You catch the eyes of innocense
as you clip the time
in insolence with a smile

Nothing makes you happier
than to see the distress
when you so beguile

Soft and swift you tantalize
the precious lips of love

You nibbled on the ears
while whispering "Only if you please"

You daze and confuse like
the early spring's
cold winter fog

You lie in wait
for your chances
like a five string guitar

Oh ! No one is safe
as you strike another chord

No ! Not even the words
that go aching for the page

Not even the message texted
across the lost one in the maze


The camel made it through
the needle of the eye
He said "Nothing to it"
just before he died


There is a lesson to be learned
in the hollow of our minds

That there will be a tomorow
I can guarantee that in time

But only if you don't
step on the trip wire attached
to the watermelon's vine

So be careful
in everything you do
Or you might wind up wearing
camel hair coats and shoes

Broken glass-embers
Sizzle; silence.
And maroon agony.

I'm trapped here
Sifting through those bones-
Again-- I was
Asking angels for cigarettes
Made of reeds.


And they spoke in itchy eyes,
Aching doubts.

So I lay there in
Crimson ashes-
Waiting for the
Make believe to tell me toxins.

Would that life was like the Twilight Zone
Twists and turns of fate
Where paupers become princes
And Emperors lie in state

Where neglected little children
Receive their every need
And appropriate masks are given
For vanity and greed

Where old folks Kick the Can
And become boys and girls
Is there such poetic irony
In the real world?

Yes! "The Donald" lives and breathes!
Hate surely his mission
He gives me the dry heaves
He's touted by "The Christian"!

Does faith espouse malevolence?
If so, tell me when?
And would such a hater
Be truly Born Again?

Of the people he attacks
There's surely no great lack
But his pointed finger
Has three more pointed back!

No, I am not for Hillary
I'm not lured by siren call
I really hate to say this
But I may not vote at all!

The poetic irony
Was right there from the start
"Trump" is a "Brittishism"

It is defined as ****!


SoulSurvivor
(C) 8/14/2016

Near morning
by the sea
where I tangle
with the shadows
like a cage of sad tigers
by a grave I find a rope ladder
left by a thief
as the tide steals my eyes,
prisoners of time
without a hammer
trying to drive a stake
in the ground
and this is my crime
living and dreaming.

Once upon a time I wrote poetry
To fill the emptiness that did reside

Once I learn to say how I felt
Long after the tears had mostly dried

Once I marveled at what I could write down
I even marveled at the rthym of the sound

But now the words falter , stumble at the gate
They no longer please me , I take it as my fate

Their purpose has somehow been denied
And to continue on a fruitless path would be living in a lie

So I take stock and close the book and put away my pen
For I will not be found in grace on page written in poem again

Once I was lost but now I'm found