My heart is quicksand,
everything's sinking in.
I'm tangled in the wires I hardwired to my brain and I'm about to short circuit.
Yesterday,
I lost 4 poems in the wash,
washed away my memories,
like a wave crashing on the shore of my brain,
dragged away the footprints.
Maybe that's why I'm short circuiting,
water and electrical wires don't mix.
But here I am,
an electrical storm in my head,
untamed,
much like myself.
Contained,
in my head,
much like myself.

I scaled a mountain,
left much of myself along the way
in thickets and high water.
To reach the higher truth
and to see the path ahead,
and all its bountiful treasures,
I reached for the top.

When I finished my ascent
I found a Muse.
She called my name,
to which I answered,
                    "I have a long road ahead".
The Muse replied,
                    "What if the road ends here,
                                              and led you to me".

I laughed and looked to the horizon,

the rolling fields,

which were grey and bare.

Just because the climb
is insufferable and taxing,
does not mean
the summit is bountiful
and rich.
Sometimes the summit
is just the peak
of realization,
that there are many more challenges to scale.

Bells toll at noon
on a rainy Monday,
dread seeps through my pores,
into my bones.

I weep for
the creaking porch and chairs,
the gentle rock back and forth,
the crisp air.

At last I found my place,
but it is not here.

I woke up this morning to noises,
cars, a refrigerator, TV,
and I felt empty,
fear and dread poured into my empty shell.
I'm tired of listening to men who've read books,
books by men who read books,
by men who read books.
The monotonous drone of idealists,
arguing with idealists with ideas
by other idealists.
Unoriginal blabber
and outright lunacy,
telling the free man how to be chained,
blocking out sunlight,
restricting our branches.

A loon communes on the lake,
the lake is a tear drop on Mother Earth,
the ripples flow like glass being blown,
I am perched on my porch.
The loon cries once more,
I puff on my cigar,
the smoke shifts indecisively,
it moves much like the unchained around me,
free willed and wild.
I dream of being unchained.
My branches stretch out,
they yearn for the sun,
but heavy grey clouds hang on puppet strings.
Overcast and encumbered by responsibility,
they shroud the sun,
blanket it with regret and doubt.
I dream of being unchained.
I lower my branches and shout,
but no one hears,
my voice is chained.
The loon cries out,
it echoes unrestrained.

The world is very grey today,
black and blue cars pass me by.
Sporadic dirt patches blanket the ground,
the pure white snow,
a tainted brown,
and the sky,
a cold steel grey.
The world is very grey today,
and I don't really like it this way,
so I take out my brush,
and I stroke away,
but the world stays grey.
The world is very grey today,
so I sing a song and dance.
I jig and I jive,
I'm stayin' alive!
but the world isn't feeling my prance.
The world is very grey today,
so I smile from ear to ear.
My pearly whites shine,
but I can't illuminate,
this ugly old grey,
this color I hate.
The world is very grey today,
and I'm starting to realize,
it's not always a walk in a flower filled park,
sometimes it's just a grey day.