Concentrating on a star
Like lightning bugs in a jar
Like a roman candle in the dark
A yellow streetlight in the park
She's occupies the same nighttime place
Like the lines on my face
Like feet unable to run the race
A thundering beach where memories
are made
The riddles of youth solved in the crucible
of age
Its just another beach scene added to the page* ...

We are surviving.

My nose clogged with dust and scorched flesh

I keep clearing and blowing but I can’t rid myself of the stench

Like pitch sticking to the walls of each breath

I cough and I retch, I try to see what is left

Face paint smearing as I wipe it from my brow

I lift myself up off the ground and open my eyes

Bloodied and broken, there is a word spoken

Through the haze, my mother’s gaze is caught

A fire in her eyes, and now, a courage in my heart


We are dying.

The fires remain fresh as the matches catch onto the ashes

Licking and leaping, creeping towards my mattress

Acting as if in desperation the flames keep coming back

Frozen in time, frozen in fear, I hear her voice nearby

Ignoring the crackling, I clear my my mind and try to find her

Underneath every chosen step, the wood gives way


We are fighting.

The candle lingering dimly beneath the window

The light ******* of the piano, hand over trembling hand

Faint whispers of a widow as she sings with what life she has

My nails tapping along the sill but not quite in rhythm

There is a light swiftly spreading over the hills off in the night

I turn and look to my mother as she plays the final note

She struggles to smile as her lips begin to drift away with the smoke


We are alive.

I fell hard
and my bones shattered like glass.

As I watched my pieces scatter,
I realized that my mistake was
trusting you.

I didn't fall.
You dropped me.

A quiet park, all alone,
Sitting on my swinging throne.

Back and forth, upward I fly,
Into the beautiful, cloudless sky.

Soaring, smiling, wind in my face;
Just me and swing in a peaceful place.

Some call it bi-polar
I prefer manic-depression
It fits us better with adequate expression
We live our life in swooping loops
We strive at our peak then it droops
And the doleful drudge is destitute
Until all progress stops and stoops
To a halt, face down in mud and roots

And then we rise
Called back to life by a guiding light held deep inside
Sorely self-aware, we work until we burst
Droll desperation, at our best when at our worst
"Wow you got your **** together you lost and soulless ruffian."
Then we hit our peak and it all starts back up again