I need one more poem tonight
but I can’t decide
what I want or need to write
about this real or
fictional life.

The glower grows
as glows a shiny nose
of silly whispered prose,

a wisp of wasted wind
that could have cooled
your sweat glistened skin,

a tiny tower where
Rapunzel lays her hair,
a glorious mane
that stories share,

a stray verse
spread to those
who wear tradition’s clothes
in dreamy hopes
that they will tread bare
and release the poet
that reside somewhere
under there.

She is a quick
drug trip
for this
dopamine
addict.

She is a bad habit
that will only last
one or two moments
cause that frantic feeling
will fade just as fast.

She is awe inspiring,
poetry driving
to passionate madness,
that makes me restless
with desire,

but when that fire
expires
I will feel ill.

Not with her
but I will
be disturbed
by my inability
to settle into
a reality
of companionated affection,
instead of the elevated *******
of severe urgency,
that previously uncontrollable
necessity to be
with her.

Since, I have been
devouring
old romantic notions
I will feel like a failure
when my devotion
slowly simmers into
something soft-boiled,
because that is not
what I thought
love was supposed to do.

The roses you planted don't know
that you're dead.  
Dumb vegetation can't comprehend
the perversity of its
outliving you, how its
simple act of being
when you are not
is an affront to everything
decent and sane and just.  
A senseless vitality of
petals flash their idiot colours
through a shroud of needling frost.
It's not their fault.
The flowers cannot understand
that the one who gave them life
has died.
Whereas I pretend I do.

It’s seven steps to the door,
across a lava like floor,
flat feet searing
strangers nearing
somewhere out there.

It’s seven steps to the door,
only that and nothing more.
So, to explore the outdoors
I just have to move
across this floor.

It’s seven steps to the door,
for others it would be an ease,
strangers would stop and tease
laughing loudly as they please
if they could see me.

Seven steps to the door,
then out there seven more,
but then I would be
outside with the rest
of this mad society,
with the people
I do not wish to see,
those big barbarians
loud and threatening.

It’s seven steps to the door,
but fear holds me back.
Each step is an anxiety attack,
each inch agony
splayed in front of me.
So, at three steps
I fall back,
foolishly retreating.

Those seven steps defeat me.

If they deny the grace
of the color of your human face
then they are a waste
of the clay that made
the human race.

Human diversity enriches
this pittance
of an existence.

So, let them keep their ignorance.
True grandeur is lost on them.
Just know my poetic friend
that this pathetic trend
of labeling others
by the shade of their skins
is tragic and troubling
cause I am bubbling
with love for all that shines
from within
to enrich the beauty without.

Reflecting,
I sit dissecting
the poetry
of my past.

Organic
as it is,
it is like
a blast
of stale gas
from a painful
interval.

Familiar feelings
seems slightly
distorted
by the nightly
interludes
between
the two dudes,
me of now
and him
of then.

The work is good,
and I am slightly
plagued by jealousy
because my writing
is stalling,

but the falling
in love
and hurting because
that love drug
is not a sustainable addiction
was a terrible affliction,
which I do not wish
to revisit.

By autumn lakes,
where water wears
nature’s fogging breathes
as white mists
roll over its
beautiful body,

when the cold air
catches spectral gasses
that pass
soft awestruck lips,

where sweet lovers
meet and sit
on the nearest bench
holding hands,
making grand plans,
and leaving to walk
the path laden
with many
multicolored leaves,

where water reflects
the waving limbs
and falling foliage
that finds itself
floating down
and eventually
disappearing,

where daydreams end
and strangers are
forced to return
once again
to the world
they have been
struggling in,
leaving tranquility
to become
a glimmering memory
in the sorely exhausting
work week.

Semi-aquatic,
silver shimmering,
a swimming body
wet and exotic,

fluid motions
flying in
the pure parts
of our ocean,

she could have been
mermaid, kin
to lesser fisher men,

water friction
pulling her hair
like the wind
forcing each strand
to fall back
as she
flows forwards
faster than the *******
trying to entrap her,
and capture her rapture,

but hazel eyes,
long chestnut hair,
and limber limbs
do not tarry here.
They disappear
beneath the cresting wave.

She is saved,
but her pursuers
are washed away.

She is free to play
as death takes
those hunters
to a watery grave.

Stiff shouldered
older
bulldozer
of a man,
holds the embers
of distant joys
that he still remembers.

Hidden jewels
that once sparkled
are now blemished,
could be polished
but the remembrance
wouldn’t equal
past reality.

Those glory days
of lazy waste
when he would play
and devastate
the landscape
with dirt tracks
and rough houses.

These moments
are everything
he wants
in a daydream,
but the harsh rays
of modern days
forces him
to remain awake.

He is wiser now,
but longs for
the innocence
of youth
unexplored,
when he was
ignorant
of the imminent
end of all of it.

So, as time takes
his fellow well-aged
middlemen
on a fool’s errand
straight to the edge
of eternity’s
black abyss,
he looks back at this
and slips into the void.

I was a fool
before I met you.
I’ll be a fool
until I die.
But all the moves
I made to get to you
are the dances
that kept me alive.

It don’t matter
how we got here.
It don’t matter
where we’re going.
It only matters
what we do now
while we are growing.

The summer showers
are so cleansing,
waves of rain
keep me moving,
shift the sands
and earth beneath me,
and their rhythm
keeps me grooving.

It don’t matter
how we got here.
It don’t matter
where we’re going.
It only matters
what we do now
while we are growing.

I don’t claim
to be an angel,
and I’m too lazy
to be a saint,
but the shame
they tried to
paint me with
didn’t fit
this portrait.

It don’t matter
how we got here.
It don’t matter
where we’re going.
It only matters
what we do now
while we are growing.

I was born
a broken bloom
rising with
the crescent moon,
and I hope I
was a boon
blessed gift
shared with
all of you.

It don’t matter
how we got here.
It don’t matter
where we’re going.
It only matters
what we do now
while we are growing.

I know a troll
who took
a leisurely stroll
with a goblin
and a knoll.

They didn’t
have a planned
place to go,
so, they
just went
with the flow.

Past the pleasant groves
where pixies played
and children
dreamed one day
they would
be able to stay,

beyond the
wood nymphs
adobe,
admiring
those virgins
unclothed,
then stopping
to get know
their cousin
in the river
bed below.

It was
I nice little walk.
Until, they were
stopped,
by an over eager,
righteous believer,
knight errant
on an errand
for his local liege.

He had no need
to give these three
a lick of grief,
but being oh so
brave and noble,
felt untitled
to act with
unbridled
arrogance.

So, the three
traveling hence
returned
from whence
they came,
but the knight
was never heard
from ever again.