the colors of love reside in you
i am black, gray and midnight blue
sun meets moon at daylights wake
yellow skips along ocean’s break
clouds of black soak waves of green
raise a rainbow briefly seen
my lover dreams in night’s caress
of flower petals and wedding dress
while in the shadows
i sleep content
the color of her love is meant…
for me

there's a place called the Lowe
the Lowe Hotel
100 plus years of souls
passing in the halls
leaning against the walls
that view the Ohio River
in its majesty
the Lowe
where stories were born
and still thrive
the room breathes
and crackles with sound as I sleep
whispers...taps...creaks
they are my connection
and I theirs...
window to the living
there are no years
no time or space to measure

'We get you' she said
in a voice as clear as crystal
and as close as dead can be to the living

I hear soft music
haunting sitar riding the low wave of a synthesizer bass
I am perplexed by the choice I must make
be taken by the song
or fight the twisting pain in my chest
'In search of the lost chord'
that Moody Blues title
I've found it!
here in the between space
'Visions of Paradise'
'Steppin' in a Time Zone'
I'm dying
and I can't stop listening
can't stop
the pain subsides
and I am crossed
I think
the music and vision now clear and strong
George is playing the sitar
and the synthesizer is not a synthesizer
but the wave itself
the beach I return to each Summer
Vincent hums along as he paints a wheat field
that fades in and out over the horizon
and the Sun is blazing
there in a white suit I see him
"The Lucky man..."
John says to Marilyn
as he turns toward me
..."you've made the grade"

the Sun suddenly falls behind the horizon
the music fades
I begin moving back to the center of all there was
and for a moment there is nothing
no sound
no light
then a voice
"It looks as if he's decided to return"
I awake to see a man in a very long beard,
dressed in white
with round spectacles staring down at me
"I'm Dr. Wall...Russ Wall"
"You're a lucky man! looks as though it's just another day in the life of...
what was your name, friend?"

I've grown weary of this madness
weak from all this pain
should I turn from the truth I've seen
or revel in the rain

I've grown old from all this sadness
long before my time
they stole my youth and innocence
neutralized my prime

I've grown feeble in my anger
bitter in my grief
the truth is there for all to see
yet we turn in disbelief

The innocent are shunned upon
the guilty walk away
'I'm just a patsy' is our plea
since that bleak November day

on the stool the Mantis sat
I watched him for a good while
until he turned to face the piano
stretched his incredibly long legs and arms
and began to play
a version of colorblind so intensely beautiful
it brought tears to my shallow eyes
and warmth to my frozen heart
just after the final note echoed down the hallway
he snagged a fly that had fallen
under the hypnotic beauty of his play
he turned his head in that peculiar way they do
and gazed at me
blinked one giant eye and said
'never assume'

I have loved you these many years
As I love you now
As we sit quietly
Dancing along the guise of friendship

The stares that linger a second longer
Than a friend’s stare should
the soft laughter
that muffles the cry of a yearning heart

The torture
I fear
Of knowing I’ll never have you
May not equal
The torture
Of never sharing a smile
Daring a whisper
Or chasing a dream

it's raining today
bouncing off the roof and glass
of this 100 year old building
the room is eerily dark
as only faint Sun makes it through the skylight
the ghosts whisper and shuffle about
the cat is timid and disappears under the bed
the hum of early traffic is constant and tires splashing
through rain is irritating
I recall a dream just before I awoke
I helped a friend who's old white Cadillac wouldn't start
she had to drive to Michigan
and in the dream I thought;
'this ******* ain't makin' it to Michigan'
but I couldn't stop her
and now I wonder;
is she broke down and in a panic along I-80?
maybe I should have tried harder
but that's where I woke up
or is that where I fell asleep?
perhaps I am dreaming now
the ghosts love to watch me ponder

I cannot remember the memories I forgot
I'm sure they are there somewhere
between despair and uncaring
un sharing them
thus
they have diminished
like unfinished furniture
left in the cellar
dwellers of the dark

some dark
some bright
some come to light
during the wee hours of night
some crystal clear
some just out of sight
but all are real and all are right
as I slip into the fearless flight
of the mind's eye

