Hold fast the crescent moon
stay the edge til the orb be full
time and spirit will arch your view
crack the void with specks of light
breathe deep in a pause of hope
step away from a second lost
freeze the spiral pattern laid
blank the screen of thought
succumb not to the tide that pounds
your bleeding heart like a thousand drums
deny the ocean another soul
turn
and feel the Sun

and in these bleakest of nights
when my self analysis
third person psychobabble
holds minimal sway
i run from the dark
into the black
into the pitch
where i am safe
from all light
all thought
until the passing
the silent storm that rages
will end only with time
or submission

the dreams are forgotten quickly
no longer a source of interest
of mystery
or even sadness
they are simply accepted and left to vanquish
into the ether
the years
the words
the search for fire
in a dormant soul
the light is flickering
the voice is quieting
the vision of a kindred spirit
is all but blind hope
the poet in me
meanders alone in his thoughts
that are short and void of secrets
he no longer hears the call
no longer seeks the path
to discovering
the perfectly articulated
thought

the poetry of simplicity
the delicate wonder of a stars timeless light
the soft soul dance of lovers unspoken emotion

the intricate and infinite world of dream memories
that lay waiting for the routine,
yet vastly uncharted landscape of sleep

and in sleep
the poet thrived
washed in fields of light
and oceans of pure and pristine thought

in the day
when the universe was kind
it would send him the words
that began the story
of his dreamscape

some say he was reaching for a pen
as new words fell from the Sun
he drifted slowly and silently from the road
the words never written
the dream never shared
by this simple man

I could not weather these aching thoughts of you
haunting pictures
were it not for the presence
of the quieting wind
I dare not enter these caverns of memory
almost touching
were it not for the calmness
of the quieting wind
I would sleep for a thousand years
dreams awaiting
were it not for the awakening
of the quieting wind
and here I lay
on this windswept hill
you drop a rose
and I watch you go
the quieting wind
carries your voice back to me
as once again you say goodbye

there are no dreams here
they are but fragments of thought
dismissed and abandoned to the wilderness
of our imaginations
to intersect or collide
perhaps hundreds or thousands at a time
to create some kind of patchwork mosaic of
tossed millisecond ideas and flashes of imagery
that have nowhere to go
these are not dreams
a vast wasteland of connected disconnected energy
of the mind

last night we walked together
and discovered our shared love of art
and ghosts
while the world slept
while I slept
I later met you in a book store
where we paged through Vangogh prints
and discussed the peculiarities of  'The Smoking Skull'
I awoke to a beautiful Sun and for a few joyous seconds…thought to
call you

there are no dreams here

I remember a line from a movie long ago;
'There's a hole in my heart that cannot be filled'

It was five years ago I had first heard of him.
'Hayden sat next to me at lunch, Daddy,' she would sigh,
and we would tease her,
her older brother, sister and I.
'Well, you need to talk to him, tell him that you like him'
'I can't do that, the kids would make fun of me. Besides, I'm only six!'
From kindergarten through 4th grade,
this modern day Tom Sawyer had captured my little girl's heart.

We sat in the back of the church,
Hayden's Father is saying goodbye to his son.
She rests her head on my shoulder,
her strength deeper than my own.
I came to know him this day,
this beautiful child who brought a light to my own.
His huge, brown eyes reflecting love of youth
and the joy that resides in innocence.
Those moments so pure,
her thoughts of Hayden will no longer grace our lives.
How wonderful they were.
There's a hole in my heart that cannot be filled,
and the light of childhood has been dimmed.
The balance of joy and pain has come much too soon
to one so young, my little girl.

Worm twists on a shimmering hook
and streaks towards it's deadly splash
backyard wedding, laughter echoes
on the wings of a camera flash
starlings find a telephone line
to rest, review the day
starlight prepares to greet the moon
born millenniums away
traveling whisper, undisturbed
a million years in flight
to catch the eye of desperate souls
to spark a dream this night
infants final cry is heard
above the halted wind
Stevie Nicks sends frozen love
through the silent, somber din
in a million years on a distant land
our final light is done
as the worm evades it's watery grave
at the edge of the second Sun

I lose myself in 'View at Arles with Irises'
and wonder how close I am to seeing Vincent
standing in that field
fighting the wind
frustrated at never quite seeing the pure expression
in his head
realized on canvas
I would tell him I see it
I know it as he does
he looks pensively at the beauty he has created
slowly raises his head
and unseen in the portraits
there comes a smile
he sets the brush aside
lights his pipe
and begins to tell the story
of the smoking skull

the rain beats endlessly
upon the ears
it snakes it's way inside this house
wrapping itself around the grief
and drenches us with sadness
the Sun resides in a far off place
where smiles await
where joy finds refuge
in time
the storm will remain here
will darken these rooms
and blur the days ahead
what light finds it's way
will only serve to cast shadows
i will understand her grief
i will wait beside her for the cloud to unwrap itself
for she is her father's daughter
and i know so well
this storm

drip upon a tired lake
bird sings out at an old man's wake
memory reborn for memory's sake
rumbles in a dormant soul
Sun peeks through a storm strewn sky
baby is sung a lullaby
heart holds a beat while it says goodbye
repent my prodigal son
None shall speak of this in lore
the end draws near this final war
the ripple shall never reach the shore
drip upon a tired lake

