A tired wood surrounds the town I live in
and
if I could,
I'd wander for a while where the giants stood,
in the shade of their descendants,
small, if you recall how trees used to be,
yet their abundance hides you from me.
And the moon turned shy.
Between the places here and there you're waiting,
so am I.
If it should happen that we come across each other,
laugh away our worries and our scars,
the canopy above us would surrender,
and we could stay the night beneath the stars.

I sure hate haikus
Less complex than they appear
Wow they really ****.

Let some seconds flee,
and I'll bring you to smile.
Let some minutes pass,
and I'll make you laugh.
Let some hours vanish,
and I'll tell you a story.
Let some days disappear,
and I'll draw out your sorrow,
Let them leave together,
and I'll give you a lifetime.

If I'm not deep then
I'm not special;
how can I be
if I but skim the surface of the sea?
Wrong, so wrong,
for how can you be special if
you're too deep for them to see,
they who you're scared to be?
This is hardly poetry,
so I'll rhyme to make it so,
hopefully.

Somehow soon I hope to pass
into the ever-changing state,
of drifting off to solemn dreams
with which no other can relate.
This threshold lasts but for a day,
neither before, nor in the end,
at least for me, this serene peace
should be where God pretends.
Here, can He think and ponder on
about that which does not exist,
where all will feel the unique touch
that is the Reaper's kiss.
The quiet calm that does descend
before the day is gone,
attracts me back through use of force
and a silent song.

I live with iron, lead, and steel
in the house you built for me,
in the country.
A rusty door keeps the wind out;
it creaks, but it's not often I need hear it.
Inside, resting by the window,
I listen to the rain sing pitter-patter on a tin roof,
and ask aloud; "What will grow, anyways?
It could rain for days and dry soil would stay so."
A few weeds once speckled the front yard,
but they withered when you left;
not from thirst, but because they needed you.
Specks of silver could be found in your footsteps,
and a light spinning at your center
radiated warmth on chillier nights.
Still, you were but the kindling for my forge.

Unusual I think, a hero, sinner, saint,
betwixt a commoner and his tomorrow ever faint.
Alone outside, the breath of death will fog his window pane,
the three between, I'll call them we, can't see beyond the rain.
Though now for fun, the normal one,
unfairly cast aside by I,
he yells like he escaped from Hell
and now we are alive as five.
But still another waits outside.
He starts to scratch the glass
where the six of us reside.

Maybe, challenge  that   shadows   but    are    words  and
maybe  you       sincerely.      it     in    believe   pride,  seems,
just       to          merely    the    discover   so       their       it
once    see          in         meaning  inside.   hide   in         as
you     clearly.   circles    my      message  will    breathe  solemn
will     love    extremes   dearly,     so         you     can        forever,
find     me           in           my        dreams,  where  reality  rests

I wander through the mist,
the heavy air by sunlight kissed,
yet now too late to dissipate,
crushing, unrelenting weight,
maybe we can coexist.
The sodden earth beneath me lay
trodden normally on by day,
though now was overcast by gray,
the fog that did persist,
the bog would not decay,
I wished that I could stay.
But then ahead appeared a light,
to my dismay, far out of sight,
how could it be, as dark as night
I thought it was today.
A slimy serpent crossed my path,
and with a smile, hissed,
humbled by its vile wrath,
I wander through the mist.

Arrogant we are
each night, and night again,
to look upon a sea of stars
where not a soul has been,
and still believe if we were gone
the moon would cease to yawn;
no one would remember
that it's slumber brought the dawn.
The wind that whispers in our ear,
echoing the Earth,
in a way intends to say
"Recall who gave you birth,
for although you grow in number,
you really needn't fear,
I'm not as frail or fragile as I apparently appear."
And then She sheds a solemn tear,
which we mistake for blood,
when in reality
She's seen many a flood.
Though I suppose it could be sweat,
as such a weight we are to bear,
burdensome, like morning dew
is to mountain air.
We silly children never care
to overestimate our Mother,
foolish as we ever are
to think She won't recover,
yet should She decide to turn aside,
weary of our humble pride,
naught would stand between us
and Her fires gold and waters wide.

