Immaturity

Remember the first time he ripped you from you childhood cocoon
And devoured you whole,
Not stopping for your permission or your words.
The lack of innocence was magical for the moment,
But after the sparkles fell upon bare concrete floors
You found how hard it is to sweep up confetti.
The party was ruined because he helped ruin you,

Such a miserable anchor for trust, only to let loose and send you into a lonely ocean of mess.
He was your light house, the sole reason you were sailing,
Now he laughs on the beach with his feet deep in the warm sand that should be yours.
No explanations, no second chances,
He guided, directed, and then left;
Crunching your cocoon in his teeth
So that you could see it
And turn green every time he smiled.

What happened to the responsibility of making someone a person?
Why is it fine now, in an age of television attention spans and polarized moral compasses,
For the romantics to always be the punch line?
We laugh and smirk, because we have to, how things are;
All the while waiting for the rest of us to flutter by enlightened
—because that’s hope—but they just build new cocoons,
Alone and deeper, so the next one to try and capture them
Has to fight so hard and hungrily that nothing could save the day.
Save for another romantic.

To You (A note about your poems)

You always write such sad poetry
On things you know nothing about,
Constantly reaching and prodding around
For a justified felling of depth or belonging.

Your heart may well beat off-key and broken,
But its harms are not as severe as you assume.
I am not putting your emotions into context
Because there is no need to; I know you.

The eloquence in your wanderings is such a sweet gift,
But you waste it on things you haven't dealt with yet;
Save your soft words for when the world will swallow you
And birth you back into living with a new eye for experience.

Until then you should smile and breathe,
Enjoying youth for its comfort and ease.
There will be time for sad poetry when
You've learn how to hurt and how to heal again.

Snowing over Fall

The crunchy fall underbrush,
With the rust colored glare,
Yields only to the meek powder
Descending from the stone cold air.

What footsteps may flop over,
Only Time can know,
But with more powder dropping,
The prints would never show.

When the sky shaker solids
Under the gray sky and harsh air,
The powder shall start to crunch
Like the crumble rust leaves that were there.

Friends

So ironic, that friends can sting the best,
What lashes of words they hurl, to cut,
Sear, or even burn your spirits’ flesh,
They see that stony path to what hurts.

And climb they do, to the summit,
With its thin air and jagged points,
Driving their blood-rag flag into
The peak: creating valleys in your back.

All seeing eyes; glances into thoughts:
Like giving a thief keys to a vault,
Expectations of trust are worthless
If the pick-pocket can never be caught.

Friends, further away than enemies,
Have more room to draw their weapon,
And know all the soft spots to strike
To bring upon your wits’ end.

Fair Shell

Too stale, fair shell, for me to mold.
Your bone brittle cast would crush in my hold.
No tears, no worry, you shall someplace shine gold,
Just not with my hands. No help and a heavy heave,
I can't escape you to where you want to be,
But for now ignore all, I throw you back to the sea.

The Current Panic

Gaping, smiling holes slashed thoughtfully
Into gleaming black tires,
Sent the whole building into an uproar.
I remained calm as my royal purple Camero was spared,
But I was stilled mystified at our new bit of noir.

Now the police roam our yellow faded lined parking lot
examining all of the residents, all of the suspects,
For any hint of guilt or sign of lingering suspicion.
When I lurk past, free from any bad intentions,
Their eyes pierce me and my shoulders raise,
Clinging to my neck, because police make me uncomfortable.
The feeling of safety is welcome,
But at what price must the bounty be laid upon or building's table?

The police. Their shaved heads and bright badges
Clash with their authority, and their dark uniforms
Must match their deep rooted questions and sideways glances;
They give no first, let alone second chances.

My Watch

The silver shining arms of the watch tick away,
Counting down the black hash mark seconds
To the peck of time slipping,
Soothing away all worry of time
And focusing on the constant pecking of the arms,
The still then still then still that beats forward with precision,
Even if set minutes ahead on purpose;
Always on time because it creates it.

