He thought he was
a child of nature
Loving all creatures
you see
He couldn’t believe
what had just occurred
“How could this happen to me?”

As he sat in the road
all ******
talking to the EMT
he suspected
it was a woodpecker
that had mistaken his head
for a tree!

Time can take
the bloom from your rose
the spring from your toes
turn your poetry
to a vapid prose
To be unhappy
is such a waste of it
so shed your grave clothes
and make haste of it
because time
truly waits for no one

The songs of birds
The morning mist
The cool, wet air
gently kissed
by the breaking sun
Before losers lose
and winners win
Before all the madness
can begin
the battle for the day
is all but won

Unhappy
are those
who mean to collect debts
from those
not indebted to pay
It’s an odd little game
that nobody wins
yet, people
seem willing to play.

Beware of the man
with the sharpened wit
He be a swordsmen in disguise
Using the air in his lungs
he duels with his tongue
splitting damnable truths
between lies

Oh sometimes
how the grateful mistake
scratches the itch
of self-loathing

The longer we live
the less we know
and the more
everything
becomes our teacher

Always in the back
of things
Behind a curtain
A shadow
A silhouette
Never blowing a horn
There was no horn to blow
no air in the lungs
no will in the legs
to play and march
in a parade

As the sun peeks over the edge of night
he slowly opens his eyes
and wakes not with an eagerness of spirit
He grows weary of battle
For this love and hate of himself
is always at war
and if there is any lacking in his resolve
victory for love will be hard-won
if won at all
Fatigue will plague his every moment
until the darkness grants his leave
It is then he can close his eyes to sleep once more

The dam of tears
has more leaks
than the child has fingers
He knows that if the dam breaks
there will be no surviving it
Another casualty
in the land of Nod

Wise man say
that a valiant effort
can never be anything less
than a righteous failure

He does love God
But, he fears the devil
and that which he preaches
may not be on the level
His head has been wrought
with these lustful thoughts
It turns on the street
as if on a swivel
One stray from the path
could incur God’s wrath
and he’d forever be
in league with evil

Leaning in a dimly lit doorway
he raises the bottle to his lips
Gulping down the last of that cheap wine
he contemplates the world
and decides that all have been born
into an intensity of need
It’s edge so sharp
that to escape from it
is to feel a sweet relief
He has found that the bottle
can dull the blade
and this is why it
has become his friend
It keeps him company
in those dark places
where he hides
from the lathe

Valiant are those souls
who are willing to brave
the treacherous waters
of traumatic pasts
They sail with a wind of conviction tempered with caution
Worthy of an ancient mariner
it is an adventurous,
perilous voyage
yet full of hope that one day
their stormy seas will set them free

Though bad times
can crawl like a tortoise
and good times
race like a hare
Indifference will always
run last in a race
when there’s no motive
or reason to care

There has been no worse an indicator of marital bliss than
an abundance of money
and yet no greater a predictor of
marital discord than the lack of it

My heart for those
who so love a rose
For they wither along side
it’s mortal repose
But, may they not fret
it’s sad wilted face
There will be another
to take it’s place

Why do we have
these crosses to bear?
Do our woes not fit us
like the clothes
that we wear?
We often ask God
"Could it be
I can’t see?”
and then the epiphany
It might just be me

Should I be still
forever hungry
in the land
of good and plenty?
Should I fill my belly
yet starve my soul
and leave this yearning
to be whole
Solely to the question:
"Is there nothing more?"

Carried by the charged breath
of an ever expanding universe
Time flies into tomorrow
on the wings of itself

Evil is innocence
unspeakably betrayed
as it laughs at it’s partner
about the deal that was made

The rooms in this house
now sit in silence
They are but shrines
gathering the dust
of fond memories
Sometimes, when I walk past
their doors
I think I hear playing
But, then, I step in to the crushing
disappointment of quiet, empty space
They have left us alone
Dazed and confused
with no inkling of what to do next
And the heartache
Did I mention the heartache?

