Once upon a time,
She would play with color-
Dancing across the canvas
In dazzling combinations,
Free from rule or limits.
But, now she seeks structure-
A slave to form.
And, that is my fault.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 10:09 AM UTC
How many words
Need we have as mortar
Binding us to descriptions of passion?
Sad or melancholy, love or ardor-
All fall short.
I find only silence
In lackluster attempts
At worded solace.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 3:53 PM UTC
I want t...
I want that
I want to know what love is
I want to make you feel wanted
I want to hold your hand
I want to draw a cat for you
I want to fall in love with you
I want to break free
I want to watch this
I want to go there
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 12:32 PM UTC
These words are not for reading.
Not for singing, not for shouting.
Not for saying, not for whispering.
These words are only for meaning.
After all, solving for x
Should always equal y,
And without such instances
Of equilibrium there can be no variance.
The scale must balance
Or the dragon will tip,
And tipsy dragons with their *****
Breath, perpetually drunk off their
Own fumes hunt –
All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, TOCK
Out of rhythm -- as appears to be the style--
Or-not-style-or-maybe-style-is-out-of-style.
Oh Bill, what have we become?
These roses have no names!
And their smell is ****
Emo – Elmo **** – with no hope for redemption.
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 11:50 PM UTC
I must apologize
dear reader
for addressing you so
I'm told it's just not done
I'm told these walls
exist
to stop
my theft of interpretation
and that truthfully
the poem resides within you
But surely there's something
of me
as well
so
dear reader
I must apologize
if these petty little words
have robbed you
but know this
you rob me too
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 9:48 PM UTC
When peace leaves, ever setting as winter
he bitterly tosses all chance beneath
her sun, howling madly while he pins her
mean like a crazy raver with claws sheathed.
What might to live steadfast in raging fire!
Pleading peace and fractions of smoky clouds
up after three, dogged she loves through ire
unrepentant, refusing to be cowed
while he looses logic bared of reason--
thunderous icicles with poisoned tips
cut fully in form ill-timed to seasons
of babies, bills, dogs, cats and sinking ships.
She whispers welcome to the stormy breach
wholeheartedly, forever out of reach.
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 8:55 PM UTC
Wipe clean the memories within my mind;
Take it all and let me begin anew.
Let loose these traps that have my soul confined.
The shade of remembrance treats too unkind
Love's sweet first kiss, so call forth the void to
Wipe clean the memories within my mind.
When sacred vows that faithful day combined
Come not with the giddy rush, then I sue:
Let loose these traps that have my soul confined.
The house in my head was poorly designed.
When my babe's first cry fades, I must argue:
Wipe clean the memories within my mind.
Even my swelling chest asks to rewind
Those just-passed moments when my child's virtue
Let loose these traps that have my soul confined.
And at the end of things, when life's enshrined
Moments ebb the dark shore, gift me my due--
Wipe clean the memories within my mind;
Let loose these traps that have my soul confined.
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 8:44 PM UTC
The **** crowed once…
He enters my store
nervously, cautiously examining
the merchandise on the shelves.
At least two decades
stretch between style and his clothes—
His wife follows demurely,
her feed sack dress presents
hand stitching, beautifully done,
to even my unqualified eye.
And then he speaks:
Hi
followed by presentation of an item
clearly worthless to my trained eye.
We’d like to talk to someone
about selling this please?
Procedure grants
no empathy, just rejection.
Business is for profit, after all.
And softly, sadly as they leave,
he articulates their purpose:
We just needed something for groceries.
My chest tightens.
I did not grant them reprieve.
The **** crowed twice…
The lady approaches:
black skin, blue jeans
dingy
shirt and hair in disarray.
I look away.
Insistently she speaks,
Sir, can I help you
load those bags?
What's the angle?
A few dollars is all I ask.
I’m-sorry-the-task-
is-done,
(though clearly I’ve just begun)
My children wait in the car;
I can hear them playing,
when next she speaks:
My kids are hungry.
My heart skips at the quivering lips
before me.
She walks away unfulfilled.
I await the third sounding.
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 8:40 PM UTC
I only caught a passing moment of their conversation, but the dyed redhead, bowed black face hidden behind her tresses, clearly remarked, I'm part Irish. That's white. while the boy beside her captured her every movement with sarcastic circular motions of his imaginary camera, and something in the taste of the air took me back to the iciness of the cell.
Long after the guard clanged the iron door shut, letting the reverberations fade into the silence of small spaces so evident in the 10x6 enclosed room, I heard her. In truth, recollection deceives me in associating my first awareness of her with an impossible remembrance: a womanly scent flowing on a non-existent gust between her cell and mine. But no, it was definitely the distinct, distant quality in her voice as she softly called Who's there? that caused me to press my ear tightly against cold iron in eager anticipation. Hello was all I mustered. She responded in relieved tones with tales of abuse, pimps and prostitution, all mixed with crack bumps measured in metricities that would have made her high school math teacher proud. For hours her voice echoed through the halls of the jail, pausing only for an occasional guttural response Uh-huh or, Uh-uh before continuing her tragic, comforting tale.
Eventually day broke and I left the cell-- left the girl locked away, nameless, out of sight. And, I would have forgotten. I would have never searched every face wondering: if I close my eyes and listen, would the voice that still echoes in my head present itself in a stranger's features?
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 8:38 PM UTC
and then that summer I found the remnants
of the tree house, decaying in the upper
branches of the tree in the farthest corner
of the pasture, and I played quiet violent
games there, far away from humanity,
out with the rest of the cattle, searching
for something real in the feel of the wood steps
nailed deep through the bark of the tree
into the ringed years existing long
before I arrived on this open land
of 22 acres, so far from the city-home
that birthed me, and often I would climb
those steps to the nothing that once was something,
imagining that just this once the timbers
would un-rot, and I would find myself
basking in the secret solitude of the fortress
out of time
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 8:35 PM UTC