When I reach for free time
as an adult,
and quickly find it taken,

I remember that ambrosia
is only for the gods,
and mortals beware,

do not interfere
in anything
made for the gods.

The start of anything new
often goes askew
in at least a way or two,
but don’t worry,
just be you,
and don’t write a lie
or try to pry
the words in the slightest.
They always know the best.

I’d like to find the words
to cut right through the muck,
but when it comes to you
you know that I’m just stuck,

I ready up the blades
and soap clean my hands,
to work toward the heart
no matter where it lands—

All the things—
We said—
Will forever be dead—

But I’ll hold on—
Instead—
You’ll always live inside my head.

My eyes stare at words
like vege and meat
on a cutting board,
cutting each to meaning
                               sound
                            meter,
sentences and syllables,
my OCD mind refuses to stop
revving the gas pedal
on my 1991 Buick LaSabre
before doing donuts in the parking lot
of a shut down K-Mart.

I wake up to nothing
       but chirping birds
            and the drip of coffee
                   pouring down,
            and wonder how I feel
       about it all—
             and find it refreshing
       to know I see it
            like a fairy fountain,
       standing tall—
calling me to slip on shoes
    and even walk on air
         if that’s what I choose.

I had an idea
  Of what to write
                          say
                        recor­d
But got lost
like a rabbit who took
the wrong turn at Albuquerque—
and so I’m lost for words,
but here I am.

A love poem plays words
on piano wire,
hitting notes
while the writer scribbles the keys,
scratching out
their feelings
to songs like Drops Of Jupiter.

When I met her
the flowers gave me my lines,
my world rippled new colors,
and words called to me
from the sun, moon, and stars.

Last night, I heard the cats fighting,
raising their voices like they were singing
the crescendo of Shoot To Thrill by ACDC,
their voices scratchy
as the band’s lead singer—
and when I woke in the morning,
the next room had cat fur and shed claws,
holding true to their heavy metal nature,
they trashed the place
like only a band could.

There was a god
who fell asleep
upon a grassy field.

He dreamt of peace
and of war
on far, long, and stormy shores.

He’s still dreaming,
even now—
as men beat swords from their ploughs.

And he still sleeps,
not even a stir,
all of us just thoughts inside his head.

Put down the phone—
put down the keyboard,
       and go to them.

They might never see
                why,
or know why

but bring them roses
even though stereotypical,
bring them chocolates
because the world is bitter,

sing a tune
that the media feeds
will never understand.

My nights
float between sleep
and
sounds around me—
my mind drifting
to the shores of rest
and the isles of wakefulness
until I open my eyes
only to wish them
closed again.

Have you felt as I have,
one voice crying loud
in the crackling static?
Unheard as one
closer to the voice of none.
Let’s not forget
it’s not just I,
it’s us here, together,
and anyone else who
is willing to be bad
to do some good,
to say you do have a voice,
you will be heard,
beyond the lies
that tell us
not to scream our battle cries.
If you’re new,
or if you’re old,
a kid with a pen
barely four years old,
face it all with spirit and might—
you are not alone in your fight,
you are not alone in your fight!

They told me to listen
because they’d already learned
enough from books to know

as they burned my soul
in their book burning glow.

Crystal gusts whistle—
fox paws print icy gravel
by evergreen pines

When things happen
that shake us to our core
                time stops
             we age—
         we grow stagnant

cardinals become caged mid-flap
in a world of stillness,
though the heat of summer climbs
the stove dials,

and though we try to push
                                         pull
                                       tug
                                         pry
                            the hands
                 of the clock,
  we are frozen as arctic glaciers
       in the moment of our undoing.