You and I
are not such bad actors
But, we have had
bad roles

Allow the particle of self
to join the wave of humanity

Tomorrows
always come and go
But, the thought of them
Sometimes, scare me so
They can rock my world
even though
they always melt into
harmless yesterdays

I pity those
who cannot relax at night
For I am sometimes lying there
next to them
wide-eyed in a slow tale of time

Here lies the cat
upon my bed
I walk on by
in silent dread
Careful lest
I wake the pest
and stroke forever
the squatter’s head

I dream of an empty chair
in a field of golden wheat
It’s a lonesome scene of solitude
with no one in the seat
I peer
I stare
Nothing seems to be there
but a surreal world
of Monsieur Magritte

They are the young innocents
unspeakably betrayed
who walk in paths of darkness
not knowing where they have strayed
Products of childhood trauma
built from assembly lines
of dreadful family dysfunction
that left them far behind

Don’t let the traces of
snow on the ground
and the air still yet cold
blind you
to the clouds of March
so thinly painted high in the sky
as to remind us of a Spring yet to come

I stand in a field
of cold stillness
Amidst it’s golden strands
I raise my arms
to hold the sun’s face
so warmly in my hands

Hang your troubles
on the Tree of Sorrows
Look for ones
to steal or borrow
Then step around
the tree again
grateful
that another’s pain

is not your own

“I have to look for your father”
we’d hear our poor mother say
for he had little fear
standing on the great pier
during a storm on the bay

When father had the Black Irish
we’d hear hear our poor mother pray
“Keep him off that **** pier”
when bad weather was near
so the sea couldn’t wash him away

Hope springs eternal
in the fertile ground of imagination

In the early spring
when flowers bloom
the daffodils dance
by the light of the moon
Their time is short
yet dance with glee
for the night can’t own them
and they will always be
children of a rising sun

If one could receive a penny
for every moment spent
in self-indulgent worry
one might become rich
But, would quite probably trade
all that wealth away
for all the good times lost
between faith, family, and friends

He stares from across the room
Mad for every bashful lash of her eyes
Every ungraceful turn
and near stumble
Each uncomfortable moment
makes it abundantly clear that
she must be rescued
from the brute force of all this mockery
So, tonight he rides
as the knight
she thought would never come

My tears held back
are so heavy in my eyes
that I could cry
and cry I would
if to make my heart light again
and these eyes see again
the glorious rainbows
lit by the sun

The sudden demise
of a few relatives
left him shaken and horrified
at the discovery
that in addition to all it's inherited weaknesses
death too
runs in the family

How dull the instrument of alcohol
In service of emotional pain
For come the dawn
the effect is gone
and the wolf is at the door again

He's singing in the rain
and feeling no pain
He knows it's insane
but, he's drinking again
Up high on a cloud
He's obnoxious and loud
dancing and singing in the rain

Sometimes
we are like time travelers
either brooding in a reincarnated past
or living nervously in an uncertain future
But, tragically absent from the present

A silent scream of terror
from a frozen face of fear
Although a bit scared
he couldn’t help but stare
at the painting on the mirror

Sometimes, in the dead of night
before I've had the chance to write
they disappear into the light
of the moon outside my window
I leave the house, sit on the lawn
Wait until the crack of dawn
Still no trace of where they’ve gone
Where do forgotten words go?

Sometimes inside
I feel oceans
Inspired
by the breath of the sea
From atop a great hill
my heart and lungs fill
with a spirited hunger to be

Sometimes inside
I see valleys
lined with sheets of dry sand
Where parched eyes can’t cry
for dreams that have died
and all hope is lost once again

Oblivious
to their despair
it roams the house
without a care
It's in the clothes
and on the dishes
All against
their sincerest wishes
and as the kids
come through the door
the ******* plague
falls to the floor
This war on dirt
cannot be won
and the keeper's job
is never done

A violin
for the absence of flowers
A cello
for the snow-sprinkled trees
An oboe
for the bird that missed the trip south
And silence
for Winter’s dis-ease

There is no strength in cruelty
It is an ugliness with only weakness
as it’s base
An unsightly reflection
of damaged people causing more harm in defense of their open wounds

Such simplicity
yet magnanimous in its undertaking
One marvels at the whole of it
in awe of the glorious painstaking detail
Colors calm and easy
leaving no part of it's aura unappeasing
It's nature so sincere and moving
the stricken feel the need to bow

Wear not
the irate head to bed
‘Spite the words
that have been said
Anger is a state of mind
that leaves your slumber
in such a bind
So, in the interest
of better sleep
Eat yours words
and not a peep

… until the break of day