Little tiny notions and bigger thoughts fly
above our gracious and small ways try's.
Like little pictures drawn on very big pages
that flash before our half blind sore eyes.

With our little red eyes bugging wide open,
yet missing the minuscule things that occur.
With our crackly little voices barely even spoken,
and our Big Ideas in the way, as we try to confer.

The million little hands we try so hard to teach,
and millions of little minds that we'll never reach,
amid all the somber voices crying without speech.
The short little lives that are spent on the Big World.

All trying to be worldly, wealthy, and so very wise.
Millions of little faces hiding behind a big disguise,
here where little is said, and even less is done,
to save the Big World, under the bright, bright, Sun.

having the best of intentions,
but lacking good inventions,
and criteria I cannot mention,
'cause I lack proper intuition.

I missed the final right turn,
causing some bridges to burn.
I seem to never ever learn
to love one, instead of yearn.

I always throw the first stone,
talk to myself on the phone,
use language to cut thru bone.
that's how I end up alone.

having the best of intentions
but lacking good inventions,
and things I forgot to mention,
'cause I lack proper intuition.

there's a sadness in your eyes today,
that doesn't match the love in your heart,
and it shines through all the lies.
music in your heart that no one hears,
as you walk to a gentler cadence,
because you realize the earth is tainted.
music removes the weight from shoulders,
music is life, it's the soundtrack to it all.
dodging raindrops of the blues everyday,
the pills and the poems no longer help.
in this afternoon of Armageddon’s afterlife
contemplating an end to the situation,
it all comes down to tears in a plastic bag,
just light a candle and say a solemn prayer
of the lost living and the forgotten dead.
and those smitten, and betwixt.
all we living, in here's immortal dread.
wipe the pages of your mystic mind clean,
forget what you've done and what you've been.
purge the ballast from the submerged tank,
ponder what's precious and begin to thank
people you love for the poems in your head.

These dreams fade as westerly whispers,
in a soft eastern rain.
Unremembered by morning's light
filtered by reality's coldness,
leaving only colored shadows,
we must walk alone through.

Shadows that sullenly settle
like colored chalk dust,
covering all,
but easily blown away.
These dreams fade as westerly whispers,
in a soft eastern rain.

We are the dreamtesters,
recorders of our life's events
to be read by God.

Upon our day of reckoning...

Little tiny notions and bigger thoughts fly
above our gracious and small ways tries.
Like little pictures drawn on very big pages
that flash before our half blind sore eyes.

With our little red eyes bugging wide open,
yet missing the minuscule things that occur.
With our crackly little voices barely even spoken,
and our Big ideas in the way, as we try to confer.

The million little hands we try so hard to teach,
and millions of little minds that we'll never reach,
amid all the somber voices crying without speech.
The short little lives that are spent on the Big World.

All trying to be worldly, wealthy, and so very wise.
Millions of little faces hiding behind a big disguise,
here where little is said, and even less is done,
to save the Big World, under the bright, bright, Sun.

I spring to life some mournings,
only to feel a hint of a warning.
In the cool crispness of the air,
life and death are never fair.

With some passion in my pocket
and a sprinkle of time in a locket.
A suitcase of care, a bag full of fears,
home grown doubt watered by tears.

I spring to life on certain mournings,
only to feel a touch of the warning.
In the cool dampness of the air,
that death and life are never fair...

Love happens at random moments in time,
her chemical pheromones mingling with mine.
It is forever spontaneously combustible,
everlastingly irrational, and irresistble.

It happens to me, and to her simultaneously,
often it sneaks up unreasonably erroneously.
Wrapped in a perfect breast full of intoxication,
and supple red juicy lips of inosculation.

Inoculating my impaired brain to fight off reason,
her drunk tongue in my ear ultimately pleasing.
Her unseen warm places so wickedly entice me,
her cool intrepid breath so willingly invites me.

The bright stars radiate from her musical eyes,
like elaborate pyrotechnics on the 4th of July.
She has questions to answers I already bought,
feels subliminal messages I already thought.

Love; its that strange apple we've tasted before,
locked deep within our emotional repertoire.