I’ll be...
Your scarecrow?
Soft touch.
Something that is...
Unknown,
Forbidden,
Joyous,
Whispered prayer.
Kept silent, still,
In what mind
Might be left.

Green eyes, worn
Like sea glass left behind.
Unsure, impure, so full of faults.
The pull irresistible
Wave after wave of sagacity.
I won’t falter,
But, gladly, I’ll drown
In pools, sea glass green.

Shoot down those stars!
Their time of ending has come.
No bitter words,
Or tears shall fall,
From the bright windows of heaven.
For their time of ending has come.
On swift arrow’s wings.

Twisted silver
Aged divine
Horsed gallop
Priests beg
Gold flowers
Grow on
Bronze designs

Sink into the mists weary soul
For such pain does not belong,
To one dark, like midnight coal.
Sing, dear, such a lovely song.
One to call the lost and small
To bring a little light their way.
Hushed lullabies for all.

It's six am and the haze has settled in.
The teakettle dreams of fire,
and I wander the realms of unreality.
My clock dreams of going forward,
and I wish to turn it's gears back.
Alas,
Both their dreams are fulfilled.

Fingers trace gentle circles
moving like ghosts,
on pale skin.  
Just awake enough now,
to feel your lips write poems.  
Whispered down my spine,
as we lay tangled on the bed-
wishing for now to be forever.

I should sleep.
Nestled quietly next to him.
Bundled against that soft breeze.
But I want to be mindful.
Breathe in his lingering scent.
That rests against my skin.

Sleepless nights
Basking in dreams,
Evanescent.

White as the ticking clock face
You struck me. Violent.
Like running seconds dripping away.
Red fell from your lips
and ate my heart.
The numbers framed your face.
All dark ebony,
Dark and sharp enough to cut.

I want to write epic tales
Or little brilliant pieces,
To make a person think.
But the words are slippery,
Plunging. Falling fast from
My grasp, they vanish.
I’m not sure where,
They sometimes return,
And if I’m really lucky
A few moments of furious
Repeating is enough to
Hold them tight and safe,
If only to turn them loose
Onto pages.

I’m burning as I’m freezing.
My whole split.
Healing as I’m burning fierce.
Drowning as I’m being baptized
I’ll fly off into the known
Even as I become mired in the unfamiliar.
But may the Gods help you withstand my wrath.

My bed squeaks, filled
With empty thoughts.
I’d rather it be still,
Then sleep wouldn’t hide,
Scared of all the noise.
Grateful,
It’d bring with it dreams.
Sweet, golden ones
To fill my empty thoughts
With the warmth of you.

Selfish needy human that I am.

My false courage and determination.

Standing among the wreck;

The mess I seemingly created.

Confusion robs my judgment

And I stand lost and alone,

Until the pieces begin to fit.

But I will stand strong and steadfast

As this world tears apart.

“Happiness is a sweet, sticky, toffee–  
Flavored mess.” His words ghosted in my ears.

“And I’m discontent, here in this abbey,
To sit and wait for your unhappy fears.
I’d much rather have peppermint kisses,
Sharp and pricking sweet on your supple tongue.”
My voice: bold, unfazed by his many faces.

His laughter filled the still space and rung,
Alarm bells of impending disaster.
Unsure of the steps, we, unfaltering,
Continued on; trusting in our anger
So we might wake.  

How long were we sleeping?
Forget rose-colored glasses! I wanted
To see us in all our colors faded.

Ravens dance upon highwires.
Flashing pinwheels spinning in their beaks.
The merry-go-round grinds,
Its rusted gears, squealing into the wind.
Book pages whirl and fly off into the sky.
The fox’s cry to the butterfly
Went unheard in this whitewashed night.

I squirm in my seat.
The pricking of my dreams,
Like a long…
Slow…
Lazy drag
of a soft feather along my back.
Tormenting,
And ticklish,
As all those little stinging secrets
Start to come pouring out.