I am many men of many dreams
swarm of poets, spectrum of moods
relentless in my pursuit
of the perfectly articulated thought

Should I bore you
it will not be by repetition,
varying slants on a similar theme
I will lead you into my rage
allow you to taste your anger
then share with you
my most bittersweet tears

I am an open wound
lightning rod of emotion
who cherishes the human storm

I will never be in books
my history will end with my last breath
but what I give you will never be tainted
by that which comes with discovery

it is nearly December
and here I sit
alone
on the beach of Buxton
just in front of the immaculate Hatteras Lighthouse
only a few surf fisherman
are within eyeshot
maybe half a mile towards Frisco
and one obvious resident of the area
bronze skinned and soaking in more
of the late season Sun
walks her Lab along the shoreline
it is every bit 72 degrees
and the light breeze is only perfect
the terns float in the hundreds
a few hundred yards offshore
as I admire them
I spot several dolphins on the move nearby
one jumps like a kid showing off
this is followed by a dozen or so pelicans
playing follow the leader a foot above the ocean
then dive bombing for fish

I come alive when I step from the concrete to the sand
when I hear the beautiful music of the waves pounding the shore
in perfect, slow rhythm
this is where I find myself
where my worries drift slowly out to Sea
with every precious moment I have
in these
Outer Banks

this same moon sits above the tree line
and with it’s light I can distinguish,
even in the bleakest of nights,
that line set against the pitch black sky

I grow cold
and my bones ache of age
as I languish here
drowning in this sea of irrelevance
this vile, slow torture
that awaits my every dawn

they look at me with a curious eye
that quickly turns to distant fear
those who sleep above their dreams
and question not their souls

I have fallen to one knee
as I turn to see your shadow,
just in time to prepare for the second blow
in these final seconds before,
the state between death and the dying thought
one's life does play out
in a wave of weaving shadows
on a pillow of blinding white light
my last conscious thought
of your eyes,
the day you looked at me from across the room,
from across the universe
in death one can hear,
for you repeat as you look upon my bloodied body;
"cheater! cheater!"
I can only summize you refer to the lipstick on my collar
put there by your mother
who I happened upon at the grocery store
while picking up your favorite yogurt
you always were the jealous and suspicious one,
but I love you just the same

Time, ever present
Fleeting ghost
Like a dream it will send you drifting
Floating like a whisper
Through a sky of echoes
Drowning like a thought
In seas of color
Adrift in sleepy detachment
Like an infant
Fixated on a clown mobile
Dangling above it's crib
Until a memory grabs you
Perhaps the smell of vanilla
Or the barely heard barking
Of a distant, restless dog
As you lay in the quiet moments before sleep
And you are back in the warmth, the comfort
The shadow
That is yours alone

It was July of '64, I think
not long after a bunch of ******* sick with greed, hate and vengeance masked as patriotism  
blew the President's head off
I was trying to hold onto my childhood at 9
it became rather difficult after that
I saw that famous news guy take off his glasses and weep before the nation
on our 25 inch black and white Zenith
I looked at that guy like a dog looks at something completely askew
something not at all normal that has just entered it's world

I was outside, behind my house in Southeast D.C.
Anacostia
playing along the incline where the coal made it's way from the
old apartment building's basement window opening
there was always some that they would spill when loading up
to feed the giant furnace
Tommy Arthur, who had criminal written all over him at 16
his greased back jet black hair, Banlon shirts, baggy grey slacks and high-top All Stars walked by with a friend
stopped to light his Lucky Strike
and asked me to show him how I could jump from one tree to another
I had done it 100 times, no big deal
my chance to show off for the town's bad ***
I reached the top and took my usual look around
there was the roof of my house, Sam's Market on the corner,
Baby and her brother Stinky playing on their porch
Baby still had the cast on her leg from the car that sent her flying
She was running across U Street to make it safely to base during a game of 'hide and seek'
Stinky...trust me, you don't want to know why he has that name.
I turned toward the tree limb belonging to the tree that grew alongside this one
it was an easy jump really, not more than 4 or 5 feet
perhaps I was a bit too cocky
after all, this was Tommy Arthur
other than the upper half of my 2 middle fingers on the right hand
and even less of the left, nothing touched limb
I was woefully short
I saw ground coming quickly
laced with broken coal chunks and little else
I smacked the hill face first
awkwardly twisting slightly to the right just prior to impact
Tommy and his friend, mouths agape
respectfully asked if I was allright
just before leaving
instinctively smelling trouble
blood was shooting from an opening above my left eye
at the upper corner of my forehead just below the hairline
my white tee shirt was quickly soaked and bright red
It was quite a relief when the cobwebs cleared and I realized I was alive
and even more incredibly, suffered no broken bones as far as I could tell
seeing that I was facing no more than a few stitches to close a head wound
my attention now turned to what good use I could make of my horrific appearance
besides having a great story to tell my buddies

