A doer not a talker,
A finder's keepers,
not a stalker,
first he is A Man,
gentle in his MANnerisms,
but not the knuckles or
his calloused hands.

He does not stand out
in his field, he is too busy
working to increase the yield,
not make best use of fifteen
minutes, OF Few men can
this be said, his hat still fits
his crew cut hairy head.

when he opens his mouth
to speak, his thoughts take
shape and become Words,
not charged with emotion,
not angered or raging,
not with some rite of self-
righteous indignation.
He speaks his peace,
and sits his ***, on the
nearest thing he can find,
he has a sound body and
a sound mind, when she
decides and marries him she
will find, treasure. Rare.

Dog at my feet,
wanting to go out,
to howl at the fool moon
in the sky, while about,
those sorely affected,
act out, their normal lives
and loves go undetected,
my dog doesn't howl so
I will disavow any such action,
both those in the street,
who wander, like the Zombie,
apocalypse, just hit repeat,
over and over again, they rev their
motors, what if they actually
owned a car?  They run screaming
moonlight streaming in and
catches my eye, clench and unclench
my fist, stand to the rail of my
balcony, pounding the drum that
is my my chest and begin to
howl.

Is it I, you hear, then I am quite near...
join in, let us chorus, and win the
moon to our side!

Doctor gave me the news, it was a good
time to buy new running shoes,

Feet slap and screech with each stride,
Biomechanic required to repair the ride,

Pounds shed I no longer dread pounding,
lightly on concrete or asphalt, grounding,

My turbulent times, no reason or rhyme,
To the day, my thoughts have plenty of time,

To play as I run away from home, smiling,
So pleased to be alone among the crowd, filing,

On and off busses, engines make noises like cusses,
Cars eating people, personalities seated in trusses,

For their own safety,

While heels kick back, legs move at the speed,
and pace where there is always sound and greed,

To be first to run the red-light but
On my heart right to that red line,

Hamstrings cry taute like strings,
My mind wanders to many things,

To some people, to a person,
Beckon me run, all that way

And I will.

How did I get here? at least a year in the making,
took on the job, it was a terrible mess of an undertaking,

If I can do it so can you,
Don't wait till your fifty four,
Start when your thirty nine,

Write down all that you eat,
You recognize each day the feat,

To stop eating, at the right point.

Get enough sleep,

Aerobic activity, found a
British study from, London see?

Muscular mobility, range of motion
under load agree, let me, ask you,

What did you do as a child, how did
you have physical fun, what did you
do in your youth, not to relive the pain,
and the strain of bad coaching or none.

Capture your life as first prize
in the only race that counts,
living to beat of the distant drum,
you run I will follow,
you set the pace, I will holler
your arrival, to set your rival,
Death on his heels,
we will chase him back the way,
he came, that will be your claim,
"Raced Death and Still Running"

This may not be,
the last thing I write,
or
the last thing I see.

"I loved her and
                            I never knew her"

This will be the last
                            thing I say,
this will be said on my
                            dying out of the fray,

unless
          many
                   years
before
I seize the day.  Seize...
the moment.

Young countries grow, old
Time spills out and unfolds,
Liberty, Freedom, A Place that
                               has it's own dream,
Songs sang, bring tears,
Anthems, passed fears,
                                          subside,
Take pride America,
For every American,
Who has a home, who has a neighbour,
who has a defender, offering peace,
whose young children hold old hands,
whose women and men, continue again, and again and again,
to make it, starts with that dream,
watered with tears, and fed with more than food stamps,
even with so many accents they
all say in one breath,
"thank you for the opportunity"
to serve, to be free, to have the will
from the Baja to Presque Isle,
from Bellingham to Florida, Puerto Rico,
when hopes follow the sun's rise bright,
"Oh say can you see by dawn's early light"

Lift a hand held flag,
Raise a cheer and brag,
how?  You're Canadian eh?

Cause no rift, don't drag
down, or braise your neighbour,
sorry, you're Canadian you say?

Stand for the Anthem,
languages not an issue,
tearing up? Grab a tissue.

Our heritage maybe scarred,
but no country has faired better,
we all learn from our miss takes,
remember every place,
can you name every lake,
walk through every mountain pass,
or thank God for those who have
gone on before, matter's not the race.

