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

Some fear weakness
More than dying
Some would die
Before found crying
They’d rather drink
Than face their fear
And God forbid
They shed a tear

Please don't take a picture
that you'll only leave behind
Don't bother with the memory
or keeping me in mind
I'd rather not be there
if you are never going to care
So, please don't take a picture
if you would be so kind

The suffering of the father
Is passed on to the son
It's the work of generations
That is, sadly, never done

May we find the separation
between
our heart's heaven
and our mind's hell
and see it as
the light of things

How can people see insanity
In those who are trained to act?
And they themselves can’t distinguish
Between boldfaced lies and fact?

Warm your hands
Next to it’s fire
Bow to it
And call it sire
No one may ever know
Where you have been

But if you do
Know full well
Your soul’s no longer
Yours to sell
And you may never
Be the same again

I think
therefore I question
I question
therefore I anguish
I anguish
therefore I tremble
I tremble
At the the thought
of the answer

Some decisions are easy
But some we are left to wrestle
With bad and the good
The what-ifs and the shoulds
Eventually ground up in a pestle

Why can’t the hardest of hearts
Look into the eyes of a smiling child
And be rid of what keeps them
From being human again?

I'm one of those
who when stubs his toes
upon life's uneven path
Blames his woes
on make-believe foes
or God's unlikely wrath

There are mornings
Upon my awakening
When a new day’s been granted
And it’s there for the taking
I assemble myself
From bad parts off a shelf
My house of cards stands
But not without shaking

White represents
The innocence of birth
Never the slate so clean
Black represents
The contemplation of death
Red all the passion between

The hours are always elapsing
No matter how idle their passing
There in Time's pages
Everyone ages
'til nothing is done without gasping

Was it the best of times?
Or the worst of times?
Maybe it’s best
That we look at the past
Through rose-colored glass
And let sleeping dogs lie

In pulling my shrinking underwear on
I noticed again that my feet were gone
All I could see was disgusting flab
So I bellowed this out like Captain Ahab
"**** thee whale!"

Sometimes it seems to me
that the world walks
with a big limp of hypocrisy

The powerful image of a hungry child
crushes my self-pitying thoughts
and I feel sad for the poor waif
that can't get enough to eat
and disappointment in the fool
that forgets his good fortune

If you go to a room
With an idle clock
Close the door
And engage the lock

There you live
For 20 years
And that clock
Moves not it’s gears

Will you age?
Will you wither?
I know its nuts
But I’m not sure either

No one knows better
how hard it is
to stop and smell the roses
than one whose hair is on fire

He no longer sits in the park
until after dark
looking for blue birds
perched on a lily white shoulder
For the hope of the chance
at such surreal romance
Fell broken
as the wind in the park grew colder

Let no more tears
Push against this leaky wall
For one more drop
will surely make it fall
Then, maybe at least
I'll be rid of the beast
But, the pain I want vanquished
will be missed most of all

There are times
when the atrocities
committed on the the battlefield
of my own mind
are the equal of anything
that happens in the real world
My sane and logical thinking
tells me that this is most certainly not true
But, the insane and emotional part of me
tells me that it is

Imagine the frustration
of one's soul as it observes
the mind and the body
thinking and acting in ways
so contrary to it's being

Set me afloat
on a slow moving river
Aboard an old raft
with Pop's rocking chair
I'd puff on my pipe
and rock on the water
waving goodbye
to the world's phantom cares

I did not know
where I was heading
for most of the night
with a drink in each hand

Until I woke
early the next morning
face down on the beach
one eye in the sand

How fitting the dog
ignores the one who mocks him
How telling
that it amuses me so

No wind blows harder
than from those
who think they know everything

There are those
who have been blessed
with a high education
Schooled in the arts
of the finest prose

Perhaps wisdom's not found
in a storehouse of knowledge
But begins with awareness
of what one does not know

Go to sleep my friend
Your day's at an end
No use in re-living it
again and again

Gather up all your troubles
and pack them away
Leave them high on a shelf
for some other day

Surely, there’s a better way
than fearing death
yet not fond of living
They wished they knew enough to say
whose metered breath
may speak of giving
life to those
who are all but dead
eulogies written
and all but said

Once on their knees they began to pray
“Surely God, someone knows the way”

From a sea of hate
He rises
Creating enemies
on either shore
Turning man
against his brother
until their country
was no more

If Yesterday
be scarred by bad memories
and Tomorrow
possessed by dark dreams
They both have the power and influence
to make Today
come apart at the seams

Sometimes we may have thoughts
about ourselves and others
that lurk in the dark shadows of human frailty
and lose sight of
what makes us so complex
and uniquely divine

Let's take a drive
up to the mountains
where no one can find us
at least for the day

Rest in the arms
of slumbering giants
'til a breeze
from the trees
softly asks us to stay

These special deliveries
Heaven sends to the earth
Each silently waits
until that moment of birth
When it finally arrives
New lungs fill with air
to let everyone know
what to handle with care

Today is the day
that I will be less a human doing
and more a human being
If not but for one moment
I will know how
to be something other than
a mule pulling a plow

And then the sun rises......

I have come to the conclusion
that it is both unfair and unreasonable
to expect any one person
to be happy all of the time
and also to judge that discontent
as some sort of personal failure
How could it possibly be that simple?
May any sustained absence of one's happiness
lead to an enduring appreciation of it's return

I see a little boat
in a harbor
waiting to set sail
for the sea
It floats as prisoner
tied to the docks
waiting for it's chance to be free

But I have no view
of a harbor
and I do not live
by the sea
Yet, I'm haunted by visions
of this sad little boat
I sense it has a message for me

Does it want us
to sail off together
and throw caution to the wind for the day?
Is it enough of a boat
to keep us a float
or will we sink to the bottom of the bay?

Wind blows
through the carcass
of an old ship run ashore
It beckons her ghosts
to board once more
She's sad
and she's lonely
in a harbor of sand
and her decks need the company
of those old scurvy hands

All the air
blown between my ears
and all that's lost
from those crazy years
In the one
and out the other
Maybe it's better
that I didn't bother
to notice what was passing through

As I pour myself
another drink
I tell myself
not to think
of moving thoughts
from pen to paper
then suffer from
a reckless rapier

In a field
Of senoritas
Dancing in the sun
I saw their smiles
Among the sunflowers
Before their dance was done

Breath was what mattered
all the days since his birth
Now dressed in fine pine
and a suit of his worth
Slowly descending
into the soil's firth
For death be it only
what lies in the earth

It was so uneventful
lowered into the ground
and with nothing to show
for his labors

All he wanted
was a fancy white box
so he could impress
his new neighbors