In a High School classroom
I read a poem many years ago
about a man who stood before another man
vaguely pleading under his breath
for the other man held a knife
and appeared willing to carry out this act
there was little fight left in him
even before this stranger arrived
for his life had become a succession
of empty days
and long nights dreading the Sun
he had become a victim of his own bitterness
a sad, depleted soul
and he almost welcomed an end

'the blood of fleeing life
and the tears of anguish fell in drops
to the time-worn floor of the dismal room'

such a pitiful fate
even more pitiful is the fact that there was no stranger

'a blinking hotel sign revealed a dead man
lying beneath a mirror smeared with blood
and dried to the image of a stretched palm
many hours later'

monsters, goblins, greys and trolls
slithering through my blanket folds
sweating bullets I awake in screams
twitchy, violent, sketchy dreams
they hide in darkness
they snicker and strut
the window creeks open
my eyes slowly shut

such an old man
I have become
they wear and they tear
like worms on a plum
please stay this night
as the Sun leaves they creep
just take my hand
when I twitch in my sleep

Promise after promise is broken
as she lay dormant for so many years
now we spill her blood once again
fouling the oceans

Her true children weep in silence
then wash upon her shores
in thousands
as we turn the channel

Unpunished and unchanged
the butchers laugh at our apathy
our leaders turn a blind eye
their hands open

God holds her crippled body
and asks for her forgiveness
that he would create such wretched creatures
who lay waste to this gift given them
their own
Mother Earth

moths land on the screen
bathed in the light off the corner beam
they appear to me as men clinging to a prison fence
staring out at possible freedom
only they are staring in
into my asylum
they wonder what it is I do
tapping away for hours
while fixated on this screen
'why does he not free himself
from this prison
and explore the endless beauty that surrounds him'

blackbirds gather just after dawn
in the trees near my asylum
dive bombers
picking off the moths one by one
as they ponder my peculiar passiveness

food for thought

In silent, moving pictures
brilliant flashes of horrific red
shrugs of shoulders when told to stay
turning of heads toward the grassy knoll

in silent, moving pictures
it screams to us
'A ****** hidden in the wood'
vision from the past of this fallen Hero
yet missed this day
and taken away
all but one

the vast universe is within our grasp
galaxies crystal clear, though light years away
yet what is viewed in front of us
we cannot decipher

in silent, moving pictures
the killer is killed
no words are revealed or ever written
those who spoke, forever hushed

in silent, moving pictures
it screams to us
but the screams become faint
and what is known by few
will pass to no-one

there are murmurs, echoes, slightly blurred visions
of words
that wait on the edge of shadows
on the edge of thought
to be picked
like a single rose
hidden in a field of corn

light sneaks in through the blinds
the murmurs are fading
as consciousness enters
my kingdom for a pen

the grass has covered your stone
such a sad thing to be hidden
though just a name
it has rained for several days
and the nights stay warm
others are here
and they too mourn
silently
on bent knee
to tend to theirs

I want to tell them about you
I want them to see your name
once again unveiled
such a sad thing to be hidden
one as beautiful as you
quiet heart
in a loud world

the Sun now hides
as dark clouds open
tears and drops of rain
fall as one
the wind stirs
and I see you in my thoughts
you are not forgotten

curious child
peering from the bedroom door
half open
standing in the shadows
i watched him
he sat in his easy chair
right elbow propped
cigarette placed between index and *******
light from the tv flickering off the walls
smoke snaking its way to the ceiling

my Father
in his sixties then
lost in the vapid juvenility of Hee Haw
my Father
whose poetry i had discovered
tucked away
out of sight
out of mind
this little black book where he kept his soul
waiting
if he ever decided to find himself again
or perhaps to just remind himself

in the early stages of alzheimers
i saw him cry for the first time
wondering aloud
why after struggling for so many years
he was rewarded with a failing mind
and the loss of a friend
a friend left behind in a black book
a friend i never knew