I started walking towards the backyard gate
which was just a matter of 20 or 30 feet
I thought about what I'd do once I reached the house
but it all played out perfectly
as I climbed the steps to the back porch
and slowly made my way to the kitchen just inside
I see Mom with her back to me and she's frying chicken
I slowly enter and remain poised just inside the kitchen entrance
after a minute or so she turns with a pan of frying *******, wings and thighs
she sees her youngest son with a fully bloodied tee shirt
and blood spewing from his head
a chicken wing flew past me and I believe cleared the porch
other chicken parts and grease were strewn about the kitchen, dining room
and hallway
I was shown little sympathy for my wound
and after some very intense cleaning up was taken to Dr Phillips for stitches
Dr Phillips was never surprised to see me

The scar remains after 53 years
I returned once or twice and drove past the house
and looked at those trees I had climbed so many times

on that July day in 1964
I had fallen nearly 3 stories
landed head first into hard ground
and walked home with no more than a cut
all logic says I should have broken my neck
but in my life logic plays a very small part

sharp as a razors edge
your tongue slices hearts and souls alike
I dare you to speak

what do I need to say
to say I love you
how can you not know
how can I not know
if you think of me
in such a way

I will tell you soon
when the moon is right
when your smile is bright
and cuts through all the pain
of waiting

have you ever talked to a ghost
I have
have you ever looked death in the face and survived
I have
have you ever contemplated joining the dead
I have...many times
yet I relinquish those thoughts
once I consider
I would just be adding pain
to pain
turn around

The two young poets happened upon the old Library on the same day
When she arrived she noticed the young man off in the dark corner
Deep in thought
He noticed her as well but did not let on
She took her place near the window
Where the Sun washed that part of the room
She opened her notebook
And awaited a spark to send her on her rhyming way
She had vague ideas of a pristine palace that floated among the clouds
Atop a chunk of deep green earth


The young man was absorbed in a story of a young girl
Her life had been taken abruptly
She was halfway to the other side; the ‘in-between’
As I once heard it referenced
For she was not ready or willing to accept her death


The hours passed and as the Sun began to wane
The young girl departed


The following day she arrived to continue her work
And immediately noticed the mysterious boy in the corner
She returned to her spot by the window
In the Sun
And began working meticulously on her poem


After a short time she noticed that the poet across the room
Appeared to be finishing his work
And was preparing to leave
Her curiosity outweighed her apprehension
And she approached the fellow poet before he arose


“I couldn’t help but notice that you were working on something…
A poem perhaps?”
“Why yes;” he replied
“Would you care to read it?”
“Only if I’m not keeping you from being somewhere.
You looked about to leave.”
“I would rather be here.” he answered.
“Well, I’ll only be a minute.”


And with that she returned to her place by the window and began to read
He noticed that her beautiful smile quickly turned to a look of deep concern and discord
As she finished, she appeared shaken, almost frightened
She walked slowly back to the boy


“I didn’t care for your poem. It is much too sad. Poetry should not be sad, it should be beautiful and magical. What you see in your dreams. I’m sorry, I must be going.”
“Have you never had a nightmare?” he queried
“Yes, but I would never write a poem about it.”
“And why not? Shouldn’t something as deep and meaningful as poetry span all of our emotions, all of our fears as well as our joy? Like the perfect verse, should not our thoughts be balanced?
Would we not cheat ourselves and our audience if it were not?
Balance is the key
Sun and Moon
Day and Night
You and I"


With that she turned and left the boy
alone in the dark corner


For three days his words weighed on her
How dare he interrupt her perfect world
On the fourth day she returned to the old library
Not sure if she hoped he'd be there
Her feelings still hopelessly askew
She entered the room and felt both relief and sorrow
For the boy was not at his table
Off in that dark corner
'balance is the key...you and I'
she knows now
how those words moved her
As she turned to walk to her place near the window
She was stopped abruptly by the sight of him
Awash in Sunlight
Wearing a smile as bright as her own
Sitting, waiting at her table

