How much of the truth
must be missing
before everyone sees it's a lie
A tattered "Old Glory"
will come with the story
of how we let it all die

Just as he finished burying
the last of his unwanted memories
they were disinterred again
at the order of the coroner
His hands blistered
back sore
shovel still in hand
he was told
"Dig 'em up. Dig 'em all up
and when you're done,
bury 'em again because
we got to get your mind right”
It was then that he felt
there will come a time
when he won't need that ****** shovel

As I lay me
down to sleep
I pray for slumber
long and deep
I hope to go
where there are no borders
harsh commands
or marching orders
A dream of where
I have no fear
to do the things
I can’t do here
I want to go
where I can fly
with no concern
about how high
And when I wake
I’d like to know
That there’s some place
I can always go

To be free

Wise man say:

Words spoken and then eaten
always spoil your supper

Man with big mouth
always looking for missing foot

Leave molehills as molehills
Mountains are god’s work

Temper your words with seasoning
for you may have to eat them

It doesn't matter
if the glass is half empty
or half full
because it's already broken

We are born
as a feather
unburdened by the weight
of our primitive agonies
What our eyes will see
our minds will be unlikely to forget

There’s a man sitting on a horse
Long-faced in the rain
The man is dressed in a tux and tie
And dripping wet with pain
He knows **** well that it should be him
Standing with the bride
When he opened the invitation
He just crawled in bed and cried
He thinks he’s been in love with her
As long as he can remember
And now she’s marrying someone else
This dark day in November

The anecdote to a child's trauma
is found in a mother's face
If only a shot
of this unconditional love
could be given to the whole human race

We are but the dingy bubbles
born on the ***** river
oblivious to
it's tired and straining liver

It's ok
to enjoy today
for tomorrow always comes
Eat your cake
and have it too
before left with tomorrow's crumbs

All the world's
ears burn with sound
tongues burn with smells
bodies burn with lust
and our minds burn with greed, hatred, and delusion
The world is on fire
and we are it's arsonists!

Silent is the stillness
that has long remained undisturbed
To listen to it
is to know the unease
of it’s quiet foreboding

Oh, we who remain
betrothed to faith
yet, always manage to falter
If truth be known
we get cold feet
and leave it at the alter

Grace is for the day that ends
the sunlight’s long goodbye
It’s when the world may sleep again
‘neath the moonlight’s watchful eye

Hope is the sun at the break of day
for all who wake to rise
to a promise of life renewed
for faith they won’t let die

It’s cold and it’s daybreak
and he’s in his chair again
Alone on an empty porch
No thought to where he’s been
He begins this drunken pantomime
with a violin and bow
singing this haunting melody
feeling mighty low

“Why did she leave me?”
“Whatever did I do?”

But, he knows all too well
his story's a bit untrue
She did not abandon him
because she never was
“Better to have loved and lost
than to do what a loser does"
As the sun completes it’s rise
he decides to go to bed
“Folks, I’m here all **** week”
Then bangs the door into his head

He sometimes thinks of his boyhood friends,
Those long summer nights that seemed without end,
They walked the dark streets,
With ants in their seats,
When they had all the time in the world to spend

Invading backyards doing handstands and flips,
Acting like Elvis and swiveling their hips,
On most of those nights,
Some music took flight,
On the air from their lungs passing through their pursed lips

They sang and whistled the hours away,
After cooking up tunes all during the day,
And their only care,
Was the warm evening air,
Baking harmony into a Doo-*** souffle

I beseech thee dream weaver
For tomorrow's sake
May you spin no frightful yarn
that may force by bed awake
Grant me this one request
of a good night's sleep
So, when I rise, I'll be my best
from slumber long and deep

Why it always vexes me
I really cannot say
The birds, they tried to warn me
when they flew away
Warm memories of summer
Made known they’d rather stay
to help me with the stony cold
of a winter day

Sitting in a room draped in Victorian decor,
I was talking to a small, gray-haired man,
Expounding on the theories of the universe,
Beneath the whir of a ceiling fan

He asked for my thoughts on Quantum theory,
“Interesting my friend but, you’re not really close.”
Though his statement did confuse me,
I said nothing to my esteemed host

Indeed, it was a tremendous honor,
To be in the presence of one of history’s giants,
To say nothing of his contributions,
To the field of science

It wasn’t the least bit clear,
Why he was conversing with me,
Then, he adjusted his glasses,
And sipped the last of his tea

He said that the way to the truth,
Was through the existence of the soul,
The ancient sages were right,
The “Age of Reason” had betrayed us all.

We rose from our seats,
  Said goodbye at the door,
And walked into the space,
Next to the Victorian décor.

Comedy can mock tragedy
As long the lion stays in it’s cage

As he stares out the window
Death slowly moves in for the ****
Ignoring the lively cigarette ash
lying upon the sill
And another drink
helps him sink
even more into his empty will

Don't find many smiles
in those very old photographs
Maybe, it's the look of hardship
hiding in the sepia
Barely a grin
Not quite a frown
Glad to be alive
But, not quite gratitude
Expressions that seem to say
"Don't worry friend
it will all be over soon enough"

If Time is the great conqueror
and we must bend to it’s will
If it is such a powerful tyrant
then, why is it so easily killed?