History is man's foolishness,
this country has a tale to tell,
of men and women, of sacrifice.

The present is about change,
one of hardest things and strange,
that no one knows how to do it right.

But every one has an opinion.
Sometimes the pinions, small,
are the most important, is all.

The future,
sutures to the
present and
the past, to the wind
change is fast,
courage Canada,
this day is your
birthday,
a day like any other,
and you will not
let anyone down,
                                    after all you are Canadian.

They fall like leaves,
and drift away, bouncing,
on curled crisp corners,
aged by the season,
the wind blows them,
not caring, no reason
where they land.

But they are not leaves,
nor are they believers,
they are in touch, not
with the Earth,
not with second birth,
some still think, they
need to earn their worth.

They are blood and flesh,
a thread knotted enmeshed,
in a society they don't want,
they are the uprising,
setting upon action
as there is a sunrising,
they have hopes, dreams, and mirth.

They want their day Canada,
they are willing to work smarter to prove it,
don't feed them the Desiderata,
say they have the heart and a future,
                                                                                         can you do that?

While he slept,
   I wept,
He laid behind an
  electrical box,
above ground encased in
a wooden frame,
he covered his face,
with a hood, in shame?
No, just to keep the bugs away,
he had his hand in the waist band of
his pants,
was he twisted,
no he may haps had a gun or
wanted those who saw, think he had one,
his back pack was up against him,
he looked exhausted from the spectres
that haunted him,
sleeping twenty feet from where cars
and trucks accelerated by,
all oblivious to his unconscious eyes,
should I call 911, would that have ruined
this end to his all-night fun,
was he dead,

or just dead to the world,
what altered state, made him pick this bed,
of dirt and weeds, wait, what sort of life has he led,
thoughts of "that could be me," fill my head,

He slept, and
that is all that mattered.

******* on dark chocolate,
letting, the lack of sweetness,
liquify across my tastebuds,
I get inspired.

Sipping on red wine,
letting, the lack of sweetness,
pour flavour into a tasteless,
existence,
I get inspired.

There is no such thing as writer's block.

Dog walking, watching her stalking,
with her nose, the fragrant scent of her own kind,
brings it to my attention, the sensitive and mind-
ful, habits of a writer.

Observe it all and let life, go across your tastebuds,
like dark chocolate or red wine, neither of which you
may have a taste for...then write, and live, and live and write.

I didn't call you an author, why would I raise the bar and and unfair
expectations, and frustrations, I named you Writer, so write from
your heart, your vessels your guts, no one can write the way you do,
there may be formulas, but it does not take, magic white or voodoo.

My inspiration.
All that I touch or recoil from,
All that I taste or avoid touching my tongue.
All that I scent or plug my nose. Even all in the Between.
All that I see, that gets in my head see?
All that I hear, other poetry read aloud,
music that makes my heart beat slower or faster,
admiring one who is a lyrical master or even bears
a brand in burnt flesh BARD.

Get inspired it isn't hard, and I am in your face.

There is a God, He loves me and puts me in my place,
He has finesse and as for me and my house...

stars that blink, those that flash,
do they wink, do they dash,

on steeled wings, secreted cache,
where they bring, people stashed,

to far away places, water goes splash,
sunburnt faces, no credit, pay cash,

save each week, don't spend on trash,
don't dip or sneak, the trip will crash,

before you get on the plane,
let alone, run across the hot
and sandy of the beaches of Maui

the pool, of still water,
you have become,
distresses less,
as rocks are tossed to form rings,
that echo silently across the pool you have become,
winsome waves, echo in not so perfect circles
but even the rocks,
settle
to the bottom,
you no longer ask "who tosses these rocks at me?"
the answer would always be "Life"
bringing strife and stinging tears,
but that is the past,
moments upon moments,
the water droplets in you,
the pool are pulled skyward,
like the daydreams you hold dear and
release,
with out fear,
as clouds roll gently in,
the wind parks them and
soon the rain falls, like healing tears
find their way down to
fill you, the pool again
for another peaceful day,
the wind skims the surface,
dancing across open water,
featherlight
in the moonlight, I
sit staring,
smiling, questions without
answers,
wanting to throw myself,
clothes and all and in the fall,
make a splash then,
soak in that pool, that you have
become,
where I have never been before.
The pool that you, have become