It holds and captures, not the time ticking,
But the watch pecking.
It enslaves and conquers all who must take note,
Which is all, because time is universally measured.
The watch is a symbol for my chains
And all I may do is hold it to my ear and listen;
Wondering how it all works.

Pecking away,

Slipping away,

Right in front of me

Getting Out the Hard Way

Settling dust after an explosion gently drifts to the ground,
And so we blow up but start to calm down.
Such harsh words with razor implications,
Why must we maim when we are left to cure the casualties?
Barbwire glances and muddied uniforms
Lead only to the hard thought of new open wounds on top of old scars.

Have you learned to love the passion
You can feel like glass in your eyes?
That feeling of winning and strangling all regret,
So pure but so violent: assuming there's a difference.

One last blow to end our present beguile,
A death stroke, a termination. The end of the road.
She wetted her lips and waited for the blood to flow;
"You say you're happy but I think that's a lie."
"I don't believe you when you smile…" And she's right.

I'll die a hero with a flag upon my grave,
Looking up from Hell knowing,
Things are better this way.

Childhood Wonderment

Nothing wishes quite as hard
As a child for great and terrible things.
The hope they muster to squelch their enemies
But endure on to their friends is inspiring,
And I hang my head at my growing regression.

I am mature and stable and an adult,
I feel the right way now.
Gone are those silly passions and negatable beliefs
Of all potential and possibility for life.
I am better off now, all convention says.

Who steals childhood wonderment, or why must it waver?
In questering it I am angry and red faced at suggested behavior,
But I don't wish the detractors doom as once I would.
Something told me to forget how to do that,
And in remembering I miss it.

I shall hunt it and trap it and learn how to emulate it.
This is laughing in the face of cycles and stages
And then singing for no reason while I dance to another melody.

Wishing You Well

You know how we've talked of nerves
And that full blend of emotions that heal
Like some ancient spell from the druids.
Well, I hope you're better now, and smile as I can.

It took flames and fire and burning,
But eventually the breeze did blow.
It may still sting now, but trust me,
The smoldering will stop in time,
And that first gust of life is so refreshing.

But you've been there before,
And will find it again, people like us
Fall so often with our sorted gear,
But you've got to reach that peak now
And breathe in the cold, phoenix air,
Even if it seems too thin to fill your lungs.

Good luck, love.
I'll be here to welcome you up,
Wishing you well all the way.

Platonic Wisdom

The lingering scent of a thousand lover’s roses
Could cure an aching heart, but bafflement hunkers
Amidst what lovers would coil around.
They pray to such false idols and pretentious mysteries.

But what joy in their eyes and hearts, ecstatic fools,
So worthy of admiration and condemnation all at once.
If I could hold them like a child, cuddle them to peace,
And hush away their worries…I might question if I should.

Perhaps I am not so wise, but jealous,
That I have so much sense as to baulk,
And am wearied of the ignorance and bliss
That is set so neatly before me; lovers,
Do praise yourself, if only together,
You are truth without fact, and joy
Without any sense of reason or rule.

The Self Journey

Spent in the constant strain of the filter,
Self holds the water the ocean spills over.
What was not made into animal, bird, or land
Developed and cultivated into the thinking man.
But what was left after the shell was bore
Was saved for the self, creating hollow more.

No vision is so pristine as to cross filters,
And any pretendence is learned cooperation.
One eye, one self, one vision, one way, one path.
On this diluted journey there may be only one way forward,
And no way back.
Each travels alone, no guide or companion,
Until the travel shall end alone,
Be it laying, leaning, or standing.

I understand only what I may envision,
I envision only what I may piece together
From what only I may experience.
There is only me.
There is only my journey.
To each and every one
There is only one journey,
One importance,
One submission.

Cooperation is folly, but needed,
For the traffic is created, uncovered, and bleeding.
No separation can mend
The long started deconstruction of men.
But try as we might,
The self should explain,
Together is a fable and alone is the way.
Responsibility, humility, love, and respect:
The new postulates from a lunar tidal eclipse.

