I painted irises
in watercolor whispers
seduced by a new season,
violet pastels of autumn blushing
tall within the burnt orange,
sprinkled in falling leaves
amidst the scent of
juniper and pine
as I dream of your eyes,
mahogany blossoms
inspiring soft feathered brushstrokes,
for absolute beauty
always does that
to me

.

I play my guitar,
now crying in sevens
a cold vacant morning
with rain on the ground

Sorrowful chords,
on the strings of emotion
in three quarter tear drops
where sadness is bound

                                   And the storm clouds they form
                                   on the edge of tomorrow
                                   with thoughts ever yearning
                                   for your melodies

                                  dreaming of yesterdays
                                  caught in the feedback,
                                  out of tune longings
                                  in lost harmonies

Breathing in silence
of fret seperations
seeking a songlist
of lyrics unfound  

A chill strums my heart,
sitting empty and hollow
I play my guitar
and there isn’t a sound

.

I picked up my pen

to create the most beautiful
and alluring love inspired work of art

anyone had ever dreamed of
and like I always do,

I thought of you

and once again remembered  . . .  
it had already been accomplished

I put down my pen

.

I remember that old electric guitar,
no name brand, a Fender knockoff,
stripped and painted
to look like an American flag
because Peter Fonda made it cool

That Silvertone amp, volume cranked
reverb, two inputs, tubes, bass, treble,
when Sears was the place where
music dreams came alive
because Dad had a credit card

Out in my parent’s garage,
Skippy on drums and John on bass
Wearing shades in the dark like John Kay
A tape recorder mike hanging from the ceiling
Playing “The Pusher” at all hours

Until the neighbors called my mom
and we had to shut the door
or turn it down, we shut the door
Black light posters, an old couch,
power saws and Christmas decorations

We were gonna be stars, rock stars
Chicks would dig us and guys would envy us
Our hair down to our shoulders
Incense to hide certain smells
Bad *** wasn’t even a term yet, but we were

Patch covered jeans, zig zag
and faded denim jackets,
peace signs and headbands,
Santana and Arlo, “Alice’s Restaurant”
Nothing could stop us

I remember that old electric guitar,
the guys are gone now, not dead, just gone
I can still hear Alvin Lee rocking “I’m coming home”
But somewhere along the line I got old (grew up)
when I wasn’t paying attention I guess

I still wear my hair a little long, a little
and I have nice collection of guitars
But that “Rock Star” dream faded long ago
Now I carry a different instrument,
I carry a pen...

and it’s a name brand pen

'

*I see the sky
through barren branches,
twisted and bent,
grasping at clouds,
naked in the light,
swaying overhead
on winter’s chilled breath

Below me
in the slumbering earth
deep roots
hold on to the soil
beyond yesterday’s footprints,
burrowing for life, stability,
far from peering eyes

Running my hands
across the coarse bark,
craggy imprints
sculpt memories
of bygone seasons
when saplings dreamed,
when I dreamed

As I gaze upward
following the patterns,
crooked lines,
knotted intersections
all with their own purpose,
each a piece of the whole,
embracing the elements

I realize that life
must have a meaning
whether reaching or searching
and though I feel alone,
desolate within my own forest,
I now know that
the sky sees me too

.

Spun in a windstorm of caustic insisting
Plastered like mud on the walls of Pompeii
Frescos of joy before charcoal was misting
Writing in ash, catastrophic display

Poetic spittle once cast to the broken
Scribbled in diction now smeared in the rain
So many follow yet nothing is spoken
Below these skies with the cherry red stain

There in the distance a magpie is flying
Scavenging wings while you shout from the ground
Above a truth midst the unending lying
Circling nightmares of places you’re bound

Can it be art if it’s not as remembered
Past of the days when you ****** in the snow
Spelling your name as your mother was watching
Turning in shame as if she didn’t know

Damning Picasso for changing direction
How can a nose sit so far from the face
*******’s spilled paint way beyond your detection
Charging a gallery, demanding your space

Photo laced albums of cellophane pages
Developed by hand in a room with no light
Look at these kids and their digital stages
Feigning creative, it just isn’t right

Does this explain every tactical action
While you count blocks as if streets don’t exist
Pulling a woodpecker’s tail to get traction
Hiding the reason you just can’t resist

You say that art can be all that we’re thinking
Then in the same breath you say it’s not true
Often we wonder if you have been drinking
Make up your mind, it’s the least you can do

You are all artists, yes you who are reading
Writing your words that you put on display
Spilling your heart while emotions are bleeding
It breaks my heart when I hear someone say

It can’t be art, all those losers are dreaming
Seeing and clicking and sending and such
Downloaded images, videos streaming
When the truth is, you are just out of touch

.

