through out the fence. The posts are rounded at the top and flow into cylindrical shafts that plow directly into the ground. The chain length fills the spaces between the posts. The thin circular wire leaves square gaps with rounded corners. Dozens of them form the chain length and serve to keep things outside and in the red dirt yard.

Water geysers from and underground fountain. The water rises into the air and falls back to the mother of pearl cement in the small path. Some of the water mists off into the air. Most of the water pools around square drains. The drains have filters that the water flows through. Though the water pools back down toward its underground source, the cement the water smashes into from the sky remains wet. The water darkens the cement into a green gray. It is slimy and slippery. The water blasting from the ground is entirely white. All of the water that leaves the fountain is falling. From the moment it is shot into the air it begins to fall and does not stop until it hits the cement and flows into the small pools. The center of the fountain is lower than the surrounding cement to allow for pooling and draining.

Black metal benches are scattered across the field of grass under shade trees. Small bushes are nestled against the giant brick walls of buildings. The shrubs are olive green. They are pruned into squares ands rectangles. The shapes keep the branches from the bushes from touching. In front of some walls the bushes are unpruned and the branches tangle and intermingle. The bushes blend into one another. The short black trunks root into the ground and are hidden by the shade from the branches and leaves.

The cool breeze blows onto the dead leaves and pine needles scattering them from where they were resting. The wet areas of sidewalk and cement start to dry. The fountains stop spouting water into the sky. The sprinklers stop showering the grass and trees. The sun fades further into the horizon. Squirrels and spiders, ants and dogs, make their move away from the grass plains. Into trees, colonies, webs, or houses they all move back. The moon grows bright in the sky, stealing its moonlight from the sun’s light. Stars begin to twinkle in the deep purple sky and the humidity makes the air thick again between the burst of chilling breeze. Raccoons and bats start to stir and scavenge or hunt for their meals as night billows from the setting sun and brightening moon.

Wars of Religion

Half of hell screams for the souls of the saintly,
Screeching like a banshee, but heard ever so faintly
By those of us who walk the Earth, caught in between
The war of good and evil, of the gluttons and the lean.

Half of Heaven heralds for the souls of the faithless.
Those who hope to Hell that God is faceless,
Those most interesting transgressors of God’s favorite affront,
Those who will feign to carry their own chains,
But cheat others into taking the brunt.

Angle wings flutter while harp strings mutter
The secretes of demons and the battles they shudder.
Young tears are flow down wondering, blushing cheeks
As days without worship quickly turn to weeks.

Hope for the switches is what empower the books
Of the record keepers and their discriminatory hooks.
They spread their judging glances over the last of our romances
Wishing we would pray that someday we may snap out of our trances.

Sidewalks, Cellphones, and Boyfriends

There’s that awkward time of day between morning and afternoon where everything is still but anxious. Even cars seem unwilling to admit that the day has honestly gotten underway and things should be picking up. There’s always people walking down the sides of streets this time of day, always. It is an unwritten rule of society; when people feel uncomfortable for no reason, they walk on sidewalks. This time of days makes you uncomfortable. Especially when it’s humid, and it was when she suddenly had an epiphany.

That no good piece of trash that she’d been calling her man had to die. She was going to kill him. Even if that only meant breaking up with the bastard, she was going to hurt him as much as she could live with. He did her wrong, and that’s just not kosher.

She couldn’t help but think back to last night and the reason she was walking now. He had been an ass. Arrogant and pompous, he was showing off in front of his friends and basically forgot that the girl he said he loved and had been dating for damn near two years was sitting across the room. Alone. Waiting for him to come sit by her while he was laughing and chatting and having an obviously better time. The prick. He invited her over and ignored her. That’s like buying a goldfish just to watch it die. How malicious! The least he could do was check on her once in a while. Ask if she was fine, or if she needed anything. But he wouldn’t, he’s not the type, so he didn’t. So she sat there. The boy would even change rooms without saying anything to her.

It is an unwritten rule of relationships that if you change rooms at a place where your partner is presently located you should tell them. It’s common curtsy. He didn't. He even went outside to smoke. To smoke! Damn it! She hates the smell of cigarette smoke. It was going to get all over his clothes and completely kill any romantic buzz she might have been able to muster later in the night. She wished she drank. Then she could mask her apathy with drunken passion. He’d like it because he likes her, and he likes her how ever he can get her. Pig.

When your phone rings and you’re in nature, even as synthetic a nature that exist on a college campus sidewalk, you feel like you’re intruding, at least a little. So did she when that familiar tune rang out singing that Satan Incarnate was calling. How dare he. She shouldn’t even answer, that’d show him. Treat her like shit, no sir. She’s her own woman. She is strong. SHE IS GOD!

“Hello…”

“Hey, it’s me. I’m sorry about last night, I got a little carried away with the boys and kind of ignored you. How about just me and you tonight? Diner and a movie at 8:00?”

“Sure, and hey….”

“Yeah…”

“I love you.”