For Dreaming

Night ceases when the sun light creeps
Out from the corners of our dreams.
How should the fire ball burn
Ignoring the heat captured in our dreams.

What was wanted, now passed,
Strung out into morning.
What was then here,
Now gone too fast to claim it real into the morning.
Such perfect vision burnt away by the coming day,
Enough to make us hate it.
Love, lust, power, and trust;
So near, so dear, so gone: enough to make us hate it.

Night, your rugged slumber stills my wander,
But the splendor of the darktime wonder
Leaves me concrete under the covers.
Hide the sun away,
Nothing is perfect like this is in the day.

A Flag

As I hung the flag, I stepped back and surveyed
with a respectful glint in my eye and a sorted pride swelling.
I marked what I saw:
No great feats or duties,
no sullen trenches or dirtied heroes.
I saw no crowds and heard no speeches,
there were no statues or mourners,
there were no noble citizens:
young dreamers willing a risk
for a chance at erecting a difference,
there was just a long sheet of cloth.

Red stripes flowing down,
draping tight against the chalky cheep drywall,
the nylon bright where it caught the dim light from the lamps.
The blue field brimmed with white stars to the left,
more cascading stripes on the right.
I hung my flag so it faced the floor,
a standing, vertical reminder of its service,
for my brother, who flew it horizontally atop of his craft in war.

He was home safe.
I did not need vivid memories
of what the flag stood for playing in my eyes,
I had the flag there,
The Flag of my brother,
The Flag of my father,
And, someday when I would contribute
to its constant molding, my flag.
And that is why it is on my wall.
And that is why it is all I need to see.

Against Hope

Sovereign in dreams and wishes, hope is lavish.
Covered by the putrid grime of pride,
it prods at the heart and harkens to no end,
the winks of realism—set in stone—
are ignored for the slippery soft clouds of sorry guesses.

The ill founded hypotheses will wither and wane
while the tiny voices of chance may sing,
once the chorus is over the zealousness wears thin,
and life demands it be led again.

Ignore the fancies, fantasies only end in torture.
The looking glass has broken long ago, lost soul,
Long ago.

Follow Softly

Follow the dogs softly through
the rain soaked cobblestone streets
and past by them
like the smell of mud on boots and pants
and the grass drowning from its drink.

They know where the garbage is, where the food is,
where subsistence lives.
That natural survival you were lacking,
but can see in the dogs lurking ahead,
devours the best rational and logic while you swim in yours.

And you have the sense to be jealous
and follow softly on; like a shadow while the sun sets,
larger than the subject but less significant in nature's eye.
Fall to your knees, dirty and scuff you shining shoes
and tear the knees of your new pants,
for the dogs know the answer to the sad sort of question that,
in asking, has ripped you apart.

Arise back to birth lost child,
mother is there waiting, wanting.

They Tremble

They tremble like dying leafs
clinging to the branch in the premature gusts
of a coming storm, so nervous and excited young lovers can be,
questering for truth, or power, like ancient conquerors
against enemies with numbers too high
and forces too strong to ever be conquered.

Like Spartan soldiers at Thermopylae,
they drive on with deep eyes and gentle glances knowing,
or at least hinting at the loss, the heart ache,
the dismembered spoils that await them.
All is fair but the blind are lame in battle,
lament for their childhood for love has stolen it.
And now they tremble against each other,
such wonderful epilepsy.

Fools lead to slaughter by their own predictions,
expectations, and false hopes.
Someday they'll be humbled and settled
and tell the lies of happiness.
But for now they tremble as one,
a machine pounding out a hollow, yet so steady, beat.
Such a sad cadence, such a sweet song.

Lost with Caleb

The tall tress of I forgot which type
loomed over head and ate all direction
for my brother and I as we plunged deeper into lost.
He suggested with desperation a direction,
I denied with short breaths and waxing nerves,
home should be found my way.
The older brother knows which way to go;
so often not the case.

We wound on a street too far from our own
and wandered down through the sterile suburbs,
looking for some sign of neighbors, but found none.
No familiar heroes graced the street signs,
no family flowers or odd standalones we should remember.