a body speaks a foreign language,
never taught, seldom misread,
till you grow up, up and away,
go to places of higher learning,
Hope to increase the dollars earning,
they reteach you to read, a person,
Like a book, ****** expression,
a sign of misdirection?,
hat and sunglasses, ******* jewellery,
orchestrated instrumental,
body parts, don't like the stuff,
dreams are made of, then bluff,
You can't choose the cards dealt,
all to get a big name and wealth,
with somebody else's dime,
credentials?,
oversized ego in stretch fabrics,
tailored to fit in while, I
Attended the U of P,
first in my class,
to go I all in,
on a hope and a prayer,
that have nothing to do
with the chips that slip,
not roll, through not across,
these worn out knuckles,
audience chuckles as they
would love to sit where I am at,
one bluff away from heaven, and
one raise away from hell.

decay not in sight,
yet life lives not,
there was no blood spilled,
yet redness shows,
this is not a happy place,
stop looking at the face,
expecting change,
expecting,
unlimited endurance,
pruners saw blade,
in place,
in relief,
begins
to cut and saw,
away, every branch that is dead died decayed,
on the inside,
with each branch that falls,
tree snow dust from the saw
falls flawlessly,
on the boots and steel toes,
the litany and woes of the tree
about to fall in many parts,
is no different than the man,
with the pruning saw in his hands,
yet one is still alive to live within his means
or to catch and release, his vibrant dreams,
as for the tree,
a stump remains and the roots tap the soil deep,
a legacy,
a slow return to the Earth,
giving back to the engine, the hearth,
that fuels itself,
while fools,
uproot peace of mind,
drinking till they go blind,
spouting toxins and waste,
into their own yard,
good bye tree, your future, your seeds
                                                 are freed,
as your saplings will outlive this man.
You can see, clearly
that with those,
knotted wooden eyes.

Everything ingested in this life,
Talkin' food, talkin' trash,
Talkin' *****, talkin' flash in the pan,
Talkin' employment, talkin' deployment,
Writing poetry for enjoyment,
Reading poetry as a dénouement,
All I get lately in my feed is discontented,
Children of a higher need,
Boys my age, Boys my age,
Who prove they are not sage,
As to have their testosterone,
weep onto the
electronic page,  
where growing up is hard to do,
gland gestures, put in words,
no sign of feathers,
the birds have flocked off,
to find another victim.
It is called poetry,
Not immaturity,
Again into anonymity,
Maybe you don't know
Which one of your personalities is in control?

Some are led by tears, both happy and sad,
Some are led by fears, type to drive you mad,
Emotions,
Emoticons,
Pros and cons,
Prose and... mon frère ne m'adore pas,
so follow your heart,
if it is a heart that seeks the Light and Truth and Peace,
life is not easy, but that daily path brings a moments ease,
to breath,
to observe,
to delight
to experience,
if it is a dark heart that seeks Darkness and Distortion and to be Dire
life is not easy, but that daily path harkens disproportionate fire
toward hate,
         to ensnare,
         to lie,
         to leave,
we each only have one heart, paint it what you will, beats the same blood,
flooding arteries and veins, feint or faint, follow your heart and leave mine alone, for my mis-beats I will atone.

Famous words,
famous title,
   my take, take a while
      to digest, the twisting of,
       the thread turning,
to bite into a groove,
stand on the turning
metal edge and see what
comes at you from around
the curve, of the ever turning
of the *****,
into,
the abyss,
the sunrise,
the surprises that await,
or a some would say your fate,
                 then there is your faith,
that the ***** will keep on turning,
and the desire keeps on burning from the
inside out,
call it what it is, passion, PASSION,
from the outside in,
call it what it is, yesterday's fashion,
peer pressure,
bullyitis or as I call it cowardice,
don't stop the *****, turning,
each sunrise you are earning,
no points,
no dollars to fill a greedy need,
a chance to make a difference,
a chance to find fresh romance,
a chance to give instead of take,
as for love,
you have to recognize the source,
before you can imitate of course,
let the ***** turn
for once it stops,
you are either dead,
or Jesus has returned instead.

