It is said there’s a woman,
For every man,
But it's not written in stone,
Only written in sand

We don’t run
We don’t skip
We don’t even walk
We slog
through the mire
of each other’s suffering

Difficult to know
what’s in one’s heart
when one so rarely
looks there
And taking a peek
into Pandora’s box
risks the release
of a nightmare

Oh how my emotion rules me
I can only bow before it
as it’s loyal subject
If only I could rid
this mighty king of it’s crown
to end this tyranny
and reign peace upon the land

To restore the years
the locust have eaten
You must honestly review
time weathered and beaten
Where have you been
trying to know who you are?
It’s not only the world
that wouldn’t let you be you
You may not know it
but, you did it too
Nodding yes to those
who were planning from the very start

To waste the precious you

As I ride into work
I catch myself dreaming
of a nice, long nap
before a day yet begun
My bed is the grass
of a cool, green meadow
draped in the light
of a warm, Autumn sun

Let there be only
loving words spoken
so another harsh cycle
be beautifully broken
To free a generation
from a circle of pain
that it may soon wash off
in a cool cleansing rain
of tears so long sought after

It may be harsh
It may be cruel
To sit before
a bowl of gruel
But, please do not
complain of it
It could be worse
It could be sh—

He walked the hill into the evening
until he reached the top
The moon was serenading him
so he took the time to stop
to look upon a lonesome tree
that had not been there before
Neath the light
of a starry night
like the painting
he so adored
He whispered a tiny heartfelt prayer
for those in town below
that had likely lived their lives
never having seen the show

Your indecision
comes with the clue
that your head is telling
your heart what to do

It’s too hot
to lie in the shade
Sit in front of a fan
or drink lemonade
It’s too hot
for suntan lotion
Take a dip in a pool
or jump in the ocean
It’s so hot
that my body is straining
to keep up with my shadow
and even it is complaining

All the birds have flown away
and a nest is what remains
I feel more and more
like that beat up bike
that's been left out in the rain

There is this winning strength
in those humble, intelligent, and compassionate people
who know all too well
the bent of human weakness
and yet, do not let it
betray their basic decency

He thought he was
a child of nature
Loving all creatures
you see
He couldn’t believe
what had just occurred
“How could this happen to me?”

As he sat in the road
all ******
talking to the EMT
he suspected
it was a woodpecker
that had mistaken his head
for a tree!

Time can take
the bloom from your rose
the spring from your toes
turn your poetry
to a vapid prose
To be unhappy
is such a waste of it
so shed your grave clothes
and make haste of it
because time
truly waits for no one

The songs of birds
The morning mist
The cool, wet air
gently kissed
by the breaking sun
Before losers lose
and winners win
Before all the madness
can begin
the battle for the day
is all but won

Unhappy
are those
who mean to collect debts
from those
not indebted to pay
It’s an odd little game
that nobody wins
yet, people
seem willing to play.

Beware of the man
with the sharpened wit
He be a swordsmen in disguise
Using the air in his lungs
he duels with his tongue
splitting damnable truths
between lies

Oh sometimes
how the grateful mistake
scratches the itch
of self-loathing

The longer we live
the less we know
and the more
everything
becomes our teacher

Always in the back
of things
Behind a curtain
A shadow
A silhouette
Never blowing a horn
There was no horn to blow
no air in the lungs
no will in the legs
to play and march
in a parade

As the sun peeks over the edge of night
he slowly opens his eyes
and wakes not with an eagerness of spirit
He grows weary of battle
For this love and hate of himself
is always at war
and if there is any lacking in his resolve
victory for love will be hard-won
if won at all
Fatigue will plague his every moment
until the darkness grants his leave
It is then he can close his eyes to sleep once more

The dam of tears
has more leaks
than the child has fingers
He knows that if the dam breaks
there will be no surviving it
Another casualty
in the land of Nod

Wise man say
that a valiant effort
can never be anything less
than a righteous failure

He does love God
But, he fears the devil
and that which he preaches
may not be on the level
His head has been wrought
with these lustful thoughts
It turns on the street
as if on a swivel
One stray from the path
could incur God’s wrath
and he’d forever be
in league with evil

