Don’t act on
What you have heard
Until you have listened
Carefully

There once was a man who quickly became loved
And treasured in this land
He seemed to have it all looks, brains, and women
All in the palm of his hand

No matter what he did he achieved
Blessings seemed to over flow
But from where he came and what was his game
Not a soul seemed to know

He helped the towns to prosper
Gave to charities and was adored
He quickly climbed the social and political ladders
So it didn't seem to matter where he had been before

Until that one day where everything changed

The changes at first were very subtle
Like lines of age upon the face
As he started grasping at straw this man of the world
In his laying it all to waste

One day a woman slipped through his door,
the straw that broke the camels back
As she disappeared, rumors grew and whispered
with each and every passing day
Stripping away the peoples trust much like eroding soil
His world that day started crumbling and exploding all around

This man of mystery, this man of burning straw
Would soon succumb to the pleasures in shame
Below his line of character and above it all
Lies burn away held to close to life's flame

The people learned a valuable lesson
When trusting mere man he can let you down
The man who once made them all smile
Now has left them with a frown
As he now crumbles and falls down
Like wasted straw scattered on the ground
This man of straw, this Straw Man

Dim lamp light casts
a poetic dance of shadows
from the corner of my
quiet office space
tracing words neatly
in my scribe's notebook
I rassle the pen skillful
to print.

I notice my paced breathing
holding back ever so carefully
the cowering anticipation
of the haunting lull
a writer dreads in times
of fevered inspiration.

My handwriting is strong
and simple, neat and tempered
but I soon expect the sneak
of the serpent scrawl to
wrap around my wrist
and pull me in tighter to
the tempo of a poet in heat.

I brace myself and breathe
deeply, purposefully I release
a humming hush of air
from my loose lungs.

I tend to tap my right foot
to the beat of a silent drum
rarely in rhythm with my
right writing hand.

Here comes the scrawl
I feel I can't control
Is it lack of strength
or the sheer thunder
rolling thoughts on paper??
I think it is a little bit of both

Where are you dear
fellow poets in your
casting hour??
Conjuring up words
to share our wants,
needs, fears and doubts
so perfectly
...or not....

The point is in the
actual act itself
isn't it??

Razor-sharp fingernails scrape layers of flesh from eyelids
Splaying them eternally open
Can't unsee what's been seen
Can't unhear the sounds
Or unsmell the odor that rots in nostrils, infecting every rose
There's no stopping when they all stink the same
Can't undo, can't undo
Safety in bile where nightmares are birthed in reality,
In places that fester like the remnants of the lids that blinded
Bleach doesn't clean untruths
Fire doesn't  burn hot enough to mask pain
Blisters seem like hope
Hope to heal
Hope to resemble something familiar
Peeling skin back with teeth
Wishing for them to bleed
When scalding tubfulls try to cleanse
the grime that sludges through a broken mind
Attached to a heart mindlessly lashed in the shame of

Love