clouds,
islands,
afloat,         above
the solid texture,
far below,

cloud shapes,
dusty vapor,
lifting,     higher while
letting clear droplets fall,
far below,

clouds robed darkly,
rolling thunderous light,
sitting,    casting drop of fear,
people scurry for shelter,
far below

the drought has broken,
the prayers spoken,
answered,
in a wet flash of light,
by every roll of thunder,
that makes
                    the windows
shake,
some grateful people
quake,
in their homes, dusty
from the dry season
far below

the taps of the sky
have turned on and far below wash
away men's tears,
so far below wash women's fears,
into the rain barrels,
filling children with hope
that smiles will return
to the wet faces as they look, up to the rain drenched sky from
far below.

do you spill ink, like blood,
does your will sink, in mud,
as the tears,
plummet from your eyes,
to the dirt
your feet sinking below your knees,
you kick yourself,
you kick up dust,
you think, you must,
cut yourself down, before anyone else does,..
clown,
smile
a frown
upside down,
makeup,
to hide
excuses,
for the cuts, the tracks, the bruising, the bad taste in your mouth,
for the buts, the crack, the cruising in a stolen car, life gone south,
this is not who you are,
this is not who you are,
this  is  not  who  you  are,
these are what you do, size twelve shovel for a six foot trench,
so whoever you are needs CPR, resuscitation, mouth to mouth,
some air in there,
Samaritan way,
get up and walk, away.  New day.  And fill in the **** hole before
somebody
breaks their leg.

there is no saying goodbye to an addiction,
each day may be a new and exciting adventure,
you succeed, one day at a time, in affliction,
reach way out, open hand and up high, a joint venture
stinking thinking,
stumbling steps come in flights of twelve,
don't punch the pylon, and stare down cars,
shout at the sky if you must,
he who hears you can trust,
then the particles so small,
they turn inside your head and all of your nerves
into a cosmic squall and
you stand in the eye, watching
LIFE chaotic go by,
you see yourself live
and you see yourself die,
some one swears at you,
and kicks your feet,
someone else yells
"get off the street",
you reach out and up, but no mercy,
                   no maker to meet,
if this is hell
you exist in it,
now if some one would spare some change,
you could stop tripping over your own feet,
if they let you on the bus.

he touches,
he breathes,
he caresses,
he tastes,
he sees, with his minds eye,
                                no need for sheets of paper with dots and lines,
                                he has lived this piece since his life became defined,
the instrument,  and hearts
the oxygen, with poise
with fine pressure, the pure sound,
sweat, saliva and tears,
he does not stray from the course,
                                                             sharing the talent, giving the gift,
                                                                to any who will listen,
                                                                   to all who are near,
                                                                       but always to an audience of one.

fingerprint lines
catch and drag lightly
across, petals soft,

the flower may not mind,
it is blind, to your touch,
yet you may remember,

scent the fragrance,
from the moments,
skin to skin embrace?

the encounter may,
taste like honey,
the sweetness remains
long after,

the sound you sing,
the pitch you bring,
to give the petal new life,
exhale deeply from your heart.

The sound of your silent voice,
speaks loud from the page,
after all it is a real choice,
to fake and rage
on the road,
at the machine,
not required to be unrequited,
step closer and let me goad you
to get angry,
with what is said,
how words alive were made dead,
so they fall victim to gravity, depravity
then slip into the malaise,
of a hundred thousand other words,
and a thousand thousand poets who like birds
take flight, *****,
after they have written rhymed verse or worse,
prose,
it matters not,
none of this matters, it is rot,
crumbling from my fingers and onto a keyboard,
washing up on beaches around the world, the seashores,
what are poems for,
what poets do you adore,
when you read their words,
you see their hands, stained
with pitch black ink,
liken their one utile hand to a squid
gripping a pen, twisted tentacles,
that reach out a grab your heart and
your head, but how, most of them are dead,
or should be,
oh to be a modern poet,
write some words on paper with lines,
add a treble clef and you'll do fine,
if it is hard,
find a bard,
he will string the words, with
thread attach the notes, measure
what you said on a scale,
add it all up and there you have music theory,
explained by a math murderer

The muck I made
        stuck to me boots
water and soil, I grow roots,
enough to stay put in one place,
look me in the eye, and stare me in the face,
dare to go where your dare takes you, a disgrace,
the lies,
the gossip,
takes hyssop,
                          to cleanse this vessel soiled,
                                          by those who toil,
with evil in their hearts,
sparks that start,
let them believe they are actually alive,
it is sad,
it is me that has to break it to them,
it is they who have died to the truth,
it is the circle they surround themselves
that has drowned them
it is the honest life that has left them behind;
                                            bereft without hope...
they will fall away,
they have gone astray,
from what it is to be human.
Drama drama everywhere, only salty tears to drink.
Don't treat me like the animal, you have become.
It is a misadventure.