It grew colder and dusk crept upon us
as we plunged deeper still into lost.
But finally a firm intersection was found
and our way took shape!
We ran up the hilled street
to the embracing voice of our father,
falling out of the tight web of lost
into the welcoming warm fire and blanket of found!

Spilling the Picture Boxes

The boxes get dumped out all over the street.
The cardboard is wet and disappears under hurrying feet.
So many memories covered in water.
I tried to grab the albums before you dropped them.
But now the photographs are wet in the puddles.
And the mud will only smudge when you try to clean them.
Such a long trip though all that has passed,
only to realize that photographs do not last;
I would be more disappointed if it were the real thing on the ground.
But the good times we had can’t be lost once they are found.
So just leave them, grab what you must.
I’d be lying if I said I didn't have a memory that I could trust.
Not with you, not with you.
The boxes never really will be empty.

Hurting You

Don’t open your eyes when you say I should go
It only invites tears and I don’t need to know
That I’m hurting you. I am hurting you.

Don’t stop to hug me or wish me good journeys
I'd rather crash then have your kind words harm me
Because I’m hurting you. I hurt you.

Stop all this madness and just push me away
If I could find it I’d learn the better way
I don’t want to hurt you. I am hurting you.

If you could run so fast that you might catch up
I would drive faster to help kill this love
I have to, I have to hurt you. I need to hurt you.

If apologies would help you at all
Then I would have sung them to you all along.
I’m so, I’m so, I’m so.
I’m so very sorry.

Cheer Up

It doesn’t make much sense
To not love the outdoors
When in through the window
That shining spring sun pours.

Why ignore that lovely song
Of birds chirping, on and on
Sitting and swooping
Out in the front lawn?

Frown some other day,
It will be there still.
Today come play with me,
Let’s fetch water on the hill.

Such green grass, we’ll never fall down
I won’t break my crown, or tumble down
And you won’t follow after.

It doesn’t make much sense
To let it get to you now.
Look outside the windows
And steal a piece of spring.

There’s birds, there’s sun
There’s you, and there’s me.

Playing the Game

Do you think the wind ever whispers your name,
When you’re walking alone and you’re cold in the breeze?
Does it ever feel like you’re not really alone,
Walking back through the night to your lonely home?
Does the blanket covering you up and wrapped so tight
Ever make you feel like the bed’s not empty,
Or that there's someone there on the other side?
When you wake up and stare in the mirror
Past your own stale gaze into the glass plain,
Do you ever think that you see another face,
Laughing at the game that you always hate to play?

Neither do I.

Wah Wah

The dust in my throat,
like a broken glass or sandpaper coat,
demanded I should drink,
very cool and smooth I should think,
so I scattered to find a place to pacify my throat.

I found the water,
but it felt burning and hotter
than what I felt I needed,
so I knelled and pleaded
for a bit of cool water.

But nothing happened and now I sing
as if I have smoked for years.
So I just decided to start anyway.

To A Fighter

You.

Always ready to fight
with those clinched fist,
trying to impress someone
who might care and attack.

I stopped fighting
A long time ago
And it hurt my hands so much less
When finally I decided to let go.

Why punch when you could hold.
Why yell when you should whisper.
Why try to tear apart
When putting together is so much quicker...

You.

Addicticted to the bruises
And the way they paint your face;
Such pretty purples and greens
On top of pale blues and near blacks.

I stopped fighting
When I knew you began
And I became an example for you
To follow or understand.

Why did I stop if I was like you.
Why try when I can only fail.
Why expose the right way
When I know your fists are clinched:

Because I don't want to see you hurt.
And that, my friend, is it.

secrets

secrets are simple all sealed up inside,
but when the water gates open, out come the floods
And what was easy to ignore and cope with, once allowed,
Because more real than the holder should have allowed.

Is it better to let know, let loose, and let free
Or is being trapped inside your own mind
Worth the prison and torture of possibility?

Prison is peaceful, so too are the condemned.
Once paroled "Where to go?" controls the head.

secrets are simple all sealed up inside
But it's better for all they commit no crime.

