I am a gingerbread
   sweet tangy ******* head
addicted to making
   marmalade sunsets
playing funeral organs
    cooking grass
on my BBQ
     I stir with
olde english
     marinade with you
on a bed of roses
     on our hill
growing wild sassy
          cooking stews
of parsnips wild onions
     marmalade you and
the morning dew.

from out of my thinking, is something
on the tip of my tongue, its clinging
was it this, was it that, this thing I begat
kept wandering' in mental wondering
lurking in the jumble of mind and memories
Ideas pop by the thought that is shy
lost in a mist, like it wants to resist
un-brought to this verse, sighs
the thought has dispersed...JMF 2/16/15

There, beneath the ice.
Frozen.
An unready meal, unfit for consumption.
A drowning dalek, malfunctioned.
All intellect, no gumption.

There, amongst the trees.
Falling.  
Too eager to please,
all smiles and bended knees,
platitudes float by on breeze.

There, left in the rain.
Forgotten.
Torn head stitched back again -
a pale plaster-cast of pain.
Her mask descending down the drain.  

There, amid the crowd.
Brazen.
Talking painfully too loud,
arrogance veils like a shroud,
inside, her head stays bowed.

There, across the street.
Timid.
Hoping that we meet,
shuffling feet on summer heat,
Her broken heart won't beat.

Here, an open road.
Curious.
A rerun or new episode?
Traffic slowed,
this time, we go.

I see your hand waver, now you're faced with a ghost,
not the raw, killer features that were nailed to a post.
Just an old, dying cowboy, trying hard to play host.
There's a chair if you've mercy, and a story...come close.

The liquor of youth lights a fire in you, son.
Puts that flame in your eyes and the heat in your lungs.
I wore that expression, before your thread was spun,  
so let me unload, you can shoot when I'm done.

Growing sore in my saddle as the nag became lame,  
I sold off my shooters, then re-mortgaged my name.
But tease out the creases, we're exactly the same;
two felons of fortune, wanting someone to blame.

See, I never got settled, didn't take me a wife.
Sailed a ship in a bottle, on the edge of a knife.
I put stock in misfortune and invested in strife,
took diminished returns, paid no interest to life.

But corralling cattle won't hold them for long,
they're born to roam free where they know they belong.
Soon the lipstick and whiskey begins to taste wrong,
as the backroom piano sighs its monotone song.

By a tangerine sunset I scraped off my boots
and considered an orchard as it set down its roots.
As a buzzing of insects idly nurtured its fruits,
I was deafened by silence. My own garden was mute.

So I clutched at the earth as I fell to the floor,
to ask for forgiveness, as you darkened my door.  
Seems redemption's eloped, like a gold digging *****.  
Just a name on a tombstone, for a few dollars more.

Quite an end would be fitting for a fool so innate,  
who has squandered his years until the hour is late.
Son, unholster your weapon and wipe off the slate,
I beg execution, swift vengeance,  But wait...

Did I catch my reflection as it fell from your face?
Like a hound in a heatwave, too tired to give chase?  
Son, the trail that you're riding is easy replaced.
You can stand in the sunlight, or come sit in my place.