What if the voice inside your head
that tells you when you are at fault,
is not your own, not yours at all,
for why would someone self-assault?
What if the words that ramble on
about that which you should amend,
really are the voice of God,
that which one couldn't comprehend?

Silly fool sits astride a flame for two,
and forgives those who hasten to perspire,
and although a shame, a kindle tame,
the urge to feel desire,
it can't be much to look at
when you're standing in a fire.

If you are here
and I am there,
neither one of which is fair
to the other,
and another thing I swear,
the space between us
leaves no room to spare,
nor to uncover.

The little ants they march along,
in neat thin lines they heed no foe,
they march without a gallant song,
well of course, they're ants, you know?
The bird swoops in and spies a meal,
moves in, scoops up, moves out,
the kid behind the victim feels a gap,
fills it, no doubt.
The late ant crushed into a dream
has made no anthill poor,
he's not remembered by his queen,
she has a thousand more.
The kid who filled the empty space
did dare to look around,
he saw his mindless, friendless race
that lived without a sound.
The child was a little one,
his feelers still not grown,
he hadn't lost his will to think
yet kept this truth unknown.
But then he saw his army's course,
a bird that blocked their path,
so he broke free without remorse
and found a looking glass.
While his peers were all consumed at once
by the fattened, frenzied foe,
the little one was burned alive
by a beast in child's robes.
So in the end the story's sad,
the hero conquered none,
and his brothers too are also ******
so now this story's done.

Just press rewind and then you'll find
the story of a man,
a man who soon would find the moon
naked, who gives a ****.
A bullet flew and nicked a rod,
the opal curtain fell,
the little girl with luscious lips
told him, don't kiss and tell.
He blew straight down and snuffed it out
(well them, 'twere sixty-three),
he waved goodbye
his wife just cried,
they watched their daughter leave.
He held her tight in dress so white
and said "I do" with glee,
as he hoped for the right word
while he was on one knee.
He cried and sighed and wished to die,
the mother could not mourn,
the father smiled with delight,
his baby boy was born.
Nobody knows what happens next,
the question's only when,
I'm sure you'll figure out the rest
(hint, it begins again).

Stepping softly up some stairs
wary of a world awake,
the wistful crowd waits.
They hope to hear their fate,
the sound of steps they take.

There once was a girl named Sue,
who wept that nobody knew,
that her ghost was a bride
and her tear brought the tide
so now it is Sue who is idle.

The fire lit by passion
subdues the weary heart
into believing its existence has an end but not a start;
the heart develops fear,
that which seeks to blame
an unintended future where a tear can drown the flame

Silent, old, and violet night,
speckled carelessly with light
by someone who had lost their sight
before they lost their way.
And so they wander on today,
traversing endless space,
little fires lit by grace
guide them through the fray.

What will I think of today,
was the same thing I thought yesterday,
as bored as I was with the daily bees' buzz,
it seemed like they would fly away.
Alas, they are destined to stay,
and though from their fellows they borrow,
the pollen they plunder
again makes me wonder,
what will I think of tomorrow?

An arc is naught but
a curious sphere
who was bored of perfection
and cut itself clear,
of the undoubtedly beautiful, bountiful curves,
which made it so perfect,
which nothing deserves.

To dare the glass to shatter,
who knows how deep it goes,
as every semi-shuffle puts more pressure on your toes,
through the arid air echoes an unforgiving crack,
and another small step forward lumps more weight upon your back.
But why break there instead of here,
perhaps I have a faulty ear,
I shouldn't have a thing to fear
unless it's an attack.
And then, you were there,
across the still malicious air,
though for me you didn't care,
as the ground beneath you lacked
sufficient ice to stay intact.
So again I take a toddler's footstep
towards the other side
of this never-ending landscape,
though in you I can confide
I doubt that we will ever share a second fireside,
so I bid you burn it brighter
and ignore the day I lied
about the other sound at sea,
not as benign the second time, as now it's under me.