Leaning in a dimly lit doorway
he raises the bottle to his lips
Gulping down the last of that cheap wine
he contemplates the world
and decides that all have been born
into an intensity of need
It’s edge so sharp
that to escape from it
is to feel a sweet relief
He has found that the bottle
can dull the blade
and this is why it
has become his friend
It keeps him company
in those dark places
where he hides
from the lathe

Valiant are those souls
who are willing to brave
the treacherous waters
of traumatic pasts
They sail with a wind of conviction tempered with caution
Worthy of an ancient mariner
it is an adventurous,
perilous voyage
yet full of hope that one day
their stormy seas will set them free

Though bad times
can crawl like a tortoise
and good times
race like a hare
Indifference will always
run last in a race
when there’s no motive
or reason to care

There has been no worse an indicator of marital bliss than
an abundance of money
and yet no greater a predictor of
marital discord than the lack of it

My heart for those
who so love a rose
For they wither along side
it’s mortal repose
But, may they not fret
it’s sad wilted face
There will be another
to take it’s place

Why do we have
these crosses to bear?
Do our woes not fit us
like the clothes
that we wear?
We often ask God
"Could it be
I can’t see?”
and then the epiphany
It might just be me

Should I be still
forever hungry
in the land
of good and plenty?
Should I fill my belly
yet starve my soul
and leave this yearning
to be whole
Solely to the question:
"Is there nothing more?"

Carried by the charged breath
of an ever expanding universe
Time flies into tomorrow
on the wings of itself

Evil is innocence
unspeakably betrayed
as it laughs at it’s partner
about the deal that was made

The rooms in this house
now sit in silence
They are but shrines
gathering the dust
of fond memories
Sometimes, when I walk past
their doors
I think I hear playing
But, then, I step in to the crushing
disappointment of quiet, empty space
They have left us alone
Dazed and confused
with no inkling of what to do next
And the heartache
Did I mention the heartache?

You and I
are not such bad actors
But, we have had
bad roles

Allow the particle of self
to join the wave of humanity

Tomorrows
always come and go
But, the thought of them
Sometimes, scare me so
They can rock my world
even though
they always melt into
harmless yesterdays

I pity those
who cannot relax at night
For I am sometimes lying there
next to them
wide-eyed in a slow tale of time

Here lies the cat
upon my bed
I walk on by
in silent dread
Careful lest
I wake the pest
and stroke forever
the squatter’s head

I dream of an empty chair
in a field of golden wheat
It’s a lonesome scene of solitude
with no one in the seat
I peer
I stare
Nothing seems to be there
but a surreal world
of Monsieur Magritte

They are the young innocents
unspeakably betrayed
who walk in paths of darkness
not knowing where they have strayed
Products of childhood trauma
built from assembly lines
of dreadful family dysfunction
that left them far behind

Don’t let the traces of
snow on the ground
and the air still yet cold
blind you
to the clouds of March
so thinly painted high in the sky
as to remind us of a Spring yet to come

I stand in a field
of cold stillness
Amidst it’s golden strands
I raise my arms
to hold the sun’s face
so warmly in my hands

Hang your troubles
on the Tree of Sorrows
Look for ones
to steal or borrow
Then step around
the tree again
grateful
that another’s pain

is not your own

“I have to look for your father”
we’d hear our poor mother say
for he had little fear
standing on the great pier
during a storm on the bay

When father had the Black Irish
we’d hear hear our poor mother pray
“Keep him off that **** pier”
when bad weather was near
so the sea couldn’t wash him away

Hope springs eternal
in the fertile ground of imagination

In the early spring
when flowers bloom
the daffodils dance
by the light of the moon
Their time is short
yet dance with glee
for the night can’t own them
and they will always be
children of a rising sun

If one could receive a penny
for every moment spent
in self-indulgent worry
one might become rich
But, would quite probably trade
all that wealth away
for all the good times lost
between faith, family, and friends

He stares from across the room
Mad for every bashful lash of her eyes
Every ungraceful turn
and near stumble
Each uncomfortable moment
makes it abundantly clear that
she must be rescued
from the brute force of all this mockery
So, tonight he rides
as the knight
she thought would never come