Sit Them Down

Sit them down and tell them how
Someday never comes around
And all those sunsets in the distance
Would melt in the heat of their mittens.

Sit them down and tell them how
They were meant for ice and snow
And when their flakes fall softly down
Somewhere in the sun,
there’s heat on the ground.

Substance

Stare at me
With those eyes
As we small talk.

Don't say a word
Because we both know
What's honestly behind them.

It's better this way
Without the questions or saying
And we'll figure it out later.

Just keep telling me about you
And I'll open up more
So I can get to know another person.

Finally, I have found another person.
I can say I know someone.
But can anyone say they know me?

I'm so impersonal
I'm so impersonal
I'm so impersonal

I'll open up tomorrow
And hint at how I feel.
Tonight is too easy.

Tomorrow, I'll be a person.
Tomorrow, I'll be real.

But Dance

You could lie so still to fool the color from your cheeks.
The warmth over you leaves and cruses
While you drift off to drudgery;
Your soft steps away from the hectic
vocabulary of the stressing current.

Wish away your now, sweet thing.

It’s lovely to drown in a romantic way,
but life is better saved for the moments
where stillness looms in the day.

You could lie so still and pale,
but dance for me now,
to heat up and heal.

Them Like June

Soft finger tips,
and a stare that goes
deeper than their eyes,
greets them like hot coffee,
and a soft June sunrise.

Some bit of hope,
shining on that face,
let’s on to the know,
of being in the right place.

Gracious to breathe,
the wind follows suit,
And their hair is blown to glaze,
best in the glaring moon.

The fog of the night,
help sets the mood,
And the only thing better,
is the sunlight in June.

The Chair

The chair is not alright,
But has it ever been?
It was sturdy, yes, before
But did it also squeak then?

It might have sat more level,
But now it just wobbles.
And whenever anyone leans forward,
Their lean is turned to a throttle.

Please sit if you don’t believe,
There’s space enough beside me.
It’s now dangerous and exciting,
There’s space enough beside me.

Such Pretty Plans

Let the starlight strap
us into a sleep maze
of excitement!
Let’s twirl and whirl
on the cusps
of midnight delightment!
Shall we wake before
the cinnamon burned morn,
then let our voices be trembled
by the humble rumble of
what was sure to happen;
cloak me in wonder
and I’ll keep you in potential.
The stars will stay in both our minds,
that bright, back-lit pinnacle.

For A Cape Cod Evening

Ralph played with a stick in the knee-high yellah grass,
While I sat on the rotting white step outside the back door.
Maude was with me, in that green dress she loved so much.
I was dressed down after dinner, playing with Ralph to relax,
Maude joined me to be still and quiet beside, and not much more.
The wind waved the high grass and creaked the old window as such.

We really should have painted the house, it looks old.
But on an evening like this, old is comfort.
And that smell of summer dusk hates new coats.

Brave Boys

They were such heroes when it mattered
So brave, so noble,
But when they were needed most they lost us.
They left.
And those dams they were building,
And calmly promising to finish,
Dissolved
With all those lies and broken promises.

You should finish what you begin,
And not act so excited,
When I have no intentions
Of letting you start again.
It’s over.
It’s broken.
We’re swimming now
And we love it.
Goodbye, brave boys,
Goodbye and good riddance.

Quarters

All I’ve got left is four quarters in my pocket.
Four little shinny new quarters, but what company.
Not only do I have George Washington with me,
I have him four times. And I have a dollar.
And when I walk I have a nice bouncing jingle.

No ones knows what I’ve got in my pocket,
So that jingle is quite special. It might be more
Than my last dollar in a stranger’s ear. It’s A secrete
Just between me and my Georges. My Washingtons.
I smile a bit because they’re all I’ve got left.
Just four shinny new quarters, and an ironic little smile.

The Fruits.

Sample those last fruits,
That refuse to rot off the vine.
They’ve been left so long,
That any memory of rot is lost long behind.
What sour juices can be suckled
Now that the sweetness falls through?

