Close your eyes

Your world, not extending
beyond the soft quilt under
your skin, unending


Soft ripples of cloth, and picturesque seams
Nothing here but
You, me, the sky, and soft dreams

I'll reach up and take the stars from the sky
If only to lay them at your feet
to place them in your hands
to bring light into those glazed eyes
or give a glow to a world so bland

and each one would be folded
into a beautiful origami castle
I, the lord, and you, the vassal
Or perhaps me as the king
and you as a queen, whichever
My gentle playmate.. which one is better?

I'm a majestic creature of the sky
You're an empty-faced child on a quilt
Each star shall be used as a stepping stone
so I might meet you in the place I built


Let us meet, as lovers, or
at least equals
on this starry floor

These are not just words
that rhyme or fit together
in some fancy, schmancy
catchy rhythmic flow

These are my thoughts
my feelings
my inner beauty
my outer demons

typed on my kebyoard
stored on a web server
searched by web crawlers
presented to you

adieu!

The merry banter of the waitress flirting
With her old men the negotiations
For a coffee refill the rattle of flatware
And the clatter-clat of the breakfast plates

The buzz of conversation and over there
A Bible verse and a head bowed in thanks
“Then Grandpa shot Billy” and too the hum
Of how’s-the-weather going to be later on

The usual beginning to another work day…
But wait…but what…what did that old man say?

Panicked mechanical howls
echo off the silver moon
blankets the summer crisp air
blending in with the ghosts of the weeds
and the angels in the trees
flashing lights blocading the streets
in hopes of preventing tragedy
every night it’s Hamlet out on this street
this stage has been played a hundred times
the ending never changes

The blood in the bottle usurped
the blood in my veins
I love you I burped
but it was in vain

You're drunk again
why do you cause this pain
it's fuel for my pen
and I cannot abstain

I guess I am weak
with no self control
with a future so bleak
and a shriveled dried soul

It fills the page
can't you see,
it fills your rage
and that's fine with me

Today you left for good
so I bought a new notebook
and a bottle of wormwood
laid out in a small nook

Watch as these pages like feathers
fly off in the wind
lets get back together
so I can do this again

I watch them wheel on down the hall
then come back up,
prepared to fall
back into the daily grind.....
God I wish that they could find

Some way out
or some way in.
Some way to get back home again.

Wilma sits there by the door.
She's waiting
as she's done before
so many times, so many days
and there are just a few small ways

that I can help
to give her hope,
or simply find a way to cope.

Ellen calls me by my name.
Which makes no sense
for it's the same.
Every afternoon at three,
I'm not who I seem to be.

I wish I were.
For maybe then
I could bring them home again.

A baby is born with a trouble or two,
what you feel in the womb really happens to you.
But matters are worse when you finally arrive,
baby, sweet baby, how will you survive?

At least on the inside you kept yourself warm,
but now on the outside you will feel the storm.
At least on the inside the drugs kept you high,
but now on the outside you've reason to cry.

A baby is born through no fault of his own,
decisions made for him from someone full grown.
Selfish and needy she thought not of him,
he arrives with no more then to sink or to swim.

And how do you swim when you can't even walk?
How do you ask when you can't even talk?
A baby is born and he suffers each day,
just so his mother could have her own way.

It started out when he was four,
I bought a toy
at the dollar store.
And when I gave him
that little guitar
I never dreamed he'd go to far.

He could bring it to life
with only an ear,
the sweetest tunes,
I ever did hear.
He couldn't write music,
and he sure couldn't read it
but that little boy
sure seemed to need it.

He played for awhile,
but soon it bored him.
He forgot the guitar,
even though it adored him.
He'd begin doing one thing
and fly off to another.
He made me so tired,
just being his mother!

He still hasn't changed,
but he did surrender.
Not long ago he bought a Fender.
When he lays his fingers
upon the strings
the magic happens,
and my heart sings.
I'd stop anything
just to hear him play
his music takes my breath away.

I wish so much it could be his living,
all of that magic he could be giving!
But we must cope with life's demands.
Dreams and desires
are out of our hands.
Playing guitar will not pay the bills.
We make the most of other skills.

I'm just glad I bought that toy.
I treasure the music,
and I treasure the boy.