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 Jun 2016
Edward Lear
There was an old person of Shields,
Who frequented the valley and fields;
All the mice and the cats,
And the snakes and the rats,
Followed after that person of Shields.
 May 2016
Edward Lear
There was a young person in green,
Who seldom was fit to be seen;
She wore a long shawl,
Over bonnet and all,
Which enveloped that person in green.
 May 2016
I thought you were beautiful

Not shallow beauty,
Skin deep
The kind of beautiful like the sun
Shining on a tree leaf
Showing its veins

Beautiful like,
The sound of a creek
After a good storm

Like the feel of a summer breeze
On the back of my neck

I held you in awe

You were the mist,
Rising off the lake on a cool morning
The view from the top of my mountain,
In the fall when the leaves are colored

You were the violin music
Playing softly while I danced
The colors oil makes on the street
Just after it rains and the light hits it

I was nothing
A ghost,
In the darkest corridors of your haunted house
The typo on an old type writer,
Needing white out

I thought you were beautiful
 May 2016
Dark soul
Ever felt it ?
She is feeling just exactly the same right now
I can feel the pull she's so desperate and wanting for
Amazing as it sounds
feels so magnetising too
like a bee stinging into her forehead
A constant reminder of a void that needs the feeding
Scabs that yearn for caress
The cadence earnestly begging to be heard
voice so deep and fulfilling that i satiate every inch of her soul
should i give her a call in this night so dark and the wind so cold
should i let her beg and long for more ?
 May 2016
She's texting me from
old L.A.
Heading north on the El Camino Real
driving fast on 101

I'm heading west
from Paradise, Nevada
No work here
It's all shut down

Driving through
Hat Creek
Across the burning Trinity Alps
the river sure is beautiful
My heart is soaring,
just missed that landslide
late last night

Meeting my life in Humboldt County

She, from the South
Me, from the East
We cross that
Redwood Curtain
Right into the heart of the Emerald Triangle

Meeting my true love in Humboldt County

They say the streets
are lined with
green gold

The family "grows,"
up in the hills
where everyone is welcome
to trim scene solutions,
the emerald gardens
with trees six feet high
Glistening buds as big as your fist,
Everyone is smiling
Everyone is high
sure I may reek
of that Marijuana resin
but two hundred dollars a day
flirting all the way
all I can eat
all I can ****
sounds a lot like heaven to me.

I'll be getting that 215
growing plants
as far as the eye can see
Another millennium
with back problems, insomnia and anxiety.
My fortune is just waiting for me.

Meeting my sweet love in Humboldt County

Like an old Woody Guthrie tune
you ain't gonna find nothing
without that dough re me

There ain't no doubt
that ****, so pure
will get you so high
you'll be wishing your still alive
No matter how high you get
There will still be reality.

Gotta get out of this indoor grow
Black mold growing up the walls
The floors are buckling
The ceiling too
The electrical is sparking
Another landlord on the hook
What's a boy to do?

The methamphetamine
The ****** machine
Trying not to blow my face off
with a butane tank
making that concentrated cannabis

Cold and wet
sleeping bag soaked on the beach,
A tent in the Devil's Playground
the  homeless encampment
behind the Bayshore Mall
that's what I met
and don't leave your ****,
It'll be gone in a quick minute.

The gardens are beautiful
good chance I'll never see 'em
The man with the ball cap
The big *** truck
holding a shot gun
"Better move on, son,
No trespassing here. "

I'm just
another dread locked kid
on the Arcata Plaza
with a dog I can't take care of

Down in Eureka
on concrete Broadway
Fourth Street
Fifth Street
Old Town
Where the fights break out
The cops they have no patience
Another Drunk in Public
drunk tank
Back on those same streets
at one a.m.

Get too crazy
5150 for an overnight stay,
second floor in County Mental Health,
walls closing in,
Psychiatrist says
"We ain't got nothing for ya,
good luck out there. "

Meeting my sweet love in Humboldt County

Once here
there is no way out
on every corner
No one's giving out
No one's picking up

I'm gonna need my family
to send that Moneygram
Get me on a Greyhound Bus
haven't heard a word from them yet.

Even the police say
No one's gonna accept me,
So they ain't gonna pay.

I've been
Trying to leave a message
for my sweet love,
haven't seen her for a month,
She headed up to Trinidad
with a would be spiritual monk

The Redwoods spiral to the skies
The ranchers own the green
pastured hills
The beaches are vast and empty
The ocean is wilderness wild
waiting for the tsunami
turn your back on the ocean
you may fall in
many have fallen
few survive
on the most exquisite
blue sky day
you've ever seen.

