I feel like the stars and the sky
Have eyes
And that they look upon us and see
Straight through to the core
Of every tiny life
Realizing that for every bit of good
There is an army of bad.
Maybe that's why the sky cries sometimes
Fills every crack with tears until there's nothing left
And maybe that's why she gets angry
Furiously scrubs away the roughness
Until all she can see is her reflection.
Perhaps the stars are the reason
Riling up the poor sky
Showing her tiny crimes and tiny lies
Whispered in tiny ears
The stars shedding little lights
On a seemingly hopeless situation.
Perhaps she can't help but vent her frustration
Because the stars are right sometimes.
Then who comforts her, I wonder,
Who gives her strength to show the sun
When the hours of night are waning
And the day still hasn't begun?
Is it the sun, the moon, a god, the wind
Or love as the case may be?
Or does she comfort herself
When she feels that she's in need?

This was a fishing village
when people were speaking
the king's English, dead
like the fishing industry
Now the tourists have accents

Truth be told
this was a fishing village
long before that
But we don't speak about
what those folks spoke
Something Algonquian
or another dead language

When the tide is out
I walk the shore and look for remnants
Pottery and stone tools, and such
I find a lot of plastic
and bottles, plenty of those
We've been a drinking people
for a long **** time

Once, I found a child's shoe,
sodden and filled with sand
It had a blue lace,
still tied, and a smiley face
as the tide was going out
Kind of sad, really.

r  ~ 8/28/14

There was an army of ants in the plastic plants
So I poured light through a magnifying glass
And I created a fire on the artificial grass

They scurried and hurried
with flames on their backs
Like soldiers on a hopeless plain,
searching for invisible barracks

And I sighed as they died,
because we are all the same:
Scurrying and hurrying from invisible pain

two moons, but still
the night is dark-
wild dogs bark at a sky
that I don't understand

there's a tent revival
down by the river-
preacher duane says the light
from the reflection
will be good for the soul

I don't want to go, momma
I don't want to go

two moons are confusing
though the sound is soothing
as it shines through my radio

wild dogs are barking-
my head is swimming-
at the river they're gathering-
and the people are singing-
and the preacher is praying-
and the light is reflecting-

I don't want to go, momma
I don't want to go

I see two moons,
momma...

two moons.

r ~ 8/27/14

The beauty of a woman
is in the poems she's wrote,
the dreams she's weaved
and all the stories she's told.

The beauty of a woman
is in the adventures she's taken,
the lives she's touched
and all the minds she's awakened.

The beauty of a woman
is in the caring she gives,
the sincerity in her laughter,
and the passion in her griefs.

It's not the expensive clothes she owns,
her body size, the diamonds she's worn.
Measure not the beauty of woman in gold,
for the beauty of a woman is reflected in her soul.

Our problem was, very different tastes
Mine was terrific, I mean look at him
His was abysmal, I can't even look at *her

I can live with everything I've said,
can you?
Thought this would just make me upset,
Guess that parts true.
But that's the funny thing I noticed,
how about you?
The way I tell the truth like it's all I'm about to do.
Like everything I am working toward doesn't depend on you.
You're either with it or against, I guess that's not true...
If you really want you can be irrelevant, too.
Doesn't mean I won't always have love in my heart for you.

But, if I already burnt up all of my bridges
Guess it's a good thing my battle scars won't need stitches,
Cause it seems like I better know how to swim or convert
to being religious. But if I chose the latter would I be like you
judging all your decisions?

Okay.
Thought you heard the last of my beautiful words?
Call 'em what you want, I think that talk's for the birds.
I am just going to concentrate on puttin nouns with the verbs.
Concentrate on writing anything by which my soul is disturbed.

Lastly, I want this part to be the loudest verse heard.
Your words are nothing but words.
Your hate is tired and I've learned,
That I have nothing but love to give in return.