when our mind is full of great ideas
we want to write them down
yet there are times when we  discover
that there is no connection from our brain
to all the instruments we use
to transcribe our flighty thoughts
    to give them shape on paper, screen, or in the sand

sometimes it helps to pause a bit and reconsider
what we do really want to say  
    focus and concentrate
    articulate precisely yet suggestively
our indomitable urge to formulate
    the turmoil of emotions we may harbor
    our wild ideas of revolution
    the overbearing pain of loss and separation
    grey landscapes of depression
    attractions of dramatic suicide
also the joy and pleasures of deep love
    of unexpected friendships found
        where even angels fear to tread
    the happiness of our children
    the love we recognize
        often too late
    our parents have bestowed on us

et cetera  et cetera

the catalogue of our themes
expands through our lives
so do the challenges
of how to tell the tale

it helps to aim for clarity
we have to  let our instruments of writing know
which of our turbulently swirling thoughts
should earn the privilege
to become words
    and be communicated
to people who
    before they read our verse
have no idea at all
    that we exist

I know how to dance
In the pouring rain.
I know there's not a chance
I can fall without pain.

I don't know
The cruelty of scars,
But neither have I felt the glow
Of the midnight stars.

I know how to hold my breath
In the deep blues and grays.
I know that death
Is the only promise of my days.

so much wrong 
in these hearts. 
these heads, laid neatly in a row 
on a pillow of stone are 
filled with fevered dreams 
of old kingdoms wasted and gone. 
fitful sleep stretched and stressed until 
tears fall upon this chest 
where you once rested and whispered 
something about home. 
no mercy, ******* – 
no redemption found on the skinny streets remembered from 
a misbegotten youth. 
no escape, *******,
up groaning steps 
made sweaty by air as humid as 
the breath of fate. 
i’m a stranger 
whose tires are unwelcomed on your highways and 
whose dollars are unwanted at your filling stations and 
whose soul is beyond saving. 
blood pooled on the sawmill floor 
when hungry teeth touched tender flesh, and 
left only a phantom.

As a bathtub lined with white porcelain,
When the hot water gives out or goes tepid,
So is the slow cooling of our chivalrous passion,
O my much praised but-not-altogether-satisfactory lady.

grey simply isn't good enough my dear
it has to be black
or the image isn't right I fear
If I'm to lose my mInd tonIght
the setting has to be just right
the seating has to be just right
just right
yeah right
oh moon where'd you go
I need you to fill in for the stars tonight
they seem to all have caught the cold
yes I'm on the phone with them now
no I'm not going to tell them that
honestly the things I have to deal with
in setting this up
once more for the dress rehearsals
never work with animals, children or celestial bodies
they treat this fate stuff like it's a hobby

--------------------

When red ran from the sand.

From the depths, rose a creature quite old.
Solemn and slow, not a care to be bold
It anchored itself, and gave no expression
The strength of its shell, shook in depressions
Tall extensions: its lifeblood, its protection.
Found scattered, on its shell, in cert’n sections.

The pride of Madagascar—the creature by name—
Are Rosewood and Ebony now mangled and maimed.

--------------------

When red ran from his hand.

Trees are felled, and the humans displace:
Lemurs are losing, they can’t find their space.
Hear the creature wail, its shell echoes with grief—
The sounds of its guests, find little relief.
For its pride is valued, and cut for a price
Hard decisions made—it is life’s device.

Wooden splinters bite back trading flesh to save flesh.
Living masses are caught in our culture’s great mesh.

---------------------

When red in hand and land.

Oceans to flood, new depths to behold
Our desires to fill, balk: “Don’t let them fold!”
She tires of our, meandering session;             
Beating-out paths, to varied oppressions.
Laugh at the onslaught, of one great convection!
As humans propel, in that direction…

In all this, Gaia shrugs, naked-apes are to blame.
Fruiting, of hand and land, need-be one and the same!

---------------------

Somedays
the wonder never ceases
and within me
it's all that was meant to be.

Steer me toward definition
a destiny lingering
longing to be beyond disbelief.

Forcefully it waivers forward
like winds pushing heartily
through motionless trees.

Disturb not a soul
they have not yet lain to rest
all that was dealt.

And then dealt the end.