I have come to find this room
my salvation
here I can seperate the two
explore the side that rarely shows
where time does not press it's heavy hands
against my back

you let me know of your presence that first night
when you brushed the dollar bill from the table
as I had asked
you allow my return
I sense that you even welcome me
here in this room where you passed
to make that connection
does it mean that you are not really gone
in spirit?
do you even have that choice?

see the world through my eyes if you wish
walk beside me in the life outside this room
I am here for you my friend

I have been near enough to death
to know it well
its unwavering dispassion
its unflinching reality

as I breathe into her
and hear the sound of empty lungs
it has ripped all the curtains I had sewn
all the false smiles and pat answers
a lifetime of rehearsed dialogue and robotic gestures

I was now naked before myself
and the lies that became me
now face me
and dissolve

Following the release of 'Moving Pictures' in 1981, I saw Rush in concert. I never missed a tour from that point on until they retired in 2015. I took girlfriends, buddies, then my wife and then all 3 of my kids when they were old enough. Neil Peart was to me the greatest drummer of his era as well as one of it's most prolific writers. Never seeking notoriety or acclaim, he remained in the shadows and continued to lead Rush into quiet immortality. Perhaps in death he will attain the accolades he avoided in life. I am devastated to hear of his passing, but happy for him that he will now reunite with his wife and daughter who preceded him. Rest in Peace Neil, and I hope you realized the joy you brought to the millions of fans who knew and will never forget your humility and immense talent. Fans who never met you, but like me, feel they have lost a dear friend.

they search for the innocence in us
the naivety
the untriggered thought
when knowledge now comes in such small increments
as to be insignificant
life falters
you cannot create emotion, elation
sadness
when you have lived long enough
to rise above such mundane,
humane feelings
it is the curse of near perfection
I pity you
searching those empty, dark eyes
I sense how you long to be
human
again

I leave through my mind's eye
I see you in the distance
along the shoreline
on these islands that you described
in our dreams
where do our thoughts meet
when will our souls touch
I see you here
night after night
before the intrusion of waking life
but you are always walking away
towards a blur
the end of my dream
then you turn for just a moment
and cover your eyes from the Sun
I am pulled away
my calls taken by the Sea

Exceeding the passion of these most love torn dreamers
he languishes in the glow of his millionth Sunset
then vanquishes the dreams of his millionth soul
a paradox
lover of night
taker of life
Nosferatu
walks silent and alone
living not by minutes, days or years
the pros and cons
of never-ending life on earth
the ecstasy and the terror of immortality
to never die
to never love
for to love a mortal
is to watch her succumb to the ravages of time
and human time
is but a blink
she curls into a quiet sleep
and dreams of Sunrise
he kisses her upon the cheek
and cries to the moon

it is truly sobering
what life has to offer
once one begins to listen
begins to search
begins to accept
what our senses are telling us
it is there for us to explore
and oh
how I have explored these last few years

when the doubts have subsided
we can enter this illuminating world
we can touch the other side
hear the voices of the past that are not chained by time
observe those that observe us from afar

this is the life I have come to know
phenomenon within my grasp
the unbridled certainty
the crystalline clarity
the cleansing freedom that comes with the knowledge
that we are not alone

to be alone
so rare these days
electric faces fill the haze
these empty hours bring 'lovers lost' scars
I need a night beneath the stars
so the night owl hoots to the whispering breeze
which kisses the river and pierces the trees
before I succumb to the calling of sleep
an eerie laughter did seem to leap
from the gusting wind and the chilling night
it enters my soul and takes its bite
was mankind's howl that filled the air
that turned my solace to stark despair
a silent scream as skyward eyes fill
with the land man has *****
the mystery he has killed
my soul cries as I view it
our tracks have cut its face
this sacred Sunlit oasis
no longer frozen
in time and space

I hear her name
and a piece of my soul breaks away
and drifts into oblivion

I recall her face
and a twinge in my heart
sinks deep and takes root

I feel the one kiss
that sustained me as water
to a dying plant

Time can be cruel
it never forgets
true love

malignant soul
racing through life with eyes fixed
not on the stars
but on these satellites you wish to destroy
system crawler
captain of the drones
your walls hide you no more
for I
survivor of the phase
occupier of the after
thinker
now multiply
and we
see
you

