One day ago
rays of gold
strayed from the fold
falling and following
paths unknown,
exposing things
unshown,
nourishing plant
ungrown.

Sometime
in the past
I sat back
and basked
in that
brand new light,
felt the rush
and blush
of new warmth
rising from within
ready for the sharing,
nurturing and caring
to conquer previous
shades of despairing.

Now, I am replenished.
My spirit once diminished
stands elevated and nourished
by the cherished light,
even though that glorious ray
has given way to the end of the day
and now I lay in evening shade,
I still sing its sweet praise.

Once in a December
when the bodies we remember
grow colder
while living loving ones
grow older.

Skin folds with time passing.
Memories fade far away,
unless we ask our parents about the past.

I use verses and flows
to go where we know
these shadows still exist.

Flickering images
faltering under the weight of
all the loved one
we have lost,
barely lit by the candlestick
that drip and drips
losing itself
like little flecks of sand
falling out of a broken
hourglass.

I know all this will pass.
My memories
and the ones of me
will fall and fade to ash
as the world we know
is incinerated
by the fires of time.

We will not be
the red phoenix
of which children dreamed.

No resurrection
of rebirth
on this blue orb we call earth.

All that was, is dust,
and all that will be
will return there shortly.

He’s tired,
body aching,

feels the shivers
roll down his spine.

All the pain
is breathtaking.

All his limbs are shaking.

Eyes barely open,
lays his head back
to relax,
but sleep will not come.

He feels older than his age
with wrinkle he hasn’t earned.
Soft tissue and arthritic issues
are a burden
he was not ready to own.

He yells,
see tears sear
his reddening eyes.

He fell,
and he will never rise.

They put his body in a coffin
and laid him down to rest
but this isn’t a sleep
he’ll wake from.

There is no more pain for him.

What a lovely red pen
that inks it way beneath
the parchment skin.
Till, all markings become
oh so, permanent.

Pointed penetrator
that writes precise
but terrible delights,
as delicious desires
obscure the facts
with flights of
fanciful abstract
creative acts.

With these
written confessions
I call back
to my past
and ask
where did I acquire
this brush
that paints with fire,
burning with bristling fibers
setting sunrises ablaze
as I begin each day
pursuing the same.

I deliberate
as others wait,
and use my time
to compensate
for this transient state
by trying to create
something that will
live just a little bit longer
then me.

All things change.
The pen becomes
the special brush.
Then in time
like all that I find
the things I use
to write my story
disintegrate,
to the waste of fate.

I wrote you a sweet song,
a melancholy tune to pass on,
some lyrics and a rhythm
that were only mine
but now I give them.

I gave you the best part,
of this farewell I kept to myself.
A streak of tears
drops that no one hears.

I kept you in my mind
slightly shaded and distorted
by the passage of time.

I know you are not rocking
safe in some heavenly embrace,
and all that is left is a rotting face.

If I could turn back time
for just a few moments
I’d give you a day with
all of my loving hugs and kisses.

Instead, you pass on in proses
and passages in these poems
I wrote.
Each line written
was once hidden
but came when bidden.

A weeping melody,
for transient beings
whose life is over
but still it sings.

So, here are my tithings.
It is better than nothing,
noting my sorrow
and gratitude
that I lost,
but at least I had the chance
to know you.

We all long to be heard,
have them listen to our
well-intentioned words,
as we rewrite our world
turning in favor of
savoring the love
instead, of simmering in
the big batch of boiling
hatred and stupidity.

In quiet nights,
in silent eves
when all the light
just up and leaves
and all that I
have left to see
are silver sparkles
in the blackness
of infinity.

When no one talks,
and strangers walk
just passing on
until they are gone;

Long,
before the dawn
when I’m alone
so far from home,

the face I wear
loses its grin.
The joy I share
dims from within
as I am left realizing
that once again
there is no one else,
there is no true friend
cause all we are
are fading water skins.

Though, I go on
most cannot maintain.
They lose the pace,
then fade away.

Though I survive
all the shades I face,
all I see is dark black
coming right back
to take the grey
and watch
the falling flesh
start to decay.

Though, I love these
cold moon lit eves
sometimes I need
the light of day
and a goodnight’s sleep
to wash away the grief
of things that were
and things I know
are yet to be.

Hope regenerates,
revives the lives
obscured and decimated
by the fear and hate
that others propagated.

