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.

Performance assurance,
it's not on my mind.
But a next-morning
pillow, complacent with time,
or the wedding to party to funeral line,
and the "Sorry's" and "Thank You's" and
half empty sighs.

Not a fan of commitment,
but just love is just fine,
not the money or muscles,
for which you will pine,
when I'm grumpy and bitter and old, and confined
to the frame of a man who was once so sublime.

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.

There's a spiritual war for our minds,
and sometimes we define the line,
the drive that breaks the small divide and let's the demons in our lives,
but we decide to make the choice that makes or breaks it,
this time, this life. So, I fall on my knees and pray that, someday,
I can understand the gifts that You gave
and the lives you had to take; I pray, but am I swayed?
'You ask and you shall receive,'
but I plead and plead, and yet do I receive.
Is this because I'm unworthy,
or could it be,
that I do not see the things that could free me from these burdens and trials,
to help me walk the miles?
We'll see.
There's a spiritual war for your mind and mine and I can say that I'll be fine,
but only if and when I choose the proper side,
this time.

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.

Pale bones corroded,
structured in squares,
sit idly,
and stare.

They always stare.

A lofty bed,
with wrinkled cottons.
Tattered blanket.
Pillows shuffled all aloof.

The curtains are closed.

Here lies a man,
sleeping sound in a bed
in his hospital gown
with much gauze on his head.

He lost his eyes, just three hours before.
He lost his eyes, now he can't see the floor.
He lost his eyes, but by golly he won.
He lost his eyes, when he stared at the sun.  

Here lies a man.
He is blind, but he speaks.
He says, "I might not have eyes,
but I've two hands and two feet,
and I might not have eyes,
but I surely can see,
for I've lifted my pride
and I've bested the beast."  

"But what good," said his nurse,
"is a man with no eyes,
with no sight and no vision,
just two sockets of white?"

So, he bested again,
when he riddled her mind
and said "What good is that mouth,
if you can't open your eyes?"

I'm wondering how passionate
and quite truly immaculate
the rhythm has to be,
for me to see
how every single note
brings a rattle to my bones,
and shakes the fringes of my soul
until I fin'ly lose control,
but then I know,
and every second as it grows,
I start to show
the very essence of the mold,
until my heart decides to blow,
and then I'm left
with all the pieces
of a smiling
abode;
the sonic waves that were composed;
the very rhythm and it's home.

Should I ever come to the end of my road,
when I  meet the doorman of death,
I shall hope that he care just enough to heed my last request.

I would not pray for hope, nor life, nor freedom.

I should ask him, "Dear Death,
might you listen to me now?

I beg to find my final breath
upon Earth's broken brow;

the crashing waves, day or night,
the pum'ling seaside cloud,

the falling rocks, their endless plight,
and distant ******* growls,

the fading sun, the rising moon;
I even feel their gaze.

Dear Death, I shall not wait the more,
please take me where I lay."

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.

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.

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.

I woke up to the sounds
of my friend heaving chunks
on the bathroom floor.

I can only imagine that war
is something like that.

a crest of brittle, foaming sea,
a wave that crashes over me;
divided with uncertainty,
You fight yourself so mirthlessly.

no burden to my heart, you see,
Your smile causes it to bleed
and pulse and beat, in quickening,
a rhythmic lift so heavenly.

an ocean where the neurons breathe,
and sifting me so perfectly,
like sands across the jagged reefs,
bending back, and cleansing, me.