I was feeling pretty good after a few ***** tonics,
to the point where I felt comfortable enough to converse
with this vaguely familiar, lovely lady sitting next to me at the bar.
I leaned over and quite brazenly asked;
" Do you like ghost stories?"
" I happen to love ghost stories" she replied.
I began by telling her about the ghost that tried to suffocate me
by burying my face in a pillow at exactly 3 am
the night after I saw my name appear in large black letters
on the television screen while watching a movie.
She ordered a double and asked me to continue.
I told her about the lady I work with who advised me to answer the phone
because it might be my Mother, knowing all the while that my Mother
was deceased.
Well, the lady on the phone just happened to have the same last name
as my Mother's maiden name; Joy. Not Smith or Jones...Joy.
Her husband's name was Edwin which just happened to be my Dad's name.
Then I told her about the time my sisters and I were visiting the grave site of my parents.
We were in the wrong area and searching when I stumbled across a section of headstones with the family last name but no relation as far as we could tell.
There she lay....Mary E. Owens...deceased 1951, the same year and day my sister; Mary E. Owens was born.
I must say she was a bit startled when she came over to have a look.
"Shall I continue?" I asked.
Without hesitation the pretty lady replied; "By all means, continue."
"Okay, this is the kicker. I attended a VanGogh exhibit a few years ago.
I was compelled it seems by unknown forces to his work,
but had never viewed it in person.
On the day of the final viewing I knew I had to go.
I was sick with fever from an active kidney stone
but decided to take the trip downtown by subway.
When I arrived there was a very long line. Tickets were free, but limited.
A man approached me trying to scalp tickets he had obtained.
I declined, placing my faith in destiny.
I got my ticket as did 3 or 4 people behind me and that was it.
Hundreds were turned away.
The viewing of VanGogh's work was a moving experience.
I was exhausted by the end and my fever had risen.
It was all I could do to remain standing.
While I viewed the final piece of the exhibit; 'Wheatfields Under Threatening skies',
someone spoke to me from just behind my right shoulder.
" I want to thank you for coming my good man. It means a great deal to me."
I turned to answer, but before I could reply I was stunned to see that the likeness
between this man and VanGogh himself was astounding.
I turned to look at a self portrait on a wall nearby and back to the gentleman again but he was gone.
Hallucination due to my fever...perhaps, but I'll never believe that.
"That is quite the story and you are quite the storyteller.
Now it is my turn to tell you a story before I go.
Do you see that lady in the mirror next to you?
The one captivated by your lust for life?
Look real hard, then slowly close your eyes and slowly open them again."
When I did, she was gone, but in a brief instant it was as if the entire room went quiet
and I heard a whisper that echoed as if it were inside a church,
"I loved posing for you, Vincent."

Author's note: This is a 'Ghost Story' I wrote which is a bit unusual in that it contains actual events wrapped in a ficticiuos setting (the bar). I wrote an article for the on-line publication; 'Wordcatalystmagazine' detailing my run-in with the ghost at 3 am. It's called 'Ghost Story' and it's in the Dec.2007 issue.

a whispered cry
a strained goodbye
vision from a crooked eye
once pure as Sunset
on mountains high
no longer seeks
the moonlit sky
a love now bleached
in wistful sighs
and unsure whys
the foggy mist
of my decline

here's one for life's pocket folder
we're not getting old
we're just getting older

it is cold again
drizzling as he enters his building
clutching the 2 bags of groceries
the 3 year old stares from the upstairs
apartment window
wondering why the old man doesn't
play with him anymore
he re-heats and finishes off the coffee
from last night
throws a tv dinner in the microwave
and watches highlights of the games on youtube
since they dropped the local sports from Sling
he checks his bank balance again online
listens to his favorite ghost stories podcast
then wonders why he hasn't planned for
his burial
or cremation
cheaper to dump my ashes in the Atlantic
he decides
he ponders many things but mainly what the future holds for his kids
he does this almost every night
can't understand why they took the vaccine against his pleas...
to get along? Make things easier? Have that card for the cruises?
1 A.M. and a few hits to help him sleep
a final ****
but will hold off the flush until morning
so as to not wake the older woman upstairs
the ghosts are getting closer these days
they scare the **** out of the neighbor's cat
when he comes to visit
he's off the spirit box since October
when they scared the **** out of him
when he saw one go by and call his name
they know it's coming soon
he just wishes they'd let him leave quietly