It is the little things
that matter most

A nice gesture,
a friendly smile,
a few moments from your day
that can make all of the difference
in one tiny world

There is so much hate,
so much indifference,
so many hurting,
so many in need
so many lonely,
so many in pain

We are all people
just trying to survive,
make our way through
this hectic life

We can all make this a better place
if we try,
it is so easy to be kind,
to be thoughtful
and if only for a few moments,
to bring some happiness
to someone’s life

It is the little things
that matter the most




http://www.msn.com/en-us/sports/ncaafb/fsus-travis-rudolph-made-an-incredible-gesture-to-a-boy-with-auti­sm/ar-AAihtWD?li=BBnb7Kz

The makeup mirror held a frayed frown
I recognized from earlier in the day
brought about by a thin film of reason
spun on needles and thread

Carried off by thimbling fingers
clicking and clacking
(annoying as hell)

Costumes are over-sized and under-cut
Scenery drips like cardboard in the rain
Lights, camera, reaction
is printed in bold lines read aloud

While the director has lunch,
cucumber sandwiches and hot toddies

Shows are cancelled due to fame
when the actor’s favorite color
doesn’t even have a matching fabric
woven into the script

There is never a happy ending
when sadness is sewn into the scenes

.

I’m usually sad when it rains

and as I walk today

all alone

feeling it hit
my shoulders

like so many tear drops

I understand why

.
*I’ve not the time nor moments free
to flail about in wayward flow
Or dance the streets in cobbled glee  
with steps that I no longer know

To walk among the falling leaves
in colors painted autumn past
or sail about the seven seas
from ports o’ call yon ships are cast

Traverse a mountain born of stone
along a pathway’s winding spill
of jagged berth in footprint shown  
I’ve not the strength, nor I the will

To paint a fence of acres far
where cattle graze on sunny fields
or stare upon an evening star
enchanted by the light it yields

For every minute I can find
is spent in endless thoughts of you
To swirl about my focused mind
and every other point of view

To use the ink within my pen
and write the words I’m thinking of
In fine poetic verse I send
my promised and undying love  

So please excuse this horrid mess
as others chose to bother me  
They do not hear what I profess
I’ve not the time nor moments free

.

I walk with a stranger,
hollow eyes,
emotionless expression,
weathered skin in drab clothing,
barely breathing,
stoic footsteps,
trudging forth, endlessly
along an empty road,
shrouded in a mist
of indecision,
detours mislead,
uphill directions strain,
muscles weaken and burn,
yet I follow where he leads
because this stranger I walk with
is me

X

Steel follows steel,
a click clack rhythm in
metronome vibrations lulls nervousness,
counting forgotten miles
in heartbeat pulsations
of desired destinations

Endless tracks hug
winding ways carved through nature
Windows frame new beginnings,
watching mountain peaks
pass by in snow capped splendor
as flashing red lights hold up traffic

Facing forward,
leaving behind what was,
heading north on a one way ticket
to my imagination’s quest,
chasing a dream that hopefully waits
just beyond the next crossing

.

Her smile is always first to me

but it is at the end
of these long, lonely days

when dark clouds
invade her world and her
heart hurts that I think

making her happy is the

last thing I should do

Naive is the poet
who thinks what he's written
will capture her heart
with his melodic song

Yes, he was once good
but it all dissipated
when someone much better
just happened along

Now he cries in the shadows,
his pen falling empty,
conceding defeat
to another so new

While all of his dreams
have been left in a poem,
wishes in verses
that will not come true

Warning: This is a political rant so beware as you read.

.