I click the wasteland on
again
stumble out of bed
again
I need the comfort of the flickering lights against a dark wall
and the sound it makes
there's not enough despair in here
to be where I must be
a king has died of pain overdose
the story flashes from the screen
bounces off the hallway mirror and into my coffee
I sip without noticing a change
try to write of broken hopes and mended dreams
but the words are futile
weak
I seek the moon for vital signs
but a faceless cloud of shapeless form
holds nothing to inspire
there are faces of thousands
who offer their lives but for a taste of freedom
their screams float silently out of reach
come to rest in a candy dish
do I ponder the ultimate poetic gesture
suffer no more these sleepless nights
perhaps I will sleep on such thoughts

you toy with me
distant friend
fingers through my hair
whispers as you dart about
our secret game will remain
our secret
but I must know if you are child or adult
woman or man
past lover in this or an earlier life
reveal to me the answer my spirit
so that you may walk in my dreams
and open the door to both worlds

the days seem shorter
as I draw near the end of those scheduled for me
these 9 to 5's
few surprises await as the routine becomes routine
fewer goodbyes
fewer laughs
fewer cries
and fewer smiles
funny how you notice what the children do not
that they are drifting into their lives
further from yours
but this is the pattern
the destiny of the aging soul

to bed early
comedies aren't as funny
baseball seems less relevant
the aches are more and the heart is growing cold
wrapped in the pain of indifference
I will miss the sound of that alarm
and the need to move
but I shall always have the Sun
and the Sea
to harvest a few words now and again

Monk Taio Kaneta

In everyday life
we sacrifice our need to feel
without even knowing it

I am no longer the focus
of Victoria's view
the object in her direction
her sights now raised
above the dwindling light
of my affection

this dangerous game we play
like fire on ice
the closer we get
the more likely we are
to drown

you mustn't be so impatient my child
our time will come
you know the numbers are limited
we will be leaving soon
I promise you
and the adventure that awaits us
will be beyond our imagination
we will be kings
and they will love us
because we are what they strive to be
but it cannot be rushed
we must move slowly
they will not even realize that we have saved them
and in a thousand years
it will be all ours
as their species fades to relics
now come inside after the earth sets
and just remember
we shall be there
before the next eclipse

i tire of the dense, wretched grip of the night
dry the **** of boredom from my skin
**** in the glow of the moon
and walk to the edge
where I am swallowed by the black
i peel back the stark
where the true light burns
where the breath of forced solace
is at least
visible

bitterness shrieks through the alleyways
sadness hovers like a fog
the raging plea of hopelessness
reaches through the drunken screams
and tears at the soul of the child
who hears so clearly
waiting for the shadows to lift
waiting for the screams to succumb
to quiet cries
waiting for the Sun

I had a dream
but this wasn't the typical
awake and forget dream
I remember everything
and as people in the dream were reacting
I knew exactly why
I knew their motives
their plan
It involved a military style evacuation
of a large office building
appeared to be the Middle East
I entered the building and walked through a long corridor
I came to a family of 5 or 6 that were standing at a side exit
afraid to leave. They finally exited and I saw what they feared...
a man who appeared to be American with a rifle about 20 yards ahead on a hill looking at them. He let them leave. I lied to him as I thought he might **** me since I wasn't quite sure who I was in this dream...who's side I was on
It concerned my Grandfather
he had asked me what day I was born
and the alcohol of choice at my birth
I replied that there was no alcohol due to the fact
that my Grandfather died from alcohol poisoning
In fact, my Grandfather died of pneumonia and refused to
take alcohol to help his condition. Why did I lie? How did the lie help?
Instead of killing me, we became friends and took a walk
we came upon a large home with a number of people
sitting on the porch
Two young teenagers, totally out of place began chatting about
an American cd they had purchased
The boy had buzzed blonde hair and a blue eagle tattooed
on his cheek
The female looked very close to his age and chatted non-stop
about her cd
An older female with long dark hair in a long dark dress pulled a rifle from under her side as she was laying on a bench or possibly the ground and pointed it at my friend
Not sure why they let me leave, but I told him I would return...
end of dream
the entire time I knew I was in a dream and reacted as I would, thought as I would and felt as if I was viewing the entire dream through a pair of VR glasses...or was it a dream?

any ideas?

you wear that cape of innocence so well
smiling, blinking, glancing
deception wreaks from you
draw them in
like a spider flashing diamond eyes
upon its back
only to turn and bite
when they are near
but I am not fooled
your web cannot reach here
your eyes turn cold when you look my way
for you know
that I see beyond those eyes
beyond the reach of your victims
you have given of yourself to me
and my soul remains undamaged
bitter loss my sweet
weave your web from my view
for I am unmoved
I add nothing to your insatiable demand
for power