Green Vines

Green vines curled up the chipped white paint
Of the lattice work that walled
Your grandmother’s antique back porch.

They swooned into the diamonded-shaped spaces,
Some flowing outward and down toward the cement
And then out into the soft shade of the lighter green grass of the yard.

Other vines wrapped upward unto the higher holes
Where the diamonds had no tops near the upper edge of the lattice work.
I liked them; they had the best chance of escaping into
The pearl blue of the empty summer sky.

The Dirt Rain

The rain smelled stale,
And everything soaked
And dirty afterwards
Was no surprise to me.

I just miss the refresh
That used to come with.
But, I suppose, that’s done,
At least, now, for this storm.

This dirt rain has smeared
And splashed and splattered
Mud along the sidewalk,
And that sums the storm up.

It was all dry before,
But at least clean then.

For The Sad Boys

Strange as it seems,
There’s a girl in his dreams,
That will never, ever, love him.

He cries all night,
Wishing things were right,
And that she, might start to love him.

He lost who he was,
And hates all he does,
All because she, doesn’t love him.

But don’t blame her,
Love is a spur,
It’s not her fault that she, doesn’t love him.

And what to say,
To make his sadness go away,
Don’t remind that she, doesn’t love him

Let him drown or fall,
He’s been depressing us all,
Simply because she, doesn’t love him.

A Stagnate Mantra?

That hot breath heaves from your belly
Burning away the freshness of the morning.
You resent the dew in all its new innocence,
The birds chirp to mock you and drag you to another day.
The light melts your teary, slept eyes into consciousness
And you challenge yourself to make it one more round.

Live.
Forget the pathetic pity you’ll never receive.
And make yourself something.
Find some to believe, something to live for
Before no one cares if you do live anymore.

The mirror stares back uglier than before
And you snarl to make a point.
You are a hero in the night
But a villain while waking alone.
Today is the day that everything changes.
Today is the day that you remember to change.

What a Moment Can Do

We could crush tea leaves
Until we both crumbled under the weight
Of our blatant chemistry,
Or remained whisked away,
Miles away from each other in our imaginations
While a film flickers on the screen.

We could eat and discuss
What makes each other us,
You could call me pet names while we shopped
And compared quirky similarities,

Or I could take you dancing;
Spinning under my arm, I would drown you in charm.
You could be an associate, a lover, or a friend,
But I doubt I’ll ever even see you again.

2:00 AM

I throw on my mother’s sunglasses
So I can make a note for myself.
I won’t admit to needing anybody
But I could sure use the help.

Alone again and the glasses hide the glare,
I tried to write a little piece of something
But there’s nothing in the air.

Fires burn somewhere
So hot that you couldn’t touch,
But I’m stuck in my mother’s sunglasses
Trying to write something that won’t hurt much.

I need to know myself
And so I try to write it down,
I’m hard to capture on paper,
Even harder to describe in sound.

Here Again

I’ve been here before,
And not knowing what lures me back,
I know I’ll be here again.

So while I shatter the present
With shards of the past,
I’ll make no notes,
I’ll leave no maps

Because, if I fail again,
Like I’m bound to do,
I want to crumble back into the place,
Where all of this feels new.

I’ll make the same mistakes,
Because they seem like the right decisions,
Then blame myself for getting it wrong,
Ignoring the vicious cycle.

I’ve been here before,
And not knowing what lures me back,
I know I’ll be here again…

No More Flames

I fought the flames with all of my fury,
And remained uncharred after the fight.
But with nothing more to fight for,
I doubt if I shall ever see the flames again.

With victory am I overcome with weakness?
Having won, do I have nothing to win?
What is worthy of my bruises,
What deserves its name in my blood?

What more is there to want
Than the glory of having won?

Turning It Around

The sad heart is the most poetic and romantic,
Willing to think up a thousand remedies for its listless aliments,
But the pathetic sobbing and tears are self mourning.
So trapped is the tortured artist that the light at the end of the tunnel
Only serves to blind them, and shun away their smiles.

I’ll pass,
And write sturdily from a solid place
Where I am not afraid of a jubilee,
And if I am forgotten or never found
In spite of my upturned frown,
Then shame on me. Shame on me.

Your Eyes

I look at her eyes,
Those blue spheres sparkling
For some new stranger now,
And I remember when
They stared at me.

Once I held them
Captured and secured in my own
For what seemed like an eternity,
But her gentle gaze rests now
As just another memory.

Photographs are torture,
Her eyes are empty there;
No glossed rendering
Could ever hold her soaring soul,
And knowing this, I miss her all the more.