They move, some more than others,
                            sisters and brothers,
more likely to be, sons and daughters,
life is a jigsaw puzzle and moving
shuffles the pieces, making choices,
do you hear your children's voices,
transient, as they echo...echo...echo,
tangled in the sounds of the streets,
caught up in the internet of deceit,
pardon them if they are all thumbs,
texting  to a social circle a thousand
strong, but there is no one to lend a hand,
sometimes it is better that way,
to be nomads, where your phone is,
is where you are at and where, you'll
be, you are free and you have space.

As long as every once in a while I can reach out and touch not a virtual pad of
keys
but your face.  You know who you are,
this by far is such a peace journey, if
this is what is sought,
not the bill of goods bought,
and sold to the highest bidder,
on mE-Bay, no that was not a typo,
don't get mad
          be a nomad,
if it fills
a heart's desire,
a passion, after a fashion
a mashup of music and jigsaw
sized pieces of a life, fitting
well together and in one box,
lay them out on the table and
build your life, after all you have to live it.
Be a nomad, be sure.

take the darkest moments
look to the heavens
the rarest jewels, stars.

take the wettest of days
look to the heavens
the rarest jewels, tears of the sky

take the brightest of clear days
look to the heavens
the rarest of jewels, the sun

take the lowest of moments
look to the heavens,
the rarest of loves, you

All looking down on
this wreck of human flesh,
decay is okay as long as it won't stay
or stink, or turn black, the pink,
part that still has a pulse from the heart.

Roll back the cuff, cut it off if you must,
please tell me, you feel a pulse, touch me.

talk about the weather,
storm into a room
shattering the peace
that passes all understanding,
like the fragile vessel,
like the broken pottery,
some claymation caricature,
living life large,
narrow stream
and in you barge,
and rant and rave,
until you realize you are in the wrong room,
the one without a view...point,
who anointed you,
with oil that flows over your beard,
and hand sanitizer does not
count, as you listen to that song by
Blunt, and stare at every girl as they
walk, and by mouthing the words,
in hopes that the lyric comes more than
true, for that one moment, face and eyes
that
met,
angelic wings will lift you,
from where misery holds you...
no chains,
no ropes,
only hands are holding you
by your bare ankles,
the hands you no longer
recognize
as yours.

the sugar is going to my head,
coursing through me
laying still impossible on my bed,
impatience easy to see,

hands tap with the beat
of a heart, wanting to meet,
feet dance under the sheet
in the restless, summer to be, heat

you are so sweet,

alone knowing this,
alone there will be no...
alone is a confession

you are not an obsession
you are not the end all and be all,
you are every waking moment
                         a positive torrent,
of sweet,
sweet, moments strung together,
until the sun sets here,
then the fear
of being alone, to make it through,
your sugar rush,
sweetness.

There is no night like the night,
you truly understand friendship,
not a boat with a rudder,
that might guide you, if you knew
where to steer
not a ship with an anchor,
that might hold you fast,
in any storm
but the warmth and comfort
from being close,
even though the distance between,
cannot be counted in steps,
but measured in the depth
and meaning of each moment
together, by laughter and tears,
sharing of hopes and fears,
and the encouragement to dream.

