A thought
for a bleak and dreary day
When darkness comes
and wants to play
A glimpse of people
hand in hand
Linking smiles
across the land
A string of lights
wrapped around the world

Like a Christmas tree

The glass half-full
is happiness that is
permitted
in the absence of misery

There’s a special cell
For me in hell
For all my considerable blasphemy
And you may find it odd
That I have talked to God
And he told me that
I may need a lobotomy

I  have died
many deaths
and labored through
many shallow breaths
Dreading so, what I might face
If I peered into the space
between the frames
of my mind's worst horror movie

Marriage is an emulsion
Of love and truth
Not a solution

They come to you
At night with lies
To feast on shallow
Breaths and sighs
May God heed
Your prayers with speed
And soothe the child’s
Bewildered cries

One lonely cornstalk
in a dying field
surrounded by casualties
but, this one will not yield

The sun that was so good to them
had turned into a foe
the draught had taken most of them
but, this one will not go

One stubborn stalk of corn
standing all alone
" you live on
when all are gone”
the farmer sadly moaned

Easy to be smitten
by a puppy and a kitten
Hard to turn away
when both are at play
For it’s not once
but twice we are bitten

Music from the piano
on a rainy day
A note for all the raindrops
and each thought of my dismay

Music from the piano
lightens up the gray
I rely upon my friend
to drive the blues away

As I watch two leaves
twirl in the wind
I name one Hans
and the other Gwen
From the top of the tree
to the bottom below
where one leads
the other must go
The ground breaks the fall
and then the romance
Alas my friends
it's the end of the dance

Compassion is the thread
that runs through most people
to let them know that we are all
cut from the same cloth

If you feel the earth breathing
through the ocean's briny tide
Sense a mountain watching
as you walk along it's side
Color the forest canopy
as it migrates through the seasons
Marvel at Nature's tantrums
and the mystery of her reasons
Float upon a silent stream
as it meanders through your soul
You know that there's no part of you
that is greater than the whole

Are we but homeless, threadbare waifs
yearning for our mothers
Searching for love
with a primordial hunger
in the darkness of "existential horror"?

Look at how they walk the street
with heavy hearts of stone
Victims of an unhappiness
that has crept into their bones

Now they step with a crooked gait
and usually alone
the sounds they make
are but life's complaints
disguised as grunts and groans

Many an unfinished project
began with the impractical
pursuit of perfection

Where is it?
That warm loving sun
to dry the tears
on the face of one
whose only sin
was daring to be happy

I want that picture
That picture of a young boy
standing proudly next to his father
That picture I lean on
when the world weighs heavy
That picture that when I'm confused
begs the question:
"What would Dad do?"
I want that picture
and yet I do not have it
and his death only serves to remind me
that I never will

I ache for the warmth
of a midsummer day
and the slow rocking rhythm
of a hammock's sway
All Winter's gloom
on clouds far away
and if left up to me
that's where it would stay

Wise man say
It is much easier
To practice acceptance
Of the world’s imperfection
Within the silence of meditation

There’s a stone cold figure
At the edge of the river
Helping poor souls get aboard
His hell-bound ferry
Takes all it can carry
Down to the Black Bottom Gorge


Oh Black Bottom
Oh Black Bottom
Don’t you fret none
Cause I done got ‘em
The ferryman softly sings


If they don’t know by now
Why they’re here or how
They ain’t never gonna
Learn a **** thing

If I could only
Ignore the ego long enough
To listen to the voice of reason
I could stare into the yellow of the flame
And know that which seems to elude me

I can fancy myself a painter
Standing where the sea meets the shore
With my feet in the sand
and a brush in my hand
the canvas as an open door

to an ocean of abandoned dreams

These bullies
Of pragmatic reality
Mean to be the death
of all dreams
For they will not rest
Until they’ve done their best
To destroy that which glitters and gleams

I see blue trees
in orange skies
Papered houses
and country sides
Yellow breezes
from shores nearby
Pushing silver crests
on purple tides
A world imbued
with brilliant dyes
Gazing into
her kaleidoscope eyes

Science is not the enemy
of centuries of absurd religion
And in the end
it will become it's friend
but not without evolution
or revolution

It's difficult to see
the charm in a day
when so much
is taken for granted
Let's be mindful to pray
at the start of the day
then be grateful
for the seeds we have planted

How ironic
this entropy of thought
that life
as a series of random occurrences
is nothing
but the death of destiny

If there is but one hour
of lighthearted ease
And within that hour
a moment's peace
How do I think ill of the day
and dismiss myself
from among the grateful?

