I can see how one tragic event
could push a person
to a ledge
when that person
was already teetering
on the very edge
looking down for quite some time
picking up loose dimes
on the street
trying to scrape together
just enough to eat.

They didn't plan on it being this way
they've just been trying to survive one more day
She is your neighbor down the street
in a small town where power has gone to the local Sherrif's heads
A mother of three
out of work so she steals a loaf of bread
while her kids play in polluted dirt
I see how her story could end
she didn't have any friends

Smile at a neighbor today
you might keep them
off the very edge
of a ledge
the gift of hope
while they're at the very end
of their rope
You might be the one person
that keeps them alive
just by smiling...
and, looking into their eyes
*You just might keep them alive

well aren't these walls immaculate
and aren't these doors divine
if we’re stuck in here another year
well I guess that’ll be just fine

we bought ourselves a golden garden
with a crystal chandelier
the only catch is the iron latch
that keeps us ever near

I know we said we’d see the world
before our hair turned gray
but two new cars make fine new bars
too keep those dreams at bay

well aren't these floors superfluous
and don’t these windows shine
we've hocked our youth to buy this roof
so it’s where we’ll spend our time

miles before we became
men full-blown,
we crunched nails for lunch,
lead for dinner,
heartburn for life....

after the dance
came shock therapy
and dreams interrupted,
incomplete
like pages ripped
from the manUScript of me
slicing apple pies
under the white picket fence
while babies chase bubbles over the lawn,
green like malvoes in cantho...

pages torn...
discarded...
unpublished...

and the author is dead!

~ P
(#19in71)

No ghosts
Memories marked and stored

They fade
and maybe it’s better that way

Death is
Just another dark door waiting

Life is
Just a temp position while I’m staying

Occasionally
Their memory makes me cry

Grandpa, Lucas, Buddy,
Laura, Snuggles, Zac,
I ain’t joining them
And they ain’t coming back

His Father Was the Ambassador to Spain
But he never saw his Own Sons Pain
He came to a spiritual retreat.....
With his Darkness to defeat
His anxiety Cut like a Knife
With no Solace in his life
He prayed over scripture Daily
But the Battles he was Failing
On a Dark Saturday Night
With a Dull serrated Knife
He took his Life, he kept
Slicing till it was Done
The knife to dull to do it in One
In the Kitchen of the Annex he was found
Lieing Still cold and face down on the ground
They rushed him to North Charles Hospital
Though Doctors battled it was Fatal
I walked in the Annex Door.....
And found Ruth tears streaming
Kneeling as she mopped up the Floor
The flood of Blood Red
Was all that's left of the dead
I carried this memory for 45 years
And still today the memory brings me tears
With all the Ambassadors Rich Connections
Nothing can replace the Loss of a Son
As witness to this, I felt I must Pen
So one small soul isn't forgot in the end

From the fires in the sky,
births a flash of brilliant insight...
spiders down into a fork
of arms and legs.

Quick to intimate in the echoes
of her startled repercussions
when she mumbles rolling rumbles
as the thunder claps a splintered
aftershock of sharp distinctions
in her wide, awakened sky…

“You will hear me cry,
when upon my weary weight of burdens
raze a scar across the scape
of my freshly sheared horizon.”

“Unto you, I shed my sorrows as a blessing
down onto an eager and accepting Earth.”

Awaiting with open arms of a Mother
kneeling to embrace her mournful babe,
drinking hurried tears freshly fallen from
the cheeks once forsaken….

“As reward for your rescue from
my ripped and rattled rapture,
you shall bear the ripened fruit
from the prairies and the vine.”

“Out of the greatest growth
shall sprout abundance from
the heavy laden secrets
that I weep.”

“I will know of the comforts from below
that remain ever vigilant and faithful.
In return, you shall share in the
treasures of my mystery.
In the tears that I cry
live the sustenance for life
and for death…and in both
you will come to know
the Glory of my Story.”

Yet for now we must part
for the time being in return,
we will dance with the darkness,
come to life and rejoice
in the fires from the sky…

*...until appears a lighted lantern
with a lesson of the Gnosis
from the Fire in the Sky.

Sad eyed lady of the harbor, standing on the shores of time, with the rhythms flowing through your hair like the washed up colors of a thousand songs in syncopated rhyme.  
     I’ll build myself a castle with the borders of the sky, to stand with you forever till the reason is swept aside, and we all live together like integrated minds.

Dashing hither, dashing thither,
Dashing in the winter weather,
John the dashing haberdasher
Dashed a hat upon his head

Not some lace cap fit for ladies,
Nor a bonnet stitched for babies,
John the dashing haberdasher
Dashed a top hat there instead!

Never had a hat so fine,
So tall and silken, so refined,
Regaled upon the daily grind
Of prince or pauper in the Strand

Ladies stalled to see it's lustre,
Swooned and swayed before it's bluster,
Fell and fainted in a fluster,
Startled by a hat so grand!

Children screamed in dreadful fright
And yelping dogs began to bite
As crowds began to brawl and fight
And riots claimed the London street

In the chaos thus ensuing,
Folks began to run, pursuing
John the dashing haberdasher
Chasing him from Strand to Fleet!

John was taken to the prison,
Chided by the crowds derision,
There to wait the Mayor's decision
On his wanton heinous crime

Charged with breaching lawful peace,
He paid a fine for his release
And ordered to desist and cease,
He left his top hat well behind

Thus is told the tale of John
Who dared to bravely dash and don
A silken top hat high upon
His noble head in London town

Heed his tale and take this warning,
When you wake one winter morning
With desire to be less boring,
Careful how you dress that crown!

Eyes cast upon the creation,
Its a stirring Invitation.
Words cooked in a spoon,
Drawn to the Pen soon,
Tied off by punctuation.
When the Ink hits the Blood,
The rush is a total Flood.
And the Poets elation,
Is the rush of creation.
But on days of frustration,
You beg for inspiration,
Just to feel the Poets Fix.