words that spill, words that are poured,
time to fill, don't let yourself get bored,
words like daisies,
petal pure,
spill your guts, truth only for sure,
could you look at an honest face, in the mirror,
would it be yours you see, staring at the impure,
patience
you have time on your side, time on your hands,
courage in face of what your world demands,
what is the sorrow you bear,
what is the flesh you bare,
where is your wound that may never heal,
who is the one, your heart, did steal,
or worse,
bad verse,
comments terse,
stand up and take it on the chin,
can't lose what you will never win,
spin,
spin,
spin,
a wheel,
and spoke to soon, gone I am before I was born, again
new wine in old skins,
even new
patches won't hold it in,
no inquisition please,
my Spanish is incomplete,
religion,
spirituality,
faith,
are not synonyms, the gravity
of each, the other displaces,
what has this to do with liquid dynamics,
wash away,
with tears,
wash away,
the dirt,
can't erode your worth
wash away
the doubt,
wash away
the fears,
that you are loved
from before,
the Simon and Garfunkel concert in Central Park,
and from before there was the need of an Ark...
you know which one was meant,
this is the shape to which the tool was bent,
how is that fit,
now get a grip,
don't trip,
or abuse any substance whose DNA will eat yours
for Breakfast, call and I will answer, a call for help.

take the time,
don't look at a watch
make the time
get creative
save the time
memorize it all
shave the time
on personal bests

tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock
and lest we forget the digital age
hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

time has treated me well
time for the freak show
time is on my side
time to go
timeless
time
less than
was had before
less than needed to explore
islands of possibilities beyond

these
borders

Don't have money
or I would send it,
but there would
never
be enough,
Driving takes days
that aren't mine,
but I
will run if it takes years,

May                                      tears.
       smiles                    your
                 wash away

The fight you face is real,
ugly and mean,
Coming out on top is not
easy or clean,
Or even a guarantee,
hope to be the friend,
however this ends,
to always let you know,
you are loved.
                        I will let my love show,
                        being by your side in the thick of this fight.

the tangle of lines or wires or web,
tangible visibility matters not,
a thought, a typeset, a thread,
a voice, a tweet, a time,
all of these spent,
in one place
from the heart from the mind,
and all the space that is just
beyond fingertips,
and a keyboard.

it is late,
find something to sate,
your thirst, your hunger,
that greed you call a need,
when you
are haunted
by want for
things you may
not find,
for a dollar,
FOOD,
no F.O.O.D.
Found Objects Of Desire,
play with that fire,
come visit the quagmire,
watch that first step it is a sticky one,
but it is late,
your watch is covered in much muck.
oh phoque, your cell phone is roaming,
in the gloaming of the horizon,
your fate is sealed,
kiss your paycheque goodbye,
hear, here is a hand,
an offer not a command,
take hold, for help is fleeting,
just like love.

But love is unconditional,
and help is propositional,
it has to be accepted,
to work.

some who impose their will
drill into the media who gobble it
up like it is credibilia,
two bitzcoin for your thoughts?

As far as fair is fair, where is fair,
that wee ones who don't belong,
are taken,
when will this world awaken?
every one
would be be shaken to act,
if in fact they were your children,
every parent
would be heard
to state they are
our children, too
the world's children,
these men (read cowards)
pick on them because they
see them as weak,
the forget they are the future,
when their son's look for wives,
here is to hoping they find none,
don't mind this poet's rant,
as he is out of touch with much,
see the headlines, (read skim)
it is not that I care not,
how to right the social cultural wrong,
how to write so that theses men (read cowards)
play hide an seek with political agendas,
oh they have earned their fifteen minutes
of fame,
shame shame, double shame, here is to publishing
all of your names, in what ever format you end
up as,
see, reading the news or the facts won't
explain this to make me think it was the right thing to do,
but I am a poet out of touch and for me this is the write thing
so to do.

Boko Haram (read cowards),
has done this before if my tired memory
should serve me as they should serve time,
right now your voice sounds like a childs,
are you out of touch with your masculinity?

Out of touch of their
parents arms for hugs,
this tugs,
at any parents heart and mind,
don't be out too late,
out of reach,
out of touch,
who will feed them,
we will need them,
they are the future
             of a generation,
this is a pitiful demonstration,
there is no excuse,
these recluses (read cowards)
who hide behind naked
political stand-offs
running and gunning
with young girl children,
don't tell me to get some
understanding,
because the moon we
all stand under is the same,
               too bad shame,
can't be brought by their
mothers, but maybe these
Boko Haram (read cowards)
don't even respect their own
mothers or the mothers of the
others they have stolen,
they have kidnapped,
they have made as scapegoats,
for their
kingdom
building
exercise,
free the prisoners,
as they are running
short of cowards to
do the camp chores,
they can't even get bullets
to start a war against other men.
When will
this child abuse
be stopped still?

