Captured beneath
the low lying cloud

Rocking my world,

Let there be no
flags in the world unfurled

Summer sunshine
leaving behind

A low-lit world
giving us a sign

The polyester I wore in the seventies was itchy,
the equivalent of one of those hair shirts the religious
fanatics wear after rubbing it in a bunch of sharply pointed twigs.

The seventies were good times  and carried a bright future.
Introduced by hippies to a **** that opened my senses.
Some trouble began when at sixteen, while taking a trip with a friend, on some powerful LSD we began to get very high and the hallucinations started to freak my friend into a major bad trip.

There was nothing I could do and I was scared too. That night we stayed in a tent  and used candles for light, all the shadows  and the candle wax  melting looked like giant bugs crawling, while the flickering on the sides of the  darkened tent  felt so sinister.

Things were never the same for my friend, I mean he lost a part of his mind. He could still function but was never the same.

I on the other hand lived hard and fast for years. I did most of the drugs that I came across never giving it much thought. Just moving forward, integrating experience. Not thinking of death but not of life either.

Along side the old railroad track
A harsh breeze keep an eagle suspended
While the wind whistles
Through the massive power lines
The Fundy water red with clay
Although I've never been
I'm sure it's comparable to
The great Muddy Mississippi
Always seems to be an osprey in the air
and gulls and geese at low tide
Feeding to the delight of hikers
Come see us someday where there is
No politics in play
Just fresh air and clean visuals
Refreshing to say the least
Like a mushroom high

You were there
when life was good

You were there
when live was a struggle

You were there
when I lived in the hood

You were there
when you wanted to snuggle

You were there
in pain and pleasure

You were there
during work and leisure

You were there
when the court fined me

You were there
when they took our son from thee

I used to love you
and now I don't (know)

The tiny town's talented tailor
swiftly sews silken suits,
in his shop he plays the Wailers,
Bob Marley fills his boots.
Beside his shop
sits Susie's Sushie,
she serves him lunch
every Tuesday.
He leaves a tip because
she treats him well,
He's got a crush and
she can tell.
After lunch
it's back to work,
measuring here
and stitching there,
everthing is done
just savoirfaire.
All the town folk
say he is the master.
He smiles at this
and works all the faster.
Then on the corner
the clock strikes five,
with the last suit hung
he says enough of this jive.
He shuts the light
and locks the door.
Nine bells tomorrow
and he'll be back for more.

looking
across the waters
as you stood
upon the shore,

a warm feeling
your only comfort.

shadows of
a distant past
so long before.

memories
now fresh
of love undone,
the mingling
of two hearts
that beat as one.

sights
and sounds
and vague imaginings
that passed so long ago,

a time of love
so seldom had
that few have come to know.

me,
i was fine
up until the time
that you gathered me aside,
speaking of matters
so far from thought,

of how
your mind
amd spirit fought,

of how you cannot
accept the time
although you heart
has recieved a sign.

Why
do you
unplug my ears
and open my eyes

if not
selfishly
to console your fears
and subdue your sighs.

were
you tired
of being lonely
standing in spirit
by the sea,

are you
crying out
for you only
or are you
calling out for me.

what purpose served
in judging so quickly,
so swiftly,
so much.

why
make us
within arms reach
when you remain
so out of touch.

you run
at the sound
of love's
unfinished call,

then turn
on your heel
and unsure
of you direction,
you stall.

hiding
in your craft
you paint
to appease
you muse,

the oils
they dry so slow.

creating visions
of what you choose,
still,
not always
of what you know.

ships and bluffs
and the face of love,
the canvas
again and again will change,

images of
a sea so rough
and a love
determined to remain.

paint me
out of the picture,
paint another man over me,

it will not change
that it was me
that stood aboard
that ship
below the cliff
that you stood upon.

behind you
the rolling highlands
of our beloved scotland,

while below you
the thickness of mist
hides that we list,
and are going down.

then waves crashing
and men thrashing,
don't you know
that i have drowned.

your
tears add
to the
vastness
of the sea,

i know
that although
you cry for you,
you also cry for me.

paint dries faster
than the tears
you have shed,

for a heart
cannot master
a love
that is not dead.

i wish
that you had
been spared
the wait,

knowing what
it is to grieve.

you felt you only
standing at the gate
though hand in hand with me.

if
i could have
kissed you cheek
to take away your pain,

for i
would do
anything for you,
even die again...

without
any money
I won't
get too far,

but I'm
on  a tab
all night,

drinking my gin
from a mason jar

you might think
it's kinda funny,

the way I rock my boat,

but you can have yours
and I'll have mine,

I won't be made
out to be a scapegoat,

if you cross my path
I'll give you a sign,

I"ll put my
pedal to the medal
and watch me unwind.

if you be sleeping
under the bridge
it's not that I don't care,

it's just bridge is
a whole another game

and you won't see me there.

maybe I can't
hold a candle to you
in some respects,

the way
you sway
in and out
and along the line,

I'll be
topping it up
with premium,

putting it to the test,

this dream I dream,
this dream I find.



irving2014

I come to find
that I relate
I relate to the
persons places
and things
in my world

My relating
is how I see life
not only mine
but yours as well

I relate to the joy
I relate to the pain
I relate to them
again and again

Can you relate?

I sit in the relative quiet of the kitchen
The rain plays a shuffle on the window pane
I hear the chugging rhythm
Of the sump pump in the basement
The pills I take no longer work
Coffee long gone from any habitual routine
A cup in the morning is all I will allow myself
The clock on the wall, not digital becomes a metronome
Jazz or Classical is all I will listen to as I prepare for bed
If when I sleep it is incomplete and broken and I awake
My tears roll down my cheek to pool in my ears
Another morning and I rise feeling tired and bitter
Sweet sweet slumber why can't I surrender to your wholesome rest
I pray I don't tear someone another
When I leave my home to face the world
Day after day divided by dark, I remain edgy and short tempered
Not suffering fools or the intelligent  gladly
In need of some kind of medication, a pill to curb my sarcasm
Some therapy to wipe away the insipid drudgery in facing Day after Day after Day after Day.

A game of mini golf
between the tombstones
bouncing the ball off
the trellis archway
knocking into a tree trunk
on the perimeter
to put the ball  back into play

Greyish black
skeletons wielding
irons and woods
Their sunken eye sockets

A perfect place to insert golf *****
then they pop them out
grab them to their palm
slap them to their mouth
and **** them back
like  Jaw Breakers

Dishes dishes dishes
stopping me from getting
too big for my britches

Morning noon or night
piles of dishes
in plain sight

I needed a dishwasher
to help me be free
Turns out the dishwasher
has to be me

Pots pans measuring cups
pizza plates  into the suds
Extra moisturizer rubber gloves
dishes are not one of my favorite loves