Time is the great conqueror
and we must bend hard to it’s will
For it is a powerful tyrant
and cares not for our petty notions
of immortality

I'm unarmed man
dancing in the street
to the tune of a gun
fired at my feet
I cannot stop moving
for if I do
I'll see my pride leaking
from a ****** shoe

“May ******* everything”
is something I sometimes feel
But, I can’t let the poison
take from my heart
the good that the bad wants to steal

A girl named Camille
lives alone on a hill
in a big, empty house
that only silence can fill
And when someone rides by
they might hear a faint cry
from a frown that is sobbing
on her room’s window sill

These powerful men
Who call themselves men!
Are nothing more
Than a deceitful blend
Of cowardice and hate
And then it’s too late
For us to discover
What they are in the end

First an irritation
and some pressure in my chest
A wave of lava rises
and I'm surfing at it's crest
"Tell'em I'm coming
and Hell's coming with me!"
As I threaten to erupt
and what I thought would fill an ocean
only fills a cup!

Blessed are the butterflies
that brighten ugly walls
They bring a little sunshine
to where there’s none at all
The flutter of their spacious wings
chase the clouds away
that prey upon the innocence
of an unsuspecting day

May I rest against a tree
To part from this tired world
And like Fall leaves
That once set free
Fly like wings unfurled

May it be an Autumn wind
Warmed by the breath of God
That brings my soul home again
As they bury me ‘neath the sod

Every day
has it’s due
and usually spent
with no clue
That from childhood
to married
then finally buried
So many these days
and yet so few

As I sit in the backyard
and savor the serenity
of the sun setting over a tree
I truly know
this moment of tranquility
is but a whistle stop for me

What in God’s name
has this sorry world done?
When the looks of such misery
are on faces so young
When the agents of darkness
walk around in the sun
When no one will say it
but the evil has won
What has the world come to?
What has it done?

Sitting in the padded cell
his mind hanging by a thread
Foam-filled mitts taped around his hands
so he cannot harm his head
Reliving the early lessons
of his father's wrath
Beaten by the very spoons
used to teach him math
If the answer was incorrect
his father screamed "You're wrong!'
then rapped the poor kid's noggin
like a Chinese gong

As the rose-colored spatter
ran across the wall
This genius in budding
felt no remorse at all
Possessed by a craving
for a special shade of red
to complete the special masterpiece
that had always been in his head
He dipped his brush into some blood
that had spilled upon the floor
His masterpiece might have to wait
The police are at the door

Painted at the speed of light
to capture their fleeting splendor
Throwing caution to the wind
and feelings found so tender
A symphony of blue and yellow
in the Mediterranean sun
A dozen golden flowers
Immortal every one

As the sun slowly rises
between the greening hills
a silent stream meanders past
and an old abandoned mill

A farmer’s mare is straying
along a country lane
a noisy crow disturbs the peace
atop a weather vane

Behind the thinning morning mist
cows can safely graze
as I watch I reminisce
a life of simpler days

Yearning like a dense forest of trees
that stretch toward the sun
we huddle together in pews
desperate in our hope
that we too can reach the light
that will save us from the darkness

Obosobo
of long ago
was the spirit of the night
It's dark and ugly nature
robbed the world
of all it's light
Trapped beneath
the horizon's floor
the sun then heard a mighty roar
The earth cried out with all it's tendered might
"I cast you out
Obosobo
I've had enough
You have to go
But, if you truly
want to stay
you may give me rest
between each day"

If the recipe for a happier life
demands a better attitude
then we need as determined chefs
to serve more dishes of gratitude

I’d like to see
the tree full of ribbons
to let me know
I can come home
Before I arrive
at my father’s doorstep
I’ll brush off my shoes
and spit in my comb

As we awaken
and rise for the day
we prepare to go
our separate ways
This morning I feel
the need to say
you are my dearest
and I’ll miss you today

To live only for those moments
greased with cake and champagne
is to miss all the precious time in between

Painting the air
With what we say
Creates the art
Of every day

Every summer about July or August
I imagine a cold, steady rain
on a winter’s night
The watery glare of a corner street light
gives the appearance
of an impressionist painting
The cold pavement of the street
shines as if drying from a coat of varnish
I yearn for the sight of steam
rising from my breath
A hat on my head
and my coat collar up around my ears
Uncomfortable enough to require a brisk pace
to warm the slight chill in my bones

There are those
who don’t dread death
or fear what could be
their last breath
Cherish moments
that befriend the present
Live like kings
and not like peasants

The sin that lives
in the self-righteous judgement of others
is but a stone’s throw away

The benefit of occupation
and the company of peers
or solitary confinement
in a house of mirrors

From a humidor
for gods long vanquished
Wisps of smoke
drifting high in the sky
Lest we forget them