So you can be more out of touch than...

the shadows hide much in the
early morning light,
tripping through muddy puddles,
slipping on rotten roots,
welcome to the show,
where everything is made up it,
and the points don't matter,

pull out the roots first, wait
better start to toil with the soil,
empty all the dirt onto a tarp,
keep dumping and spilling,
it is a mighty big tarp to catch,
all the dirt and darkness from
that life, use your hands and
open up, give back the grime,
the slime you thought it was your
right to own, be human, empty
and start new, you could call it
a cleansing then add "do as often
as necessary", why so sad?

Oh I see, you say you got some dirt on me,
don't worry don't fret, that is my
dirt, my slime, my grime,
where do you think yours came from?

Shop-vac, paddle lock, give me a cell phone,
This old man ain't goin' home...
anytime soon. Everything is made up
and points don't matter...for it is only you
                                          that matters.

Sheaves of poetry unread,
more pages untouched,
will they get dusty or rusty,
like forgotten tools in the shed,

the dread,

that having much poetry to read,
to have such a vast need,
and leaving it undone,

incomplete,

many more books beside my bedside,
will to build some shelves and nook
them away so that privately to stay,

alone,

surrounded by the profound thoughts
and words that are not mine, for
then may I learn that the voices,
that speak and applaud inside my
head like thunder and the flashes
of light like cameras at the synapses,
are about learning,

not yearning,

to own what is not used,
to store what can be bought,
to use what is useful,
                                  may it be
                                   for the purpose
                                      it was intended.

Not just fresh paper knives
that cut that fine line in your skin
to let you know and remind you
it is what where you were marked,
                                                    did it foster change?

Literature and prose,
biographies, books of science,
even one checked out from the public library,
mad you say, come and stay,
for a day, in my library...then we'll see who is mad.

Bring with you the want to go, or else your will you won't know.

The sky is light, close to night,
there are cotton ***** stetched
thin across the sky, darker than
a black eye.

Somehow, somewhere the dog knows,
lightening strikes and thunder grows
louder with an unheard rumble,
sniff the air.

Charged with eccentric electricity,
this moment, this night typing
in the shadowed keyboard,
there is no more sunlight.

We just had sunset on the west coast,
storm clouds move to the north and
to the south of where the window
panes act as lenses and the wind
plays in branches, laughing.

The storm may pass, or the wind may tear and
toss and bend the trees, break the boughs with
no mercy, the dog may tremble through
moments of blinding bright lightening
and rumbling thunder but she
won't be alone, no not tonight.

New Leaves are out and so are the thorns,
they festered all winter, entering spring,
with new resolve and a pain to bring,
right through the side of the shoe worn,

on a foot that is not tender, or sure,
in a foot that has tread more miles,
a shout, a grimace, no more smiles,
Old legs dropped out, falling a blur.

The game of thorns, a new season.
Stay tuned, for there are more, thorns.

late at night sit before your window,
                                  staring out,
                                caring not,
no curtains,
no blinds,
to hide the sights before your eyes,
to hide your eyes from the outside,

leave a light on behind you,
your reflection...will remind you,

take your time,
to study,
the face and eyes across
the distance,

the pane is glass,
nothing more,
loath not what you see,
reach to touch, not with hate,
the image will reciprocate,

yet the glassy image harbours no warmth,
and as for the flesh,
and as for the flesh,

there is beauty, beyond what is seen,
there is brilliance, it is in the gene,
there is a conundrum,
though life is humdrum,
or is lost in the thrum,
                                    of mindless technology,

only you can stare
in that window,
and to be fair,
see,
what lies within,
what lies beyond,
if you are honest, see?

