Should I give up on life?
What’s my reason to live?
I know in my heart I have so much to give

I have so much going for me
So I’ve been told
But all I feel is used up and old

Too many things against me
One, two, three
Addiction
No Car
Cannot drive for years
Who would want me, who could handle my tears

I’m doing my time
For my sins and my crime
But who can see through
To the woman inside

It doesn’t seem worth it
To wake up every day
But there is no way out
I’m doomed to stay

Responsibilities hang over me
Penance to pay
For mistakes in the past
Memories that will never fade away

~

magnetized, i stand,
muse of far off lands,
as for nourishment i reach,
these remind of thee;
reflections each are we,
soldiers all... sailors,
tossed about on stormy sea,
thirsty souls in paper boats,
as, in need of simple hope
each the other read,
you... my poetic anchor be;
as another’s soil i dream;
like magnets on my fridge
your words on page, my bridge
doorway to the heart of thee.

~

*post script.

to my poet friends, both known
and unknown with most un-met... yet,
this rambling spilled
as i reached this morning for
nourishment from my refrigerator
after reading your many wonderful
and uplifting writes.  
my new profile pic
helps to tell the story.

wishing you peace
on this Memorial Day weekend...
may those lost to thee,
ever rest in peace!

(Memorial Day- a designated day
in the US for remembrance
of those beloved souls
whom we lost too soon.)

love to you...
each and every one,
old friends and new!

There is just enough morning sunlight
filtering through the english laurel
for aging eyes to capture the purple tint
of carnations blooming
in the front of the rocks
jutting toward the porch

Night-time had been colorless
in the midst of a celebration
announced by a sign signaling
an event in the main ballroom

With a loud voice
a long-named minister
toyed with religion
and flirted with comedy
before the silverware
clanged against the china

Boredom captured the moment
in the middle of the clatter and chatter
Even stunning silks and satins
around bodacious behinds
failed to entertain

Now perhaps the oldest in the crowd
he carefully quenches each desire
to know the delicacies of the evening
with the efforts of survival.  He was slowly
dying in the madness of the crowd

I saw her standing in line fancying a magazine-
penniless as she was and buying food.
She had to use "the stamps", the mark of the poor.
She was as pretty a thing as I'd ever seen.
Her half-done hair and hand-me-down dress
were as beautiful as any model's straightway from Bloomingdale's.
Our eyes met, but I turned away...
My eyes unworthy to behold the gaze of the impoverished princess.

Birch tree's thousand little fingers wet with
Early May rain, mist kissed and still.

I know you wish I'd miss you more when
I'm here, but I'm a man of focus mastered.

For now I'll keep my eyes drinking from out
My north wall window,

This view.
These trees and humble hills,

Not even shaking from the force of
A full day's rain.

I don't miss.
Sometimes my hand reminds me of

The weight and warmth of yours in it,
And I lean back knowing you're just as

Mine as when we're touching.
I trust love.

I trust love, the way the birch trees
Trust the skies with their thirst,

The grounds with their hunger,
And my eyes to behold their majestic,

Confident
Beauty.

!!¡¡!!¡¡!!¡¡!!¡¡!!¡¡

Extemporanious
Off the cuff
We are freestyle
Can't get enough!

Write on!
Write on!
Throw away the notes!
Quit all the rewrites...
The headaches! The quotes!

Write on!
Write on!
Scribble a few lines
Essentially we're NEVER happy
With what grows from the vine...

Just put pen to paper
Let the ink be
Then make a paper airplane...

... let fly POETRY!!!

SoulSurvivor

are the vagrant weeds, there on earth spread like greedy *******,
never appreciated. Dandelions , to me,
are as gifted glorious,
as any violet or rose. and, fro'
to and believe just as an Orchids scent
on Easter day.
In Ecclesiastes ,
is told that mere breath,
just living, is meaningless.
everything just dies, all is meaningless.
I write thereby, an autobiography,
as if I were a ****.
germinated not pretty, fragrant
vagabond, I analogize, anthropomorphize
into a moth ugly,
I try to be a Butterfly,
flutter beautifully, colorful.
But am I
I am
beautiful,
anyway
suffering, continuously
burned in the fire.