Searing tears,
Rubbing-sore hands,
Pounding drum headache,
Red eyes,
Lips and cheeks inflamed.
The embers burn,
Laying forgotten amongst
Dull gray ashes.
Shimmering smoke
Leaches away tenderness,
And slowly,
Oh so slowly,
Steal my soul as it rises.

I wanted to tell you stories.
Whispered to you in dreams.
Written love letters.
Pressed into your skin.
I fear though that I’m not a great storyteller.
Your kisses seemed to forgive.

Streaks of gray blot out my nothing.
Piano strokes key into the sound,
Key into my mind. Strings me along
With fevered pitches and staggering lows.
Till passed out in color I lie, drowning.

Oh these lack of easily spun words
Sticky caramel masses in the back of my mind.
Stuck, stuck, stuck
Messy to boot
And stuck
To worry it, or stick it back on simmer?

Sweet treat left upon the pavement
A sweltering, bereft mess becoming sticker.
I wish to scoop you up,
Stuff your blue shell back into
Your crinkly wrapper, all done up
In a pale green so dapper.

I got swept away.
This past Tuesday night.
By the sights and smells;
dried leaves dancing about
And that woman,
so in love, that she sighed
Her poetry to the wind

This broken teacup of mine,
Lays on the floor.
Pieces scattered and crushed into the carpet.
A mosaic of pain.
This broken teacup of mine,
Stabs and slices,
As I pick up the shattered porcelain.
White stained red.
This broken teacup of mine,
I can’t put back together.
I remember it fondly from when it was whole
And admire its new beauty
As I wait, patiently.

Perhaps,
What you need
Might be a nice
Strong drink,
Or perhaps a
Tea party for two.
A strange suggestion
To hear; I’m sure,
But the soothing
Cadences of formality
Intermingling
With simmering emotion
Would make for a heady brew.

It’s a word on the tip of the precipice
Teetering and tottering
While I slide backwards away
Muttering sullenly and with bravado
“You can’t make me fall.”

There’s a coil in me.
It likes to wind itself up.
The only thing that eases
This…
Tension…
Is these words dribbling,
Down and out of my mouth.
Babble…
Nonsense…
Not the words I’m trying to use,
Nor the meaning
I’m trying to convey.
I’m…
I’m sorry I’m this way.

The butcher smiled.
Crimson lips mocking,
As she took in the sight
An insignificant spat
Between two men.
In a stunning flash,
The victor stained scarlet stood.
The butcher’s grin became hungry
And she took her first bite
Out of his humanity.
Which was oh so inconsequential.
Since they all belonged to her.

The cicada revealed itself to me.
Gray to the touch,
Streamlining itself into oval curves,
To cooperate with the summer storms.
I listened to the tangy air.
Watched as they organized their flight
And as they disappeared
With their flowery baggage
All while lightning struck the air.

“Oh dear, oh dear”, exclaimed the rabbit
“I’ve appeared to have lost it in this havoc!”
He searched high and low
Near and far, above and below.
It wasn’t until the very last place he looked,
That he found his poetry book.

Shall I fade into the quiet nothingness?
To be lost?
To wander?
To exist in the dark places of your heart?

Shall I have no meaning?
No hope?
No love?
No light to guide my way?

I refuse.

Half remembered clichés dance along the pier.
The divide between,
Sweet salty land and unending depths.
My talking dolphins sing a tune,
Unsettling and threatening.
Feed scraps from the dinner table
by my curly haired gambler.
I only see him at that old dollhouse,
Cracked and weathered by the Sea.
It insists on knocking on our red door
and staying for supper.
So it can beat us at throwing pennies in a cup
Plunk...plunk...plunk

The egg-white mannequin sings, walking down
Pothole-gray sidewalks. To the Met he goes.
What is he looking for? Of course! His toes,
Which have been lost since the lawn-gnome facedown.
It had been Sydney versus Roslyn for
The title, King Crab. And the prize, you ask?
Peppermint wine in a trapezoid flask.
As the battle wore on, they struck a gopher,
Chopped some toes, and played with Play-doh.
The damage caused Google Translator
To speak only Spanish about pink meadows.
Eventually things came to a close.
The victors won with Nike’s bluster.
And off went the mannequin for his toes.

