I got a smart because I am getting smarter while going to school.
I got a smart phone but it is making me feel blue.
I thought the problem was because it is new to me.
There are too many options it is harder to work.
I get annoyed by all it's little quirks.
I can not have a picture next to my contacts because they are not stored in the sim card memory only and not on the phone memory.
At least the phone is not boring
I try to hang up the phone and accidentally dial instead
I am tempted to say, sorry I **** dialed you
Instead of the truth it is due to User error
I am smart enough to admit that my smart phone mades me feel dumb
Does that mean that the phone is really smarter than me?
I sure hope not

No one is without
The trickery of mind
Its grasp beyond grip
Subliminally defined

No hearts above
The trickery of love
And no mind's free
Of influences above
Or as prescribed
In meditation
Or good drugs

Relax your fist
These imperfections
Are gifts
Like the rainbow
After a storm
Equality a distortion  
A psychological extortion
Of dispositions
We feel are norm...

I gave you up to see the difference a month without poetic words would be.
The truth is this, many images thoughts and musings went to die in a sea of letters, crying to be saved.
Cruel, though the exercise was, in denial I found a truth,
words are a doorway to understanding and acceptance.
Words truly are a universal bonding.
Unlike a pill repeated every four hours, words need to be taken continuously.
This I found was quite sublime, surreal and sensuous,
the addiction to sounds in words,
the addiction to vowels and consonants,
the addiction.
On holiday I read the in flight magazine and pictured myself in the basket weaving scene!
I sat and made a rhyme out of the ingredients list on a bottle of HP sauce.
My madness continued, with a limerick in the supermarket,
but they were not written down and they faded away like ink on a parchment.
So, gingerly I have returned to the sea of words to swim and describe the view from shore.
Before my addiction to words leads me to carve in my soft skin;
"Lexicographer is Legion"
"Lexicography is King"

across the river
the trickle of what was once Grande
I see them, huddled in their adobe squares
as the sizzling sun settles quiescently
leaving them in shielded shadow

then come the cook fires,
for the maize, the frijoles,
smoking the night sky
filling their bellies, filling my eyes
with visions of them, some silent
some filled with mirth, and song  
all with hope or fear  

as the moon paints their crusty hillsides silver
some will lie with one another--some will join in longing,
liquid union, planting sweet sighed seeds of hope  

others, alone, will fall into dread dreams,
while winds weep and mix with coyote howls
a few will even hear the owls call their names  
though the gift of eternal darkness may yet be
light years from their wretched huts

I may be there
to see the sun rise again
and repeat life's one act play,
anon and anon, or something may close
my own tired eyes, before the glory of their suffering
can be played again

My poems are
lost down a shady grove,
They've taken up residence,
In a rainbow room,
Reflections cast on four white walls,
Whispered from this closing tomb,
Singing songs no one knows,
Poems lost in airy ether,
No one knows where they go.

My poems ride the winds,
Cascading down,
Tumbling into oceans
to be buried within,
When no one is looking,
They rise again.
It has been said
in space, no one can hear you scream,
Silence known far to well.

My poems are silence
in a darkened room
banging on consciousness door
to be set free,
Thought bubbles floating
in the breeze,
Set free, finally.

Pop.