One hundred and fifty billion
(another 1.3 billion reported today 8/25/16)
and four hundred million…in cash
To an enemy who views women as slaves,
second, no third class (not even sure “citizens” works here)
Makes soldiers of children/babies
Funds terrorist organizations
who’s goal it is to eradicate Israel
and the United States or anyone else
who doesn’t share their beliefs

What is our response?
Blank checks for death and (lives)
and the signers smile,
lie, (it wasn’t a ransom) smile, lie (what emails?), smile
(Oh crap, they found more)
Why am I humming "Lying Eyes" right now (sorry Eagles)
The one in office
and the one who wants to be,
who stands for women’s rights…huh?
(See lines 4 and 5 in the first stanza)
WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE?

Yet all the media can do
is bash someone with a big mouth
Who shouts, points fingers,
makes accusations, demands that laws be obeyed
wants to protect us, is a racist
(because he calls someone of Mexican heritage a…Mexican)  
Wait, what?
Incites passion and feelings in supporters
who are colored (that’s not racist, is it) as crazy,
losers, deranged, cry babies (Phew, at least not soldier babies)
Because they want something different
Something different…so different,……..like the truth?
(That would be different)

When the rich dude is tagged
#The top recruiter for a terrorist organization
Ha, ha, that’s funny, nice one
Let’s all have a nice laugh, there is nothing wrong with that
High fives all around, media parties ensue
But when he brands those two the founders
and co-founders of the same org.
Whoa, shut the front door, wash your mouth out with soap
Sit in the corner, get a psyche evaluation
Who would say such a thing
Only an insane person, only a loonie, (no offense Canada)
What has this world come too?
Check the news, they’ll let you know (their side)

Still there are those who fight
for their rights to place some of those blank checks
in their pockets, SOLD!!! And the gavel comes down
Who owns who? Should anybody own anybody?
China is fine on nice linen where Russia serves the good *****,  
but that is of no special interest to you or me,
that’s what raising Taxes is for…right?
And hell we can build our own babies,
we have the parts and they are paid for...
by those “T” things I mentioned a few lines above  

Reminds me of another song, let me see,
"Four dead in Ohio" yeah, that's it, CSN &Y;
but it's not, is it?  Something like...
"Four dead in Benghazi" Now there's a song for her,
Dead soldiers and someone's calling
when she's asleep all alone
**** it, one of you answer that thing,
It's the ambassador on the phone...(again)
Just say it's a video,
just say it's a video,
four dead in...
CAN'T HE SEE I'M SLEEPING?

Oh and we all need a firm, sturdy,
corrupt (did I say that out loud?)
foundation to administer favors,
show preferential treatment,
to stand on to count the profits
from the pay to play scheme
Who cares if it is foriegn,
that stuff works just as good a U.S. cash
and besides we need all we can get,
we've got Bill's (women) to pay, and maybe to build those
5 houses in Haiti, maybe...and don't forget
the yoga classes and wedding arrangements,
that stuff ain't cheap
Oh, did I mention that some of the countries paying for
this stuff treat women like crap? Just checking.

Parading around in a stained blue dress,
(no, no, no, that was that other chick)
promising what, where, when, HOW?
"Promising" huh...what's that?
(I always thought it was something you should keep)
Hand outs, free lunches
(but I thought there was no such thing as a free, oh never mind)
That must be it, it must be,
because I can think of no other reason
to support terrorism, to support the lies
and the smiles (and you know I am a smile guy)

Wake up people, (including politicians in the same party)
quit hitting the snooze button over and over and over,
open your eyes, see the light while you still can
For the people, by the people,
Now there’s a novel idea, what a concept
But what am I thinking…I am the enemy,
I am a member of the…middle class,
I should just learn to keep my big mouth shut…YAWN

"Put that in your basket of deplorables and smoke it"

(I was going to send this in an email, but it got deleted with all of the rest of them)  

**My name is Stephan and I approve this poem

.