Dreary eyed old man dreams of days past
his youth
he looks with a distant sadness through the window
perhaps to a spot where he once played as a child
a spot now made of concrete and steel
perhaps to a tree no longer there
under which he first kissed his lady
his only lady
who left him suddenly so many years ago
perhaps to a field now littered with progress
a field he worked for thirty years
he can almost taste the sweat on his lips
'Oh, to be young again' he thought

'Here's your change, Pops!'
said the purple haired, nose ring clad cashier,
unwittingly
'Perhaps not' the old man muttered to himself
as he shuffled into the Sunlight

and when the last of the shadows climbed into his bucket
the little boy that no-one knew
whispered something to them and carried the bucket to the ocean's edge
he was seen by several setting the bucket in the water as a wave approached
then turning towards the other children along the beach
and motioning them to come
which they did, some 60 or 70 of them
suddenly drawn to this boy that no-one knew
he looked back to the sea
at the crest of the horizon
a dome shaped craft that dwarfed any vessel known to man
emerged from beneath the waves
suddenly hovered silently above the beach
darkening the skies
it was there but a moment
and was gone
when the astonished crowd turned their gaze towards the young boy
he was gone
as was their own
December 22nd, 2112
seventeen minutes and 21 seconds before the Sun died

two moons dance in the light of the Sun
on a distant shore the reflection of one
bounces on waves and laps the clean rock
an oasis unseen, unknown by the flock
they step from the waters
make their way to the beach
from the old world Atlantis
to the new world they reach
removing their headgear
they breath in the night
inhale the silence
rewards of their flight
a thousand plus years from the past
they return
suspended
intended
they are back to
discern
who shall remain to salvage their home
that once was their garden
their Eden
their Rome
like the ancients before
it is time for rebirth
and the few that are spared
shall renew Mother Earth

the moon
once the beautiful loner
giving final nod to lovers
in backs of cars
to consummate their fire

the moon
mystery orb
prayed to and lied to
hearts gravity
the God of all desire

the moon
one small step
size 11 imprint
like red paint smeared across Mona's face

no longer the nod

they have arrived
the little girl in her pretty Sunday dress
and hat with red ribbon
laughs in delight as her new puppy jumps
pretending to nip at her hand
and the parents smile from the park bench
as a breeze whipped in Summer smells
and a far off awakening storm brings a coolness to their skin
the tops of the trees look like waves of blending greens
from above
and the sensing of change awakens the resting birds
they join others in flight to the south
and from a higher view the shadow is seen
like a moving wall
making it's way down the coast
the Sun disappears
mile after mile
inquisitive heads turn to the darkening skies
and one by one discover this is no storm
not shadows cast by clouds
but of something else
they have arrived
and they have sealed off the Sun
twenty eight thousand years would pass
before their return
to claim this prize for themselves
the lifting of the seal
they inspect their new home with anticipation
and fascination
a little one runs past a park bench
two frozen sculptures are huddled together
and two more appear to be playing
in timeless wonder
the little one turns to it's elders
hoping to gain approval
to pick up the pretty hat with red ribbon

it is only a poem to her I say
this young child's query who exhibits dismay
but daddy it's so sad
I don't like it this way
let me fix it to make you smile
to make you happy for just a while
you'll like it better
you'll like my style
I'll change dark to light and shadows to Sun
it will be much better by the time I'm done
you'll see daddy
I'll make it fun
you can read it when you're all alone
when the Sun has gone
and I have grown
then call me on the telephone
to tell me you love me
and I'll say
it's only a poem daddy