The dog, she sleeps,
the fish, he keeps
                           me within reach of the fishbowl,
three pellets twice a day and the Beta does not have
to lay a beating down, on my weary and worn crown,
of hair requiring a cut real soon, I'd do it my self but
then I'd look like a baboon, so don't ape me on
                                                  or it might spawn,
ill advised humour, from my son's, an Aveda
professional hair stylist, point of view,
"don't go out in public like that" and "tell them it wasn't me"
and "stop using a fishbowl to cut your hair for free"

Traffic in the streets,
like the city has a cold,
that has made to the lungs,
you are much more, than that
sinkhole on one fifty-two, to me,
this won't stop me or get me down,
cars surround mine, four wheels drowning in
plastic up to the roofline,
my nerves, are no longer elastic,
they call it the rush hour,
should be the crush hour,
for all the fender benders,
and drivers in my face,
laying on their horns,
saying, "pay attention",
and their intention is
to take your place in line,
if I could be anywhere it,
would be with you but here
am I, in the heart of one five two,
main artery blocked by grid lock,
and my thoughts turn east,
away from the feast that waits
for me up the road,
there is something about the mysterious
unknown, that has grown on me,
but if I don't focus on the locusts
overhead, and those behind the wheel
                     of their automobile,
my life
maybe
summed
up by an accident.

Uh huh, Uh huh

found in shells, if found at all
hide in shells, waiting for the call,
yeah
spring,
nay
winter weeping into the ground
last icy chill, to stave off the warmth
from the sun, that the ground absorbs,
and warms the whole globe in the
season.

The seeds are the ideas,
the shell or pods are what my
mind figures are the odds
of failure,
the deeper they are hidden,
or the harder the pod shell,
less than a hair's width of fruition,
season matters not,
any cold tears,
fall caught with
rest of the marks
of failure,
why is there no warmth,
even when standing
in full sun,
... feel none.

Dead so dead, so scatter me,
like seeds, scatter me
like chaffed wheat,
all on the wind of change.

it builds

it is built, by

layers of wind,

pressure so low,

ions of energy,

stacking, packing

waiting to attack,

with force and no recourse,

rain and hail, pale

in comparison, to

the spin without and within,

of the column, the pillar,

just add fire, and the ire

would be more obvious,

touching down, to the ground

where people construct dreams,

but there is no emotion in

the storm, but people,

those trying  

to survive,

or revive their communities,

who are relying,

in the aftermath,

more than on memories,

splintered,

hands and hearts hang

on to one another,

for comfort,

for it is the only thing,

that makes sense after

all, the air tense with fury,

they restore,

they shore up

the courage and faith in humanity,

American quilt tested,

structures bested,

blow after blow,

yet the people remain,

lives lost, many in pain,

and they all share a refrain,

"we remain,

changed, yes, alone, not,

shared loss,

fortitude gained,

we remain, together as community"

He is a fish,
Just a Beta,
A better Beta fish,
there never was.

He has a home,
A crystal palace,
what was once a
cookie jar, is a
better beta fish tank,
by far.

There are no trees,
there are no sunken ships,
there is no plastic or real
plant  life,

but there is a legion of
rainbow rocks scattered,
                      no matter, on the bottom of
the best beta fish tank, yet.

He is blue, turquoise and green too,
he is not sad or mad, likes his food
and youtube music too, like me, like you
surround sound for the best basic beta
fish living in a best beta fish tank,
there never was.

He is so humble.
An average Beta Joe.

Good dirt,
Bad dirt,
Bag of dirt,
dirt in a bag, avoided dirt bag, almost,
flowers, herbs
and veggies everywhere,
not a clean spot, all is dirtied,
soiled by my touch,
perfect plants in little pots,
re-planted, by gloved hands,
staying dirt free,
not gentlely,
name is Darrell,
not Mary,
don't you dare ask me how does
my garden grow,
for I will say, with dirt
on my face in my hair,
it is too early to tell so;
you can go look for silver bells
and cockle shells and all those pretty maids
in some body else's row,
cause I moved dirt for what it is worth,
for hanging baskets, on every word,
and herbs to flavor, my tongue,
as I stripped those young plants
from their root bound temporary
prisons,
for reasons unknown,
as I did not inherit my mother's green thumbs,
I did not earn any merit badges nor did I join 4 H,
in the days of my youth, now
I grow weary of faltering crops,
it is to easy to stop to ****,
and wet the soil, care for
those things that rise from the dirt,
that were moved, into containers,
with indelicate fingers, gloved,
not loved by any living thing they touched.
Give me dirt,
I can't hurt dirt,
broken stems, ripped leaves,
I grieve for them and that
they may forgive, my clumsy
ways, and be touched by the healing sun's rays.
I understand dirt,
for it is where I came from,
and His breath.