Thick walls
encase me,
stationary disbelief
fogs my intentions,
straight line
foundations rise,
no windows
or doors to un-bar,
rafters feature ropes
hung in shameless
attempts
to persuade
escape, which
is not likely
because this prison
is self imposed,
and I am
the warden
as well as
the inmate
and no one
gets out
of here
alive

Always in my dreams
does this endless fashion flow
When lilies on a water line
bloom in soft colors and ivory whispers
Pushing waves to the shoreline,
where your beauty rests on the warm sand

Caressed by a summer breeze, wispy and cool,
my mind wanders to this place,
beyond the reach of sound
and melodic glances,
singing of this that I feel

Lyrics follow your foot prints,
along the border of desire and hazelnut eyes
painted upon my mind in flavors so intoxicating
As if I have touched you, your skin, like saffron wings
lifting me to an unspoiled solitude

I imagine kissing you, tenderly, for the first time
suspended from a cloud
as my feet refuse to find the earth,
in sight of passion’s grip, wound by silken web
as I melt deeply into your lips

A sensual coast binds us, take us
to enchanting vistas beyond weathered dunes
where we become one, lost within the depths,
pulled by ecstasy’s undertow, drowned in breathless sighs
and salt water moans echoing
along a blushing horizon
    
Fingers entwined, blurred visions become fog
as only two claim this stretch
of beach as our own
Silhouettes among the crowds of peach and burgundy umbrellas,
tending their towels and tan lines,
oblivious to this love I’ve dreamt awake from miles away

My heart exhales as
sandcastles flee the coming tide and
seashells recall lullabies while
shaded by a setting sun’s drizzling heated plumes
vibrantly along the line that steals your eyes
and I fade, slowly back to where I am,
hoping my dreams are your dreams too

Someone playing a concrete violin
with a jackhammer
on a midnight sidewalk,
street lights gawk,
flickering fascination,
tuning keys locked,
rosin swipes declined

chalks marks hold hop scotch trinkets
tossed into the numbered squares,
pawned now for a glass of chardonnay
and a plate of cheese

Paneled walls ache
of yesterday’s smoke rings,
scentless air fresheners,
hanging Christmas trees
presumed innocent,
only here for the music
and rear view mirrors

lipstick traces on a folded napkin
crimson half circles
prints on either side
someone will be kissed tonight

I’ll take it with me
I love the flavor

.

He sat across the table behind a crystal ball,
wearing a weird hat that looked like the roof
of the Taj Mahal, dark rhinestone encrusted glasses
and a colorful suit straight off of the
Sgt. Pepper album cover
The patchouli incense was a nice touch but
not necessary, at least for me

“What do you see in my future?” I asked
He thought for a moment
then hummed some strange melody,
(I think it was a Taylor Swift song)
before saying, “I can not see your future,
I can only see what will happen ahead.
Your future is behind you now,
it is out of my hands.”

“I don’t understand?” I questioned
thinking to myself I have definitely
been ripped off this time, twenty bucks
down the drain
“How could you let her go?” he queried
staring intently into the glass orb
“She was your future, your everything.
She made you what you were,
brought out the best in you
and you let her go, you gave up your future.”

That hurt…it hit me hard as I felt
tears well up in my eyes at the thought of her,
of us and then my sadness became anger
as I shouted at him, “What gives you the right
to say these things to me?”
With that he removed his hat and glasses
and I felt a wave of anxiety grip me.
“Because I am you,” he said staring at me now
and not that ****** ball

A lump the size of Everest grew in my throat,
it was me, he was me
as I nervously asked, “Is there any hope for happiness
in what will happen ahead then?”
Staring at myself I waited for the answer
which I already knew…then we spoke in unison,
“No, there is not.”

.

Love took its good old sweet time finding me
It’s not like I was hiding,
disguised as some overbearing second helping,
lollygagging behind picket signs and leftover *** roast
I thought I was okay, not a bad catch,
I’m sure one many would have tossed back,
but not all of them…right?

But days passed, calendar pages torn and shredded
One after the other, odd numbers, even numbers,
hell even holidays, ripped from their colorful covers
showing a quaint covered bridge in Vermont
or a beautiful ocean scene on the west coast
and still I sat alone, ready to give up

Then…well, you have read my poetry,
at least I think you have, some of you did right?
So (if you did) you know what happened next
and it is wonderful, still hard to believe,
this feeling of total happiness is new to me
It felt weird at first, why was I smiling so much,
what’s with the butterflies in my stomach,
why the hell could I not wait to get out of bed every day
I must be dreaming (you know me, I’m always dreaming)

But it is real and I feel alive,
like life matters, everything matters,
the sun is brighter, the skies are bluer
No longer the small fish in the big pond
just hoping for a mosquito to land on the surface
or searching for a lily pad to escape the light,
now I swim excitedly every day into her arms

