Poetry shines with light and beauty,
True art woven by intricate words.
It can sing songs so stunning,
That it outshines the best of songbirds.

But that’s only half of the story...

Poetry also grows in cold dark places,
In the pits of immense pain.
Fed by air filled with suffering,
Nurtured by acid rain.

As it shines with such light and beauty,
Poetry embraces true darkness.
What a conundrum it is,
That we can have *beautiful madness.

i used to love hearing
my grandmothers laugh
i tried everything i could
to get her to smile
her heart was full
   close to bursting
with the love she felt
no unkind words
escaped her lips
and she listened with an intensity
that burned through her eyes

since she's been gone
i have yet to feel
another love like that.

A pin drops in the middle of Time Square
but no one can hear it
A grain of sand shimmers in the desert
but no one is there to see it
I am by your side hopelessly in love with you
but you don't feel it
So the earth turns like it always does
The seasons move along as scheduled
And those three things go forever unnoticed

I wonder—
Have you ever taken the time to notice,
how Summer's sun can clear gunmetal skies,
or how it refracts off the water
of a somber heaven—
Filling the darkness  behind your eyes?

I wonder—
Have you ever taken the time to notice,
how when Spring's roses begin to  blossom
the wind carries love's scent through the air
or how it effortlessly enraptures—
permeating beauty
from within the pigment of it's petals?

I wonder—
have you ever taken the time to notice,
how the cycle of Autumn's leaves remain parallel
to the frailty of the living
or how the perpetuity of their purpose
is either known of and ignored or understood and accepted?

I wonder—
Have you ever taken the time to notice
how the Winter's deep freeze
blankets and preserves the earth beneath our feet
To walk upon in new years to come,
Or how it brings forth the warmth of family's serenity?

For as long as I could remember
I have never wanted to grow so old
That I could not get out of my bed on my own,
Take a **** and wipe my *** on my own—
Nor would I ever want to be stowed away
In some **** ***,
**** smelling,
Convalescent slash retirement home—
I have seen how those ******* places
Absorb the remainder of the faith left in your hope far too many times.
To be restricted to this "new home" away from home
Only a spec of the man I once was
With some nurse feeding me pills
and halfhearted advice about how I might live a little bit longer
If I stop doing all that I loved up until this moment—
I say simply,
If I was ever such a nuisance to my own family
I am certain I would prefer someone to end me swiftly—
I've heard a morphine drip is quite inexpensive these days.
And as for a burial send my ashes into an October breeze
to be scattered over its delicate leaves
And through death
I shall reprieve.

Poems are the MRI's of the soul .