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

Strolling through a field
In a Victorian gown
As if she were the model
For a painting well-known
As she spins a green parasol
In the Spring sun
Her hair breaking free
From the shape of a bun
Her little boy marvels
At the kaleidoscope sky
Basking in the presence
Of time floating by
There is peace in the world
On this blessed day
It blows through their souls
Pushing all clouds away

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

I don’t find myself
In the woods anymore
Running through orchards
Or watching boats from the shore
When I was a kid
That is all that I did
After putting on shoes
And running out the front door

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

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

The evil of it’s pursuits
knows no bounds
for it is a powerful time traveler
It lives in the past
but, feeds on the future
to grieve the present
And, it is truly
the enemy of us all

This thing that comes to me in waves
washes over my face
like a hard rain
My heart is a stream of tears
that drains down my sleeve
and into a hole left by the piece of me
that is now missing
I feel no shame in crying
All I feel is loss

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

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

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

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 irony is
that the fear of death
gives rise to the fear of living
Meeting uncertainty
with an unshakable faith
is the gift that keeps on giving

Such simplicity
yet magnanimous in its undertaking
One marvels at the whole of it
in awe of the glorious painstaking detail
Colors calm and easy
leaving no part of it's aura unappeasing
It's nature so sincere and moving
the stricken feel the need to bow

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

The sudden demise
of a few relatives
left him shaken and horrified
at the discovery
that in addition to all it's inherited weaknesses
death too
runs in the family

May we never be
that lonely dog
that barks into the rain
and leave behind
this indifferent world
another invisible stain

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

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

Ah, to feel the stir of passion
And then be burned by it
Better than enduring
the slow suffocation of apathy

You would rather your heart
ten times broken
than suffer the torture of gloom
Blank faces in mirrors
hang on dark inner walls
that won't let you leave the room

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

Sometimes I feel like a monster
Acting less like a man than beast
When the ugliest, unsightly part of me
Is the most of myself not the least

When a prayer
Seems more like a tired rant
Than an earnest plea

The raging storm dies
The sun brightens the day
And calm returns to the sea

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

Sometimes I feel like an idiot
In search of a village
and can’t get offered the job

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

Bound by the scars
That make up who we are
Perhaps we’re like the song bird
That will not fly too far
Though the cage door be open
We can never be set free
From the familiar surroundings
Of our own captivity

He's singing in the rain
and feeling no pain
He knows it's insane
but, he's drinking again
Up high on a cloud
He's obnoxious and loud
dancing and singing in the rain

A swath of denim
in a frame of leather
On top of which lies
A cross of feathers
Cries this collage
of my personal
Abstract Expressionism

I have to distract Charlie
Distract him with laughter and song
Occupy his mood
with whimsical thoughts
Before it all goes wrong
I know I can never leave Charlie
alone with himself for too long
‘Cause that’s when the beast
gets out of its cage
and that’s where it really belongs

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

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?

I find that inside
my chaotic head
is a dangerous place to be
and when I’m aware
that I’m living there
I urge myself to flee

In a white room
on a white wall
there hangs a still-life of flowers
Although it seems
all but a dream
it's message of peace
has great power

We had our fears
and shed our tears
we labored on
through hidden years
when we look back
on lessons learned
we hope, at least
some bridges burned

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

As I step through
a small patch of woods
this fine morning
I feel the cold breath
of Winter on my neck
I catch a glimpse
of a rabbit's white tail
bobbing in and out of my sight
It's Thanksgiving
and this moment of near silence
is not lost on me
As I head back
I pretend to be a woodsman
following the last of Autumn's
long shadows
to a warm house
that will soon fill of family and friends
and I am grateful for it

From on top of the world
to down on one's knees
Love is the cure
for its own disease

Dreams - the very marrow of hope
May be the lifeline to the living
Destroy one’s dreams
And the hate
Of their dead weight
May be unforgiving

Smashing dreams or smashing bones
It matters not
Both acts of ******
Stirred from the same ***

Nestled in a blanket of pristine snow-covered countryside
an old barn in winter
A crow sits atop it's white ragged roof

Amidst the vast and blinding silence
that surrounds this frozen remnant of an era gone by
a reminder
that very little happens here now

It's an aging but graceful beauty
Standing proud as though untouched
by time
and an ever-changing modern world

Sometimes
we are like time travelers
either brooding in a reincarnated past
or living nervously in an uncertain future
But, tragically absent from the present

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

May we all be spared
the lens of poets
for ignorance is bliss
and only they truly know it

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

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

May I never be so old
That I can’t lie on a floor
Or become so set in my ways
That thinking makes me sore!

May I not be so dismayed
By what I can’t do anymore
And be mindful of what I can do
That I could not do before

May I laugh at the bitter cold
Even when it seems a chore
Appreciate the green of Spring
Isn’t that what Winter’s for?

May I season my old age
With a some pepper and some sage
And hope my conversation
Is not a dreadful bore

Allow the particle of self
to join the wave of humanity

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

Lying in the driveway
sleeping in the rain
a man melting before my eyes
and leaving such a stain
"Just a dream" I tell myself
and forget about what it means
But, the next day in the driveway
the bluish tint of jeans

Somewhere over the wall
of intolerance
lies a future
free from fear and the past
We can’t seem to get
over the top of it
and we know our patience
can’t last
Help us over the wall Lord
Help us over the wall
And in the interest
of our salvation
Please oh please do it fast