Love took its good old sweet time finding me
and I am glad I waited

you know what they say,
the lower the case,
the easier it is
to reach the beer

.
Another smirking moon,
I haven’t slept for two days
Thoughts of her, of us,
dreams I used to have,
visions of happiness
now faded nightmare images,
swirling in my head,
congesting my brain
I try, I pretend, I wrap my arms
around my pillow,
it's not the same,
not even ******* close
Rapid (open) eye movements
Tear stained cheeks,
(I can't stop crying)
wet sheets
"not the good kind",
tossing and turning,
kicking off the covers,
pulling them back,
missing her smile, her laugh, her
I stare at nothing,
bloodshot eyes reflecting
red LED numbers
blurred beyond midnight,
ticking slowly,
minute after minute after
minute of loneliness
Then, here it comes,
another worthless sunrise
Maybe someday
she’ll come back to me,
maybe someday
she'll love me again,
maybe someday
I’ll get some sleep

.

Left alone, the abyss of failure
closes in,
for days it seems like weeks,
though months are now reduced to counted minutes

Coffin’d stances form the stoic barricade
which surrounds my hope
in picket lines of untrained defectors

I claw at its lid,
thrashing mightily to my sides
as collections of miseries
flood this chamber of my coerced sleep

“I am here!” I shout,
hearing my words
echo in distance dance halls
two stepping on my memory,
spitting above where I lie

Here - a relevant term
as columns of disbelief carve themselves
from my mind.

Forgotten, left for dead,
erased from the blackboard
by the firm swishing hand of fate…
reduced to dust (I don’t feel like dust)

Blisters climb my arms in search of answers,
none can be found here,
where ever the hell here is… yet, I am here

My brain circles the skyline in desperation,
the gutters below cry, trash strewn as if it were me
sleeping off my drunk
in that Frigidaire box

“I am me!” I cry to the empty corridors of someone else’s life
One I’d rather be
Or one who would rather not?

…….

Someday my file may lie open,
atop a desk,
a partitioned sanctuary of hidden ethics,
beneath the crumpled Cheeto’s bag,
now layered with stale orange crumbs

maybe someone will see

maybe someone will wonder

or maybe still forgotten

.

He sits on a hill
crying tears of rejection
Searching for love
but to chase it away

Calling the clouds
hanging low in the heavens
Blind to the light
in its abstract display

There all alone
hearing voices on breezes
Swears it is him
they are talking about

Recording echoes
on pages of reasons
Counting each one
on his fingers of doubt

Feeling the sweat
as it drips past his hairline
Filling the cracks
that have formed on his skin

Drowning the dreams
of the flooded temptations
Closing his eyes
just to try once again

Falling apart,
tiny pieces now crumble
Pebbles of life
cast to reaches below

Back to the earth
if the soil will have him
Maybe this time
something better will grow

...

I read the news today, oh my
Koo, koo, kachoo
The fox in is charge of the hen house
Gates are secure but the creature is inside
Feathers fly in helter skelter patterns
“You’ve got to crack a few eggs” is heard
as those who hear, scramble
seeking the sunnyside

A dozen or so duck the falling shells,
raining down from straw filled verses,
bland but obviously first in the pecking order,
hoping it all would be over…easy

While down on Broadway a church mouse sings off key
"Grabbed my coat and grabbed my hat,
ate the cheese in seconds flat,"
to a blindfolded audience
waiting to applaud till the curtain goes down,
so not to be seen greeting late arrivals
with luggage and tickets
hoping the next show is not sold out
for this standing room only presentation

Fortunately three, maybe four seats still remain unoccupied
as stale popcorn and sticky floors beckon them to
crushed velvet seating with
back pocket indentations left behind

The lights go down and the band strikes up
a rousing intro to what should be a good show,
at least that’s what the reviews said,
5 stars, Brilliantly directed, The best choice
for your daily intake of culture…

When a tuxedo with a smile
makes its way to center stage
and begins reading backwards,
“I buried Paul”

Boos rang out from the crowd.
“We came here for poetry!” was shouted in unison
But it just kept on, “Number 9, number 9, number 9”
The audience ran for the exit doors (stage left)
and as they hit the streets looking for something better,
“Turn me on dead man” echoed after them

Meanwhile, back at the chicken coop…