I want to go….
Where I can render harmless
The aftershocks of a quaking world

Where I can sweat in warm night air
Filled with a late summer’s peace
Ride on mattresses made of puffy white clouds
That slowly float past a bright harvest moon

Where I can pleasantly reel in the past
Smile at the younger version of myself
and forgive

A thousand tiny paper cuts
brought him here to death
The vengeful words
of his angry thoughts
expired with his final breath

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

Soft pink rose petals
touched his lips that day
and burned through his body
like the sun through the wings
of Icarus
For he had reached for ecstasy
and cared not for consequence
It was a good day to die

‘Neath my head
I’m apt to keep
A feathered pillow
So that I may sleep

I rid my eyes
The last of sight
So true my mind
May know the night

I close my ears
To all the sound
And hear the bliss
Of silence found

As restful night
Wakes to the morn
A fresh new day
To me is born

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

The music is in there somewhere
Trying to tell your soul
it’s solely there to restore to you
what the sadness came and stole
Listen to the pleasant tune
It can’t be there by chance
The more you hear
The more you cheer
and you may even want to dance

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

Color my mood
A melancholy blue
The bill for it’s absence
Is now again due
May the power of its pain
Produce enough rain
To wash me so cleanly
Of it’s signature hue

The words from this
passing stranger
were like music to his ears
For the first time
in his difficult life
he felt calm amidst his fears
To be less consumed
by the weakness of flesh
meant connection to his soul
It was the filling
of his heart’s content
where there was once a gaping hole

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

It is what it is
but all is as it should be
Be thankful your trouble
isn’t all that it could be

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

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

God might wonder
how can a man not be changed
by witnessing the birth of his child
It’s one of those clues
that the world does not revolve
around one’s enormous head
An epiphany that should begin to
free one’s spirit from the bonds of
self-absorbing narcissism
But, then again ..

Every second
of every minute
of every hour saved
is then sacrificed
to the gods of technology
It is an evolution of sorts
where people are beginning
to merge with machines
Humans of an earlier time
will eventually become known as “the ancient ones”
and will stand on rungs closer
to the Neanderthal than to cyborgs

One day I rose
from where I was sitting
to embrace the world's love
as if it befitting
then fast lowered myself
at the lack of humility
and shuddered for days
at the responsibility

I heard the songs of sirens
Sweetly humming through the night
Their naked silhouettes appeared
Beneath the grey moonlight
They knew that I was watching
But, was allowed my stay
To gaze upon these wonders
Who so freely danced and played
Precious nymphs of Nature
In worship of the sky
I fear it but a surreal dream
Adrift a field of rye

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

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 looked upon
These shells of men
Upon the cobblestone
Again
It sadly touched
His heart to know
This colleague had no
Place to go
And took such comfort
From a flask
There was no notice
Of what was asked
“**** the poison
Inside thy head!
Be thee alive?
Or be thee dead?”

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

What makes a man
Into a Genghis Khan
And regress into his terrible twos?
It’s not enough
That he should win
Everyone else must lose

Avoiding pain
and chasing pleasure
Another vice
for good measure
We cannot stay
So, we’re on our way
searching for that hidden treasure
of heaven’s fragrance
in the air
that lets us know
that love is there

May the sun
be the face of god
and all it’s light his robe
as he takes
a morning stroll
across this sleepy globe

Gently the morning light
meets my sleepy eyes
It softly taps my shoulder
Like a mother’s plea to rise
The world it seems to be rather harsh
for it’s always asking when
I’ll get up to earn my way
back to bed again

Misty eyes are here
Missing all the cheer
The desperate stare
of cold despair
for reasons that aren’t clear
It’s supposed to be a time
of joy and peace of mind
But, if an answer lies
in those misty eyes
It’s just too hard to find
Misty eyes
Misty eyes
No matter how hard the tissue tries
It can't dry up
those misty eyes

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

I should like
to wear the shades
the tans and grays
of winter days

Quietly sit
in stone cold silence
to render calm
this inner violence

To molt the skin
of what I'm feeling
To know the floor
from the ceiling

Not begrudge
my heart's abiding
Learn to face
in me what's hiding

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

To see not light
but, only darkness
is to live in a world
under a dull and lifeless spell
A type of trance or sleep
where dreams are as black as night
and the soul is nothing other than
a fellow cave dweller

Whisper what you want of me
How much longer can I wait?
My hearing really is quite good
Though I don't always see so straight
I sit beneath a starry night
Listening for a sign
But alas
More hours pass
Seem like a waste of time
Whisper what you want of me
I grow tired of the wait
I want to know the secret
Before it is too late
Whisper what you want of me
For I do not see
If the question is aimed above
Or is it aimed at me

Oblivious
to their despair
it roams the house
without a care
It's in the clothes
and on the dishes
All against
their sincerest wishes
and as the kids
come through the door
the ******* plague
falls to the floor
This war on dirt
cannot be won
and the keeper's job
is never done

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

Sometimes, in the dead of night
before I've had the chance to write
they disappear into the light
of the moon outside my window
I leave the house, sit on the lawn
Wait until the crack of dawn
Still no trace of where they’ve gone
Where do forgotten words go?

As I rise
I do thee wake
A prayer I plead
I no longer ache

From the future’s curse
Of fret and worry
To the ache of regret
I have tried to bury

No more need to rule
No itch to conquer
All ledgers accounted for
By my tenure

As nothing obeys me
I have been so crowned
The King of Nothing
And to that I am bound

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 was a time
When he dwelled
In the spacious house
That was once her heart
And now there is not
One small room left
For him to occupy

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

The stains from my coffee
dropped onto the paper
Then, randomly folded
into deliberate pleats
Revealed to me
the nature of it’s purpose
The place where the clouds
of imagination can meet

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?

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

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

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

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

this mask I must wear
it leaves me with a cold sense
of unbelonging
it makes me a stranger
among many other masked strangers
and though I am but a few miles away
I feel far from home

Fear and Rage
Brother to brother
Whenever they awaken
One says to the other
What kind of suffering
can we cause today?
That’s when one hears
the other one say
I just love the smell of ******
in the morning

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

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

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