A nine-eleven call goes out at midnight,
It's serious: A writer of poems
At such and such street, has a word
Stuck in his throat.
Stuck in his craw; he can't get it out.
He can neither finish the poem or even
Make a lick of sense right now.
What to do?
The medical experts confer over the two-way:
I've seen this condition before, one says, wary,
I think I would use the jaws of life.
That takes too long, said another.
I have a carpenters saw in my bag
I keep on hand for just such occurrences.
Though rare, it does happen.
We will just remove the head, push the word
Out of the way and reattach the head.
Believe me it is much faster in the long run
Otherwise it could progress on to
Editors re-writes, poetry readings,
Deadlines, and who wants all that?
Poets really just want to write.
The others are in agreement.
Now they'll be able to get right to work
Without hesitating, which is the kiss of death
In crisis situations.
In asylums, they employ lobotomies
To the same result.
For the rest of us, there are the interminable
Religious sermons and services.

I dream of the summers apon a distant shore.
Visions of a paint by number life.
And old friends  I seldom  think of anymore.

In my mind I live in a world that does not exist.
As the smoke flows off into a night here I stand .
Dreams so endless apon my command .

Trying to mask my feeling's underneath a smile.
Another drink   cements the mask for only
a little while.

Ive tasted passion kept warm in sin.
Kept sweet secrets  acted as only friends.
Torment does linger from all ive kept locked within.

She can  be with him but is no stranger to me.
trapped in a game.
The soul slowley breaks of what can never be.

The clown must wash away the face paint
every night to so his sanity can remain.
That vessel haunts these sheets.
Calmness on the  cusp of a  life insane.

Im a madman to the  blind eye to this world
im forced to exist  to which to many give in.
My mind roams free.
As my soul  and true voice stays locked within.

Sometimes life is strange
Leading us down dark paths
Where we fear that darkness
And can not see where we go

Then we find the words
That are written to read
Of a poem, or story that reaches out
Coming from deep within the soul

It leads us back in the right direction
For the poet and writer can touch us this way
That is when the reader finds the light
For they will always return once again

Sometimes the words are strange
They chill to the very core inside
Telling dark tales that dwell on fear
But we always need to read some more

The writer always feeds the imagination
Showing the pictures etched on the mind
No movie could ever match that skill
So we bless all the writers with gracious hearts

You are

*******
Brilliant
Con man
Devoted
Enigmatic
Father
Gregarious
Healer
Indignant
Jovial
K­artikeya
Liar
Machiavellian
Narcissist
Ogre
Provider
Quaint
Resil­ient
Sage
Thief
Ubiquitous
Vagrant
Wanted
Xylene
Yawl
Zestful

All these things are only a small representation of that which you were.

To be honest

These are
only the things
That I recall
You being to me
Being for me

I refuse to Sanctify you
I refuse to Demonize you

You Sir

Gone so many days
Missed for so long
Moons have passed

Pleasures which I
I prayed you observed

Millions of events large and small
have come and gone since that day

Most of which
are insignificant

Many of which
will never be complete with out you having been there

You are gone
these things are what you were

you are still alive in me
so they are things that you are

and I have to accept that I am.

It has been 9 years and counting...

r.i.p.
Pops