What do you tell your father
When he says that your work reminds him of T.S. Eliot,
That the world is beautiful and sad?
Is it because Eliot is arrogant or because you are not (and have a need to be)?
(To be; me.)
My work is not an awakening--you say.
But is it not?
Do you not wake every day, waiting for the sun's rays...
To start the song of conscious breathing.
What do you tell your father
When the prelude is but a melancholic string,
A memory you must retreat
To the clouds above
Like the balloons from the grocery store
He and she would gather.
What do you tell your father...
You tell him nothing, you let your breathing resume,
You give him this poem, a scrape in space,
And let him read it.
Afterwards you let him kiss your forehead
And hold you tight
As the silly drum of his hands on your back
Make you cry and laugh.
i can see them standing together,
holding each other's hand in the summer
and i want to tell them to leave, that
this is wrong.
i want to tell her of his fury,
of the force he will inflict on her children.
i want to tell him that she's isn't right,
that they will have fights and things,
that they will forever regret, will happen.
i want to tell them that if this happens,
they will put the kids into unhappiness
and their fights will affect the whole house.
i want to tell them that if this didn't happen,
they could meet people better for themselves
but i don't. i am selfish and i let them go,
i let them meet and hold hands and fall
madly in love. i let them fall out of love,
and i let the bad things happen
because i want to live, and i know
that love is just another person
Buds of Love
Clip and Cut, trim with love, the fans of sugar from the bud.
Pack that bowl spark it up, toke and smoke, pass and puff.
Abba zabba, shotgun shake, keefer reefer, hash that’s dank.
Grind away roll it fat, chronic man imagine that.
Cookies, caramels, tinctured treats, munchies munchies time to eat.
A gram of hash, a jailbird joint, I like weed get the point.
The gods of weed Cheech and Chong, it’s a party get the bong.
Seeds and stems no big deal, my smoke is good and clean as hell.
Time to smoke and get baked, Willie up and let’s get Hanked.
The roach motel is almost full, pull apart and pack a bowl.
Its rank, it’s wicked, it’s too much, pass it man, feel the punch.
Hold it in, what a hit, choke and puke, cuss and spit.
Lulu lavender and af-gooey, train wreck, ice and tutti fruity.
The smell of herb within the air, should be mandatory everywhere.
Free weed for all if they want, free bongs free bones for your pot.
So much to share, so much weed, miles and miles, yes miles of green..
So come on friends stand with me, pass the word, plant the seed.
Time will water, truth will grow, the plant will win, your fruit will show.
Well now you know, now you see, let’s puff lets pass, let’s smoke some weed.
I hear a subtle whisper,
and it sends my spine a chill,
I hear the same old song play,
the one that bears me ill,
I look for other signs of,
you here within these walls,
I listen for the sound of,
your voice as darkness falls,
I feel a gentle breeze go,
so sweetly by my face,
then move the lovely flowers,
left in our favorite vase,
I watch a lovely night bird,
glide swiftly to my sill,
I so dearly want to touch him,
against my will,
I will always look for you dear,
down these empty halls,
I will always hear your sound love,
as true love always calls,
I know your shadows dancing,
it moves in perfect grace,
your images of leather,
are bound in ancient lace,
You dance upon these walls here,
an in every sacred place,
A heart can possibly ever keep.
Ma Cherie © 2017
She's a vagabond;
a heart of a nomad never gets lost
and wanders like the gust of the wind.
But now she's lost,
And I'm keeping her solemnity
inside my glass of heart
like a wine in Christmas Eve.
Her heart redeems radiance;
dwindling the dark side in me in a
span of her love that will reach in miles.
A piece of art that will live forever
like a Gallery keeping them hidden like a safe.
Her posture will remain firm and splayed,
And her facade will remain honest
She waters me with a piece of her;
watering the dead garden in me
and making me believe that the
roots can still absorb its source of life--
and she--makes me feel alive.
Atoms swirl atop his head, a lattice of electron wonders
Words pool from her head, inky swirls on coarse parchment
Splatters of colours spread out, a mind of inspired chaos
Logarithms cloud his eyes as he speaks the language of algebra
So much talent in so many minds
Make us so beautifully human
What a tough day
Hoping tomorrow will be better
Squeeze the pillow tight
Try and forget your night.
You stopped washing your jeans
Read about it in a magazine
Adds character apparently
Creases, dirt and gallantry.
Always short of money
Bills never stop a coming
Try and turn a blind eye
But the end is nigh.
Monday to Friday passes
Taste of stale bourbon fades
Appetite starts to grow
Time to do it all again in woe.
opens up a mechanical eye
springing to life
they have over come
life and death
their creation huddled in a corner
terrified of what there fate will be
Hiding with the one
he longs to be with
knowing she is engaged to another
songs his only way
though she is flesh
and he a beast
disfigured and hideous
still she loves
fall like a sheet
a soul who's finally free
Caught a wave,
snatched the chance
to ride the tide;
took me straight
through the goosebumps,
of the skin
protracted and receiving
...and the ripples multiplied
I always thought
the depths were cold,
but melody knows best
and I can't wait
to be surprized
in the uneasy calm
before the storm