The river wafts closer to the land
Where all the vines grow.
Follow the flood,
Feast on the fruits.
To eat them is to love them,
And that love is truth.

Picture of a Wood Vase

The emerald glaze, or perhaps jade, I’m not sure.
But the green flower swirls around the vine
Against the dark, smooth grain of wood.
Like a soft chocolate with mint inside,
The colors come together for a picture,
And what a rich and textured flavor!

Such a piece, not so antique, longs display.
But not if the sun light comes so harshly
Through near windows in that grotesque way.
It takes the glist off the flower and lightens the wood,
The flavor bitters and the chocolate’s charcoal bark
Is lost in the yellow and white golden shine.

Pull the shade and then photograph the piece,
That is all I could suggest to get it closer.

I'm Behind

I’m that leaf
still on the tree,
while all the others
have fallen from the branch.
I’m the brown pants
in summer, and
the pink lace in fall.
I’m the before
in the now,
but linger past,
after all.
I’m the heat
in the oven,
after the bread
is baked,
I’m the scratches
On the china,
after the meal is ate.
I’m the prose
without point,
and the false poetry.
I’m the feeling,
that everything,
is getting ahead of me.

Georgia

Cattails and dragon flies
On evenings spent out playing.
Sweating in the humid summer guise
Of falling in love without saying.

Ocean spray and sand castles
On afternoon excursions,
Where life was free from petty hassle
And relived in several versions.

Swing sets and swimming pools
In the glowing yellow glare of noon.
Acting and looking like fools
In the Heaven that can be June.

The Georgia sky is the canopy
For the circus of my younger days.
Summer still plays on the marquee
Of my memory, now mossed in haze.

Someday the sun will reshine
And birght away the cluster
That lingers on what was mine;
To regain its childhood luster.

When the Morning Dew is Waiting

When the morning dew is waiting
For the first soft steps of day,
The grass glistens like glass plating,
Reflecting sunlight every which way.

Catching the birds’ eyes and earning
Their newest songs to announce
To the world abound, now yearning,
For readied choirs to pronounce.

The breeze tickles away any looming clouds
While the sun slowly starts to smile
To the coming and gathering crowds
All gaffed for their daily beguile.

So begins the steady walk of day
Through the hours it possesses
Until the darker shades of night invade
Through to morning’s new progresses.

From a Picture

Every dreary night
As the cast of murky greens and royal blues insist,
A group of five assembles
And tries to redeem some of modernism’s lost bliss.

They read verses from the Book of Blood
And pray, by candle light, to the Spirit of Man
That someday Selfishness will surrender
To the light touch of Tenderness’ soft hand.

But they are not alone,
A member they once disowned watches, waits, and wonders
If the secrete he stole was handed to the right people
And if the secrete he sold will ever yield gold.

Because most people would rather not hear about meetings,
Verses being memorized at secrete readings,
Or people praising the past with gloomy greetings.
That’s why dark reds still persist.

So is the price of progress.

Adaptability

No one ever told me I can’t
So I assume that I will.
I have been told that I won’t,
But I do, so I prevail.
Sometimes I say I will
And then I don’t.
But I didn’t fail,
Because I am my own will.
If I would have I would have,
Without other insight.
Unless someone tells me I won’t,
After they know that I don’t,
Then perhaps it’s time to change,
But only to shock, surprise,
Or rise above lowered expectations.
I will when I have to if I don’t,
And that is adaptability.

So Haphazzard

Grave bellows the whimper
From that desperate piece of solitude
Now encroached, severed from the switching
Lines of the hands from clocks, and their fated,
Soiled tic-tocs. Save for the room,
The space shall not be missed,
Neither will the floorboards
Nor the spaces hence forth kicked.
The doors hang sad upon all the hinges
As the new forest rearranges
Upon the backs of the folded, scuffed, and nicked.

We lapsed into laugher mocking it all…
Mock it again?