It is the struggle
to not be swallowed
or let oneself
be hollowed
by harrowing
and narrowing
experiences.

It is brave beyond
the storms
that were never calmed
as children waited
whilst winds rattled
and eroded
the foundations
of nations
founded on
lies and illusions.

It weeps for
the millions
and millions more
who never got
to live and explore
the unscored
foreign shores,
while longing to share
what it finds there,
helping strangers grow
and know mercy.

There is devotion,
action driving from
the deriving forms
of flesh collapsing
in upon
as two become
a more completed one.

Skin as thin
as pink parchment
as lips of ink
write their desire,
circling and returning to
the points of exclamation.

Beauty to beast,
the savage feasts,
tongue easing in
and teasing,
showing what it can do
to summon
the body’s
humming
explosion.

Till, white springs
drip from the lips
of the interconnected,

flesh merging
where limb and cavern
**** converging
in a sweet sensation
of multiple fireworks.

Is it fatigue,
am I just too sleepy,
or is it the end
of a great run
of creativity?
Perhaps, am I just lazy.

It seemed that daily
I could breeze.
Writing came
with such an ease
that a sneeze
could bring me
poetry;

But now it seems
I need
extreme dosing
of caffeine
and something
different
then what I’ve seen.

Yesterday,
a leaf leaving
winter bear limbs
could send in
ten thousand
words.

Now the words
are sluggish turds
that won’t get out.
What is this ****
all about?

Brown and stinking
sinking while
I am thinking
that all my ideas
our thinning
and repeating.

Years ago,
I used to know
who I was
and who I wanted to be,

but lately
I am less swimming
than barely floating,
grasping for any lines
worth noting
but choking
before the verses
coming out.

Maybe this is
just creator’s doubt,
I’ve seen similar
cycles before,
but how can I achieve
greater leaps
in creativity
when my creativity
seems to have left me?

Several seekers speak to me
across the cold canvasses
pursuing something spiritually
or something that is merely
beyond the wind-swept trees,
those frigid fingers that formerly held
the beautiful leaves that so recently fell.

Little black-eyed buggy boy,
dimpled cheek cute as can be
stares strangely back at me,
like he is some sort of three dee
anime character that is breaking
the third wall
without whispering anything at all.

Little light sprites
warming their mushrooms seats
as they prepare to rush at me
if I get too close,
scanning me with those
dark coal
eyes,

and that large eyed
voluptuous
red haired
bar maid
that is trying to escape
this frosty day
but has lost her way
in the winding wooden
labyrinth,

whilst somewhere in
the mystic evening
an abstract astral plain
elven spirit blows
those little light sprites cont.
into a new life
like they were bubbles.

Till, the harsh crescent moon
beckons my little darling
upwards towards
its skull white form.
Earth’s dreaming daughter
flies as she dies,
and with her goes
all the shades of those
old daydreams
in these October paintings.

I could stand by you
steady as the calm blue
sky that refuses to move.

While pompous tools
prey on the tired of the day
with their exhausting tirades,

the witless but mendacious
cruel and ungracious
sick and severely racist
bearers of the worst hatred,

the pretentious and phony
fat *** jerks who are
full of flabby baloney,

impugn the serious
with their imperious
and possessive dispositions,

I could walk through
that raging fire with you
to do whatever you want to.

Or, if you prefer
I could leave you
well-fed and disturbed
to mingle with
the full of ****
hatters madder then
this modern warfare click.

If you desire that over eager
meager deceiver
you can always decline
this fine mind of mine.

Whatever you like,
take all the time
you need
I’ll be here
just being me.

.

Some of them were strangers


Some of them were without any rule


None of them would see another tomorrow


And if the innocent are guilty


Of the crimes they are harboring within


Then what are the chances in the hands of the convicted


There in the tiredness of what resignation brings

In the rejection of your everything

When the dawn draws close with no exceptions

Some of them were crying

Some of them stood brave

In the end it just didn't matter . . .


All of their dreams came tumbling down

All of their love would soon expire

And the void in the midst of the distance left not a sound

As the earth swallowed all that mattered

It covered all of their future faults

Leaving the fresh dirt of new direction


Some of them were young

Some of them were old

Some of them were men and the others were women

Some of them were just in the wrong location

Maybe they had the wrong face of denial

Just maybe in memory they will not be forgotten

For being guilty of being innocent