Dreams are to escape
The laws of physics
They’re the playgrounds of analysts, psychics, and mystics
Ethereal visions of a make- believe earth
But in the end
We’re unsure of their worth

Lay the king down
Feel the pain of defeat
Overwhelm the relief
Felt from crying

Cover the frown
With a humble smile
Though the inside is sure
It is dying

Sometimes I hear Winter
Through the voice of a cello
Music written by Bach
In andante and mello

Sometimes I see Winter
Through bare trees in the silence
Birds perched on white silos
Awaiting Spring violets

Find a way
to justify
a day of doing nothing

You don't owe the world a thing
But, maybe,
it owes you something

Sometimes I do not remember
auditioning for this part
The lines are unfamiliar to me
and have been from the start
I manage to get through
most of the scenes
but at the the end of day
I know I have acted poorly
in role I’d rather not play

How difficult the lives
of those who spend
much of adulthood
searching for the parts of themselves
lost in an embattled childhood
and once found
assembling those jig-sawed pieces
into what was thought never to be whole

Better anger than non-belief
One that sees the Lord
as a well-carved but lifeless piece of wood
does not seek to strike it

It happens every Thanksgiving day
Because I do not think ahead
I do not think about the pie
Until I 've eaten too much bread
I do not think about the bread
'til I've eaten too much dressing
And I'm usually on my second plate
Before I've heard the blessing

Another cold Fall morning
when the sun dried leaves on the ground
are as crisp and golden
as the corn flakes
I poured into my breakfast bowl
When trees are growing bare
and questioning the wisdom of Nature's timing
When squirrels dash about
cursing their procrastination
It's when the only thing
I can think of what's wrong
with this time of year
is that it ends


and Winter begins

Handpicked from of the street
they sat at his dinner table
stuffing themselves with free food and drink
laughing at all his stories
while he made his notes
Later, he would sketch
exaggerations
of his uglier observations
People were unmasked and revealed
for what they were
Fine profiles of the grotesque
in the ever growing catalogue raisonne.

The span of time
to the present from birth
can be measured in a particle
of light sent to the earth
Life passes quickly
like the blink of an eye
that cannot stare long
at the sun in the sky

I can blot out the sun
and not let it shine
You'll be desperate for lies
that are but wishes of mine

The dust from regrets
you thought left behind
Is what you will choke on
when you mistake it for wine

I may smother your dreams
and leave your soul hollow
Extinguish the flame
of all hope that may follow

My power depends
on the weakness in men
For those that stay broken
can't be broken again

So, look if you dare
and can cope with what's there
Let's meet in the darkness
if you don't easily scare

Every afternoon
from the window of an abandoned building
a young boy plays a weathered guitar
his voice is sweet and enchanting
his message is one of love and hope
all that hear him are swept away
in a flood of euphoria and bliss
eventually he stops and disappears
all color drains from the street
there is no sound
the people go back to sleep
dreaming in a silent movie that is their lives

Delusion is born
in the mind's desperate attempt
to escape confusion

What is solely for my eyes to see
My ears to hear
My soul to breathe
It is the sweet inspiration
of what can be the only true rival
of air itself
It is you

I lie in the silence
of your golden sleep
the look of youthful innocence
is on your face to keep

As I gaze upon
your peaceful smile
You pass the night
in graceful style

and manage it
without a single peep

Maybe peace of mind
is living without what truly scares you
rips and tears you
into tiny pieces of yourself

Better to know
The worth of things
Rather than their cost
And never suffer the
Consequence
Of losing what
Can’t be lost

Evil deeds
Have never really changed
Most have served the same master
But, love can break
The tyrant’s chains
As it turns the heart ever faster

What sort of wretch am I?
Who curses God from where I lie
When I want to sing
I want to cry
But my arid throat’s too dry
To utter anything but
“What sort of wretch am I?”

War is best served by youth
For it has not yet
Had the time
To perish the thought of dying

There were crows in my dreams
Before my father died
They became the haunt of me
With the stare of their steely eyes
I bowed my head and prayed each night
Before the Grace above
To rid my dreams of the crows
And see instead a dove