Meeting my true love in Humboldt County.
Inspired by Bruce Springsteen's Atlantic City.
For r who told me to write this a couple of years ago. I should add that Humboldt County is considered the Marijuana capital of the U.S., lures many young kids thinking their going to find riches and nirvana.
 May 2016
I don't know what I'm doing
I don't know what I'm feeling
I don't know where I'm going
I don't know who I'm being
I'm overwhelmed,
I can't cope

These are the slogans
I repeat to myself
Over and over again

Oh yeah

I'm a failure too
I've lived this life
What did I do?
What do I have to
show for it?

These facts about myself
are the one thing
I'm very positive about.

I repeat these slogans
day in and day out
always wondering
what I'm so
depressed about

I bury my head in these sands

choking on anxiety
in my own
advertising slogans
on my private airwaves

To complicate
just because we think something
doesn't make it true
that goes for
self worth too.


watching the passing cars
from a freeway overpass
like our racing thoughts
not holding on
not making them go away,
in peace
letting them
States of mind are transitory, come and go.
 May 2016
Were broken
And I spent
Countless hours
Collecting the shards
Of your shattered soul
From the impact
Of a death.
Were sobbing
In a heap of
Bloodied tissues
And I was there silently
Destroying evidence of
Your depression
Induced self hate
As I held you closely.
Were a gnarled
Garden of lost
Beauty and I
Was there to rid you
Of the invasive weeds
Happily devouring
The life in your veins
Leaving you to die.
I was left with
Bleeding hands from
The shards of your soul
Razors sinking in my skin
From your example of
The weeds of depression
Strangling me and all I needed was

But you never came.

A little bag of bones and ***** skin crawls lackadaisically,
Looking every inch like a moving mass of biltong,
With one arm weakly clasped on the protruding belly,
Looks for somewhere to lie,
Some water tank explodes from inside of her,
Writhes in unimaginable agony,
Screams the screams of death,
Spreads her bony legs sickly,
Out comes an object,
Yes, a baby is born,
In extreme poverty,
It cries and cries,
The shallow cries of a newcomer,
It cries the cries of not being well,
It opens its tiny eyes to a new world,
A world extensively pregnant of poverty,
It dies in the weak sickly mother’s arms,
Veins-wrapped boney powerless arms,
The death of a missed call desperately wanted,
Ended before it even started,
In extreme poverty, it dies,
Just like it was born,
It is eaten by starving dogs,
Dogs in extreme poverty,
Perfunctorily torn apart like a rag doll,
As the mother helplessly watches,
Too weak to do anything,
Born and died in poverty.
 Apr 2016
South by Southwest
They walk by brisk
Covered in umbrellas
On high heels with ankles
Of no appeal

They grab the shaft
With both hands
As the wind tries to steal
Their umbrage

With agility
They skip over puddles
As I marvel
At the procession

With destined determination
They ****** on
As spiked high heels
Grapple on cobblestone

Rainy day women
In gray coats and wet umbrellas
Under overcast skies
With no hellos or goodbyes
 Apr 2016
So I haven't had time
To read many prose and rhymes
Sneaking pretty words like drugs
From all the **** poem writing thugs
Hide up under the bar
I've only read two so far
Work is cutting in to my addiction
Reading and writing, my affliction
Maybe I can hide in the storage closet
That gives me time to write one comment
Jotting rhymes on my arm
Who said poetry didn't cause harm
Its my obsession
This is my confession
I cannot hide it anymore
I recognise I'm a poem *****
I go from one poem to another
"Feeling" them up like a lover
Then on to the next
For more word ***
Yep, I'm a ******-poemac
Addicted to poetry crack
Your pretty words are my drugs
And you **** poets are the poem writing thugs
 Apr 2016
Wife-beater, drum player
blower of holy pan-pipes
Plumed, bejeweled in ****** plastic
Inca priest, mestizo beast
multi-kulti prophet
(who chooses to live in the USA)
where liberals kow-tow
while you show them how
to adulate indigenous
crypto misogynous
eager to pay eager to please
diversity’s devotees buy your CDs

a perfect idiot from the mythic Sierra
naming your brood after Andean peaks
pre-Columbian pachamama freaks
eat it up: your Inca schtick
(but ask the battered gringa-chick
about your unsustainable ways:
who hits who smiles who beats who pays ?)
(based on a true story)

a  poem a day for NaPoWriMo2016
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