a vehicle of the family of man;
who say what cannot the mass.
mapmakers of the human psyche,
topographers of the human morass.
culling small order from the disarray,
trying to sow joy in infertile topsoil.
redolent the music on the mind's wind,
sacrificing sleep and self, for creation.
with all the monks within his head
praying for so many antithetic things,
notions and trinkets, truncated by dread,
oceans and skies and flutterby wings.
writing the songs of the solitary deaths
of the incomprehensible connections
missed by humankind's transient passing.
May 12, 2018
May 12, 2018 at 3:52 PM UTC
somewhere in Afghanistan,
at an unspecified location,
is a Special Ops soldier,
with a classified vocation.
and we'll never get to see,
time will never tell his tale,
the fate of his brothers and he,
scouted an untraveled trail.
never made extraction point,
and never did make it home;
now buried in a granite tomb
the one that's marked unknown . . .
May 12, 2018
May 12, 2018 at 3:48 PM UTC
this daily labyrinth again begins,
hot coffee and a titanium cigarette.
enduring memories of absent friends,
liquid sorrows and gaseous regret.
never far enough from the daily grind,
fondly reminiscing dark corners of mind.
gaps in my synapses with ghosts between,
chewing on matches and sipping gasoline.
got emotions to ride, and moods to bend,
all the corners turn 3 sheets to the wind.
flames from the gas seem to null the din,
so far from the daily labyrinth, I prescind.
words spawn tornadoes from test tubes,
psychedelic dreams morph from simple cubes.
read the thought conveyed, not the word,
ever cautious of whisperings unheard.
a free range wooly black sheep
living the nightmares of trouble deep.
oft to ride the daily labyrinth again
after leaving the confines of my pen.
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 1:59 PM UTC
Someone collect all the hatred,
and all the vehemence too.
then don't recycle or reciprocate it.
turn it all into something else,
rich and green and full of kindness.
distill it, remove the impurities,
coagulate it away from it's cold
tungsten tensile titanium.
some of us only have to try,
it can be done. Einstein said so;
and Mother Teresa and Gandhi,
and Martin Luther King Jr.
Someone collect all the hatred,
and all the vehemence too.
then don't recycle or reciprocate it.
turn it all into something else,
rich and green and full of kindness.
distill it, remove the impurities,
coagulate it away from it's cold
tungsten tensile titanium.
encase it in concrete and steel,
bury it with the radioactive waste.
let it lie for it's half life,
in over 40,000,000 tears.
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 1:55 PM UTC
Call me when the nukes fall,
Call me when the nukes fall.
Tell me what I should wear,
And how I should fix my hair.
Tell me why there's no air.
Call me when the nukes fall...
Or, don't call at all...
Nov 10, 2016
Nov 10, 2016 at 11:44 AM UTC
broken men fill their cracks with memories,
and forests of fitful dreams, only scenery.
Their temperament changed by the montage of time,
amid the accumulation of real and imagined crime.
finding pieces of their lives in old movies,
old cars.
hidden dreams in crown royal bags and
miracle whip jars.
old men have family taking, forever naps,
never forgotten...
and secrets buried deep within groom lake.
We sleep, but can never really find rest...
Sep 19, 2015
Sep 19, 2015 at 3:20 PM UTC
On a steamy island sprayed in melodic days.
Dancing in rhythm as the porpoise play.
Some hymn and some pray enchanting ways,
in the swim and sway of the melody of day.
Languishing in canopy of young vines rope,
as passionate couples intertwine at *****
below the emerald silence of mountain slope,
heed the joyful herald of fountains of hope.
As cool and winding shady green rivers distill,
hear the tropic's aviary song, sweetest minstrel,
thrashing and dancing in seas azure blue crystal,
as the softly salted winds conjure in Ol' Mistral.
Drift away drinks of colored Caribbean ice,
air scented of cinnamon, mango and spice,
as we hymn and we pray enchanting ways,
in the swim and sway of the melody of day.
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 3:48 PM UTC
Little tiny notions and bigger thoughts fly
above our gracious and small ways try's.
Like little pictures drawn on very big pages
that flash before our half blind sore eyes.
With our little red eyes bugging wide open,
yet missing the minuscule things that occur.
With our crackly little voices barely even spoken,
and our Big Ideas in the way, as we try to confer.
The million little hands we try so hard to teach,
and millions of little minds that we'll never reach,
amid all the somber voices crying without speech.
The short little lives that are spent on the Big World.
All trying to be worldly, wealthy, and so very wise.
Millions of little faces hiding behind a big disguise,
here where little is said, and even less is done,
to save the Big World, under the bright, bright, Sun.
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 3:40 PM UTC
having the best of intentions,
but lacking good inventions,
and criteria I cannot mention,
'cause I lack proper intuition.
I missed the final right turn,
causing some bridges to burn.
I seem to never ever learn
to love one, instead of yearn.
I always throw the first stone,
talk to myself on the phone,
use language to cut thru bone.
that's how I end up alone.
having the best of intentions
but lacking good inventions,
and things I forgot to mention,
'cause I lack proper intuition.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 1:58 AM UTC
there's a sadness in your eyes today,
that doesn't match the love in your heart,
and it shines through all the lies.
music in your heart that no one hears,
as you walk to a gentler cadence,
because you realize the earth is tainted.
music removes the weight from shoulders,
music is life, it's the soundtrack to it all.
dodging raindrops of the blues everyday,
the pills and the poems no longer help.
in this afternoon of Armageddon’s afterlife
contemplating an end to the situation,
it all comes down to tears in a plastic bag,
just light a candle and say a solemn prayer
of the lost living and the forgotten dead.
and those smitten, and betwixt.
all we living, in here's immortal dread.
wipe the pages of your mystic mind clean,
forget what you've done and what you've been.
purge the ballast from the submerged tank,
ponder what's precious and begin to thank
people you love for the poems in your head.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 1:49 AM UTC