There is a man at the circus
who draws scarf after scarf from his sleeve.
Fragile cloth, taut in his grip,
bends around his fingers as he pulls,
willing reluctant
strips of color from some hidden place
until they are waving overhead, casting shadows,
catching wind, and catching eye,
as onlookers lose sight
in the glare of  spotlight and color,
he himself squinting.
So you are with my words--
drawing, bending, and smiling blind
at whatever it is you grab and sift
through, like the scarf man must
as he wanders the empty stadium
when the crowds have gone away,
kicking cans and picking up dimes
as he pushes the scarves back
up his sleeves until tomorrow.

What lies within this man
is apparently gold,
at times, for others
But toxic thoughts keep him
from daring to enjoy anything
Please, someone distract him
before his life has fled
and he finds his false beliefs
were of the worst kind there is
when he could have had others
just as false,
but not suffered without end

We always talked about watching the sunset,
Laying on the roof
Watching the lights of the city below us
As if they were stars forming constellations,
Pointing out people walking by
As if they were ants below our feet on the sidewalks,
Tracing each other scars
With the tips of my fingers
And your smooth, perfect lips.
But we never talked about the sunrise.
The moon doesn't stick around for the morning,
But neither did you.

We throw lies into lives

like pebbles in a pool

watching the ripples disturb the calmness

then cascade off into the distance

To write food in the stomach
Of every hungry child.

To spell war as peace,
Metaphorize flowers into the barrel

Of every gun on Earth.
The poet has responsibilities

Beyond those of mothers,
Of kings and presidents.

I refuse to give up hope;  
This could be a poem world.

Come on, write your worst piece
Of literature.

Even misprints may give other
Meanings to a word,

Write me a green sky, blue dirt,
Trees the colour of air.

Sometimes the best poets
Have the least to say,

So keep writing, write until your
Fingers fall asleep.

Write until you havent slept
For weeks in search of that word,

That one right word,
Then rest on a notebook pillow

And dream the world right.
Write the world right.

There is no such thing as
Wasted poetry.

Ignorance is the gateway that will lead us to stupidity.