When the first sweet scent of summertime,
sifted through the sea-salt scented air,
so many things and everything
were bright, light and happy-go-fair,
the Summer Life with you was finally here.

As soon as our bare feet hit the wood bridge,
running from the road up over the dunes,
great grey seagulls squawked, dove and swoon,
we held hands together, one and one
made two,
dash-dancing across the shiny sand with you,
dressed and undressed in our Summer Life moods.

Colours like pinwheels spun like yarn,
flashed and clashed bright orange to blue,
you danced and giggled like a loon,
pulled me up and so close, so close
to you,
that I had to dance, I had to dance like a loon,
I just had to laugh and dance and laugh along with you.

How we played, we frolicked beneath the beachy sun,
belly-surfed upon the waves just for funny fun,
flicked flecks of sand from our sticky picnic lunch,
shared swigs from a big blue thermos jug
of fruity-fruit yummy punch,
sharing and caring beneath the Summer Life's sun.

By evening-tide the air grew cool,
you called me 'lover,' I called you 'fool'
-with a big ol' blanket draped over our shoulders,
we kissed and cuddled, growing much bolder,
falling flat back
upon the mighty mattress of sand,
feeling the mists of the waves licking our hands,
as the Man-In-The-Moon arose and shone,
to dance and laugh with us on the Summer Life's throne.

I am,
however, no hero,
just a lowly poet
in the always
and forever
quest for the pursuit of
truth...

with these, my tired, aging hands,
i would weave a floral garland strand,
create a wreath of petals sweet,
place it upon your head so neat,
and in the setting of the day,
we'd frolic and we'd dance and play,
like young lovers do and for all time,
you'd love me and i'd call you mine.

i want you if
even for the
shortest moment
of time
even if knowing
our hellos
will also be
goodbye.

i want
you

to hold me.

On the streets of heat and movement
lie the evidence of pain,
she walks, he talks, the children run
throughout the burning rain.

I can smell the smoke of lifelessness
along the living death,
we talk, they walk, the sirens wail
today may rob our breath.

In the rooms of waste and apathy,
sit silent the insane,
she writes, he writes, the samll hand ticks
the hours fast away...

The Artist waits, breathing deeply,
Pencil poised above the paper.
Images grip her, alluring her to tell their story.
Battles rage ‘tween fearsome pirates, horses race from untold horrors,
Magic glitters on a fairy’s pale hand.

And she fumbles with her pencil,
And soon crumbles up her latest attempt at
A Masterpiece.
Everything’s been done before, everything’s so simple,
Nothing is dramatic, detailed enough
To soothe the artist’s longing
To go further in her art than she has ever gone before.

Then it hits her, hits her hard,
And she awakes from her reverie with a start.
It’s   all   fake.  It’s not real.
The things she dreamed up with her mind, but loved with all her heart.
Everything she’s shaped… given life…
Everything she draws… or reads… or writes,
It’s not real.
Just some stupid Fantasy.

She sits there, sighing deeply,
Paper blank before her eyes.
But she then realizes,
Abruptly,
That then, without a doubt,
Those things may not be real, but for her they’re really there!
All the art that she’s critiqued and
All the worlds she’s created,
Serve a Purpose.

They help to soothe an Artist’s troubled heart.

intake of
breath
lines perfect
composition

Searching

In the ashes

Of our

Unwitnessed

Love

I resurgence

The ancient

By us

Fire

And your lips

The hands

Of

Prometheus

Let the poetry of others repose in majestic halls:
My poems are filler for paper shredders,
For packing in shipping boxes,
And backing for flypaper sticky strips;
To wipe the muddy soles of shoes
That have seen too much of springtime
In the garden.

Others poetry fills the airwaves, and sits between the covers of books;
My poetry is for grocery lists,
And sudden messages you need to scribble while on the telephone,
And maps to undiscovered geneological treasures
That are only a township away-
To trace the faces of cool tombstones
Under a mid-day sun.

You won't find my poetry near any other kind of list
That doesn't say get bleach, dog food, and toilet paper.
Still, my poetry is from a well lettered life-
I have written all my heartbeats, and most of my sighs
Into sibylline hieroglyphics, from midnight initiations
In the secret brotherhood, of my own soul:
And I will die a freeman, because nobody
Will ever feel the need to own any of these words.

Those Eyes

They say the eyes, are the window to the soul,
when I look into those eyes, I struggle keeping control,
they say that man can never know, from whence he came,
my words to explain it all, seem so very very lame

I knew you from the future, or was it from the past,
we connected through electrons, the stardust forever cast,
having never hardly seen your face, it was impossible to guess,
into the light years of primordial stew, I emerged to confess

now your face is very clear, the eyes so very bright,
those eyes show to me, the treasures of insight,
I look into the image, and see the sunflowers smile,
they teach patience and kindness, innocence of child  

I wish that I had known, when everything was new,
had seen those visions early, that I now see when with you,
you have taught me so much, how to deal with me,
when I cannot accept the truth, winds ******* out to sea

you find the way to bring me back, rescue my angry soul,
those eyes can see everything, for that they take a toll,
you are my very anchor now, saved me from my lies,
I feel the universe all new again, when I look into those eyes

Gomer LePoet...

Ever since their music was packaged and hit the scene,
It has supplied the drug needs of the neighborhood teen.
They try all kinds of piffs during their time to listen,
From Common to the DJ Drama's pay attention.
Gangsta Grills, Dedication, even the radio station
Dropped out from Registration post-poning their graduation
To the new age of crack, being played back to back
On the Sirius XM or that playlist in your lap.
Ipod's and MP3's are the new portable blunts,
Pop in the food & liquor my Lupe to get full and drunk.
So puff, puff, pass until your circle is fully high,
Off of cyphers, freestyles, and the music from the wise.
No matter your preference whether it is ***** or clean,
We can be seen as a walking, talking music fiend.

Loneliness is a common illness.
Yet I reside in it selfishly,
The White walls are all Black,
My mind fades oft to the back.

You made the attempt,
And I made the refuse,
Self-destruction my only attribute.
Pain my only friend.

I see death and hear it too,
It calls out to me in the form of the blues.
I am reaping what I have sown,
Soon, my soul will embark on its final toll.

Love is absent,
Cold is present,
I wish I could feel,
But feelings are for childlike yesterday’s.

I was a happy boy once,
But age is just a number,
At 16 I am older than most,
My face a grave testament, to the graves of friends sentiment.

I am sick with an illness,
One for me not to be cured.
I wish I believed in fate,
It would be much easier then.

Yet there is no one to blame,
Or hide behind,
Only my shadow to reside beside,
Only your memory to taunt my mind.

I have made many mistakes,
And will make many more,
One day in fact I think I’ll be poor,
But the greatest by far,
Was to leave you barred,
To leave you stranded in the backseat of that car.

The wind is calling me now,
It talks to me somehow,
Sayin’ “You won’t be much longer now, won’t be left alone to frown.”
I answer, “Come back when I am dead,”
It echoes, “Won’t be much longer now.”

The tears are empty,
So is the pitcher.
How can I be with ya?
Never, never, never.

I have trouble sleeping,
Harder still to make sense,
Because my dreams are haunting
To this day the leave men incensed.

I am going crazy,
Slowly but surely.
Soon you’ll see me on your door.
Wanting to get our favorite smores.

Silence, now, silent void.
The wind is no longer whispering.
The walls no longer menacing.
Only me, without.
My mind not even speaking,
Not daring to break what is happening.

The windows open without noise,
Outside I can see my future,
Lit in a light other than the moon.
What I see… makes me hope I die soon.