Bells

The bells in my head are ringing so loudly
so don’t let your whispers in.
They’re ringing and ringing,
and I can’t hear you to answer.
They chime so well, and I wish you could hear,
but then you might not understand,
and that would never do.
I need to think I understand the beauty in you,
so for you,
I’ll assume the same is true.
You, misunderstanding,
the ringing of the bells?
No.
That would never do.

Sunrise Requested

Bring to me my morning glory sunrise
So I may wake and face the day.
Bring to me that golden glowing surprise,
For great is the pain it gladly guiles away.

Guide the gentle fire of its light into my eyes
And I will grasp the gliding blissful rays.
Guide the gentle burning to the children’s cries
So they may forget their longing and relearn how to play.

Fetch the breathed breeze and steam the cold ‘til it sighs
Melting, glaring back, wishing for the end of Day.
Fetch the hot, blazing kiss of Summer’s lips there by
To bring forth it’s brilliantly fragranced bouquet.

Send out the noblemen enchanters to request, at least imply,
To our dear, delightful, illumination: we detest lifeless gray.
Send out the weathered watchers to wait for a reply
Of any hope that our Lambent Lover will obey.

Shall my effulgent affection still not comply…
And our gorgeous gift of Haven’s Hair start to fray…
Shall my earnest attempts to empty evil awry…
Let the nocuous Night still spill its clouded cliché.

A Storm

I can see it in the distance, deliberately mocking my claim.
A calmness comes over the land as its rooted nerves begin to cool,
The storm tightens it coils while it sees its foil is preparing.
There is no use in praying as the storms is above sparing
Besides, my family and house have stayed safe several storms before.

But unease still creeps into my stomach as I wait to sit out the foreboding giant.
My family’s in bed, crowded into the same room gathering strength from gathered fear
And I secretly hope that all Hell steers clear,
But everything outside knows that won’t happen.

I grab the paper and sit in the rocking chair in the corner as it all begins:

The wind blows waves in the fields of golden grain,
And as the sky melts to darker shades of desperate blues and grays
Shutters on an old, weathered house bang a beat to the thunder’s moan
While the air gets thicker as the shrill whisper of the wind grows.

I try to read the paper and rock in the corner as it all begins.

Fantastisy

I found the speakeasy under the farm
And that three horned pretty girl was lovely on my arm.
We sparkled the dance floor with high pump kisses
And the DJ spoke to us over the house mic, sending his best wishes.

I played my moves right as my purple skin glowed
And the three horned sweetness looked as if she’d never want to go.
We danced through the griffins and avoided the fairies,
We tore it up with the phoenix and the rest of the forests’ dignitaries.

The floor was amazing and lit up in colors I couldn’t name
And the dancers in the rafters made the beats come down like rain.
I was dizzy, I was hyper, and I started to shrink,
But that tri-horned beauty was quick witted and got me a drink.

Filled with new courage and with a brand new fin,
With left that daft party so the night could really begin.

Something Simple

Say something special and watch how her eyes sparkle!
She may not mention, but that warmth in her soul speckles,
And when you take the time
To notice the beauty of what you call ‘mine,’
Her spirits lift and that weighty demon buckles.

Taken aback by your complimentary attack,
She may smile sheepishly or laugh it away,
But you can see she visibly softens
And a simple phrase has made her day.

Be sweet, be caring, be kind with words,
A line of poetry never harmed a fairer lace.
Pick and choose your sweet sympathies
To ensure they bright the right place.

Our Flood

When the water dribbled in
From behind the once-not-stained door,
It soaked into our mat
And poured all over our new hardwood floor.

Eventually the levels rose
And our house started to swim,
Our neighbors laughed, sneering back,
“I’m glad we’re not like them!”

But when the fish fell threw
The coral hole in the roof,
It was much more beautiful;
The shark-fin sun dangled and dollied
While sand dollars collected in our pockets.
The reefs and whales made all the more useful
That salt-scented view of underwater peaceful.

For forty days and forty dawn
We waded in our wonderland,
Until the water seeped back down
And had to flood the Johnsons
On the other side of town.

We mopped and cried
While the last grains of salt left our swollen eyes,
But never, I swore, would I forget
This over-mucking, seafaring gift!