You see me,
an open man.
Strong and tall,
with massive hands.

I see me,
a brittle soul.
With broken
bones and
rotted whole.

And every day,
when I awake,
my weary bones
begin to shake.

And every night,
I end my fight
to free myself
from endless plight.

But, perhaps,
upon tomorrow,
some'one will cure
this old man's sorrow.

What is the sound of wind, when it is still?
The voice of God; not of common nature.
Will His will be that of a saving pill,
gradually easing the pain and hurt?
Not to be so blunt or overbearing;
subtle and often thought to have been gone;
found in time of heart's wearing and tearing;
patience shall prove the world to have been wrong.
Common stares of displaced disappointment;
the love of passion and passion of love
that speaks and heals; it, a hidden ointment;
messages sent by means of still'ed doves.
Nought of punishment or chasten of sin,
in the presence of a quiet God's whim.

*An old sonnet I wrote.

Dark green seeds plant
tall and sturdy trees
of greed and jealousy
within my heart.

Light blue warriors of
wisdom fight valiantly
for the health of my soul
and mind, but in time
the trees become the
caricature of what
I have become.  

All I wanted was
to be something small.
To plant my own trees
from yellow seeds
that breed happiness and love.

Roses, gray,
lay still by the trees of my heart.
And until I finally find
the truth behind the
loves which I have made,
then they shall not depart.

Blankets of blankness sit staring blankly into thine eyes,
while piercing wails of silence cradle in lobes of flesh.
Seal'ed doors of unframed bricks sit idly, occluding the sight of thy mind.
All the while, focus evades the perilous thoughts that thresh.

Still, well-knowing that of thy key to openness,
which lieth still within thy breast,
must, perhaps, be lost at best,
in cold, dark lying emptiness.

Cold, cold floors press
against the soles of my feet,
as I roll out of bed
still affined to my sleep.

While my eyes remain low
and quite dauntingly heavy,
my hands moving slow
part them ever so stiffly.

Then, before me a speech,
spoken only in vision,
brings tears to mine eyes
by its glorious image.

Alive yet again,
the sight gives me relief,
for the glorious sun
shan't deliver disbelief.

There is a veil,
with no eyes and no ears.
It sets like a stone,
between love and its fears.

Totally unfleeting,
no laughs and no jeers.
To be ever-present,
for all of man's years.

Truly diseased;
synaptic in nature.
Stumble the footwork
and words of thy taker.

Creates blindness,
no sense.
Through silky folds,
made too dense.

There is a veil,
with no eyes and no ears,
but somehow it hears
and it sees all its fears.

It tears all but once,
before, never again,
will it restitch its wounds,
only gasping as wind.

*Collaboration, William Connelly.

I crave adventure,
like the birds crave the breeze.
I seek excitement,
like rampant waters streaming beneath my feet.

I wish to run,
where men do not run,
but wild animals do.
I wish to see from the sky,
or from deep in the rushing blue.

I ponder the rocks beneath my feet,
and the sails that cross the sea
and the trees that sway so free
and the birds that always sing.

I love the excitement,
and grandeur of its flow.
This world's own spirit tells me
to go. So, I'll go,

And I'll swim,
And I'll run,
And I'll fly,
For the sake of adventure,
For the sake of life.

Sun shines brightly on
lightly coloured blue balloons
as they float gently to the sky.

Children run and slap
their feet on wet bricks
trailing to waving waters
in backyard pools.

Couples sit and picnic
on the soft green grass
of small fields filled with
dandelions.

Old men sit tall and stark
with open cans in hand
by tailgates, watching
games on blurry television screens.

Your windowed soul
speaks leagues of numbered
tears as your heart beats beats beats,
and the tint of your eyes
shows the truth of your lies,
every time your half-crooked smile
hides the words that you speak speak speak.

Baby birds sit still,
sleeping softly, in baby eggs not hatched,
while mother bird waits patiently
for little shells to crack.

Now little birds with open eyes
chirp sharply without rest,
and mother bird leaves speedily
to gather worms and crumbs of bread.

After their meals, the little birds
are filled with food and joy,
'till mother bird hops closer
to help them soon deploy.

With harried squeaks
and frenzied flapping,
they fall down from their nest,
and mother bird, from up above,
spies patiently, in hopes of their success.

Thousands of atoms shift
ever so violently to produce
an ever so slight smile,
exploding with the
power of ten thousand suns,

While puffs of air pass pleasantly
from the depths of thriving lungs
out of crooked lips
made of thousands of tiny atom's sons,

And little worlds of white and
ragmatical strings of red
house smaller worlds of
brown and green,
and black which they embed,

Which all in all,
though each so small
and grand in their own way,
partake in that that's necess'ry,
to make up someone's face.

From the right and left,
my phobia attacks me.
Smells of unfamiliarity
and rain in my boots
climb the peaks of my
grand smelling utensil.

I wonder if the woman
sitting next to me has
noticed the smell of my
feet I washed so hastily,
or the body that my soap
didn't meet, or the weak
cologne wrapped around
my neck.

Quite possibly, she can't
smell a thing; her nose
may be too stopped up;
perhaps it isn't listening.

In reality, my senses blind me.
Alone, I cannot smell the
wonderful and horrid odors
of my body.  She stands up
and leaves; I let my mind digress;
however, I am met with the fact
that whoever sits next will
make me face the same
sub-conscious test.

Weary hobbling men,
of stature far from social statutory,
embody brief hypotheses of me.

Weary hobbling men,
managed by bronzed and tall
strong handsome men,
embody sick hypocrisy.

Blind old beggars,
who sit on broken concrete
and breathe through broken lungs,
speak clearly of what resides in not what eyes speak,
but of what love and trust sing.

They see more than we,
for they, both blind and whis’pring,
are contented just to breathe.