She worked upon their minds,
Using sharply hooked fears
And soft feathered wings,
To whisper insidious desires
Into their hearts and minds.
With the bait laid, rotting in the sun,
They came in droves to feast.
The butcher licked her crimson lips and smiled.

Shift my thoughts.
Bring to close,
Our beginning’s end
And more sappy prose.
No more! No more!

They’re jumbling
And tumbling.
Tripping over themselves to get out
As soon as that clock hits 3 am.
If they don’t they paint vivid mindscapes
That vanish with the sun.
If they make it,
Well they can assault the senses of those,
Now too few, that read.

I find myself wanting to cause you pain.
Every time that feeling rises up,
My scouring stick packs it down tight.
I can’t, after all lash out.
It’s the high road or nothing,
If only to prove I’m better then you.
But eventually after they’re aimed true,
The cry for “All cannons open fire!” will ring out.
And I will bring thunder down upon you.

Gripping tight
This failure to scream and let go.
Condensed nightmares,
HA! Just add the water
Drop by drop.
Stab the knife in to cut
The top right off.
Velvet gloves prickle and tear.
While pearls of ice
Fill my heated self.
Tears? To salty for the soup,
And anger too ripe.
Love just enough to hold on
To my insane sanity.
Though it might crack
Being trapped behind
This broken glass.

I gave up somewhere along this road—
When it was I don’t know.
So I’ll sit here, underneath the shade
And wait for the Tin man,
Now rusted in time, far behind me.
I discovered, sitting there, that day—
That losing a heart
Was actually an easy thing to do.

To dance?
The oncoming storm,
All breezy bluster and
Quicksilver lightening.
You dance in my mind
All silken whispers
And subtle grace
You dance.

Games played at train stations
As we all just slide by
Our weathered eyes
Begin to crack.
We’ve dried up.
Become husks
As we drown in lassitude
“To the End!” we cried!

When I said that I was trying,
What I really should have said
Was that I had been stuck.
Mud, muck, mired, and miserable.

What I should have said
Was that I began to claw my way out.
Slipping, sliding, slowly, steady.

What I should have said
Was that home had been in sight
Welcoming, warm, whimsical.

When I said that I was trying,
What I should have said
Was that I had made it back
Only to find I had been gone for too long.

Everything shut up tight,
Boarded over and cold.
I’m sorry I was too late,
Is what I really should have said.

Dreams

Distorted

Jointed

Cruel

Pleasurable

In the

Extreme

Perhaps 2 am is more a siren’s song.
It softly calls to bed
Or maybe urges
For one more look,
Chapter, song, show.

And you’re here now
To wash away my fears.
No black angel,
Merely a human sacred.

No bells or prophecy
To claim your arrival.
Just one wish,
Spoken to the night’s sky

Paid in silent agony
Our tears heal.
The rainbow unbroken,
Our journeys begun.

The first footsteps were quiet, love
Like the whispered touch of snow upon the ground.
The day was gray, but the colors true.
It’s a shame that the violets never bloomed.

We bared our teeth.
Tight, mocking grins.
Your expectations ours to devour.

We hunt and haunt
These distorted roads.
We wait, timeless, to consume or free you.

What happened?
To that fragile moment we held tight in our heats?
Red glorious ribbons of Fate.
The quiet comfort of long nights
Pulled apart, worn by age,
In which we talked.
They lie dirtied on the ground.
Till Dawn whispered to the stars,
As they left, her tears washed it all away.

Stained ink to bring wanting. With concave, lights twisting

notes. Fingertips in unreal closet. Lights with mildew out

nothing. Pure broken tapping closets to ink fingertips.

I race against my heart’s beat.
There’s a wild call hanging in the still air,
A call of longing slips, escapes from my throat.
An answer to a thwarted hunt.
The Dreamer a delusion.
The Trickster a fool.
The Philosopher a liar.
The Musician a bane.
And yet I hope – struggle.
The hunt will be successful