I am just this side of
the lunar light
lying naked
open to display this
broken vessel.

My sanity
should be questioned
as I am questing
for the truth in art
for the part of my heart
that is made to
blow up and bleed
all over the
white screen.

I am sinking
and self-elevating
at the same time,
a caffeine fiend
and barely seen
best friend
to humanity
who works
behind the
behind the scenes.

My mind is moved to distractions
but loathed to take action
as I sit and ponder
that which all humans squander.
Till the ticking beast
finally beats me.

Introverted, with frantic outbursts
of playful manic energy,
unlike Freddie Mercury
I am not going slightly mad.
I am already way up
that particular banana tree.

Purple pleasures
poisonous pain,
nature’s perfect
colored flowers
hover
near our hearts.

The numbers don’t match.
They really don’t work.
I sit and scratch
my head
till my scalp hurts.
I add up all the variables
subtracting what’s right
and I am still confused.
It keeps me up all night.

The panel is cracked,
but it still opens when
I pull it back,
peeling
fat ***** of wooden skin
to expose
whatever lurks within.

I open it up
just enough
to look inside,
trying to put
pieces of my past
memories together
even though
they are like parts
of different puzzles.

My head pokes through
and I can see
that old tv,
the Nintendo,
and a little me
playing Mario three.

I can see the
soft recliner
laying back
as my baby brother
plays with those
little lettered blocks.

I push farther in
even though I am afraid,
terrified
that I might get
trap inside
my previous life.

I am trying to
recapture
the parts of my history
that are true
to share them with you,

but the bits get
blurred with time
and details get lost.
Till, I can’t find
the rooms behind
the other side
of the wooden portal.

A little voice
cries out at last
and makes his
first appearance here.

Pink skin
and thin black hair,
little belly button
poking out where
the cord was cut.

Wrinkled flesh
that’s spotted brown
lifts the baby
from the bed
and cradles him
in an affectionate
embrace.

Sparkles splashed
across her eyes
a smile grows
so large and wide
as she holds
this newborn babe.

The dominoes
of years
tip over too fast
as the little boy grows,
and plays those
board games
with his grandma.

Wheel a fortune watchers,
they both enjoy
beating the contestants
to the answers.

Long car trips
and chocolate chips,
she plays and sit
as the substitute
church pianist,
all soft interludes
of memories
he shared with her
had a tasty musical tint.

Later on, the boy is gone
his grandma starts to fade
and that once precious child
doesn’t make it back that way
in time to say goodbye.

People move
in fear,
migrating from
the dangerous militia
chasing them
with death’s gleam
in their eyes,
fathers carry
their daughter,
mothers urge
their sons
to move on
as miles pass.

Strangers
and
family members
are tightly packed
and stacked on top
of one another
as a world of choppy water
moves them forward
to a harbor they hope
is safer than the home
that they ran from.

Thin tired faces
hungry and anxious
hoping to escape this
nightmare,
easily inches from death,
move to march
across soft lands
and desert sands
seeking something
us soft bellied
cheeseburger
loving sedentary
men and woman
could not comprehend.

I hear the horrible hate speech
screeching out at me,
beer bellies bulging dangerously
with prechewed stupidity
denying the humanity
of these struggling human beings.
Tears of strained patience
crease my age lined face
as I try to explain
the reality of another being
who is suffering.

My peers do not hear me
instead they promote fear greedily,
But I see some strangers
holding up signs of love
speaking the same truth
that I eschew
to show all of you
that refugees do not walk
without a reason,
and we have enough resources
to be decent human beings.

I was not winter ready
but weary and worn,
sights set meant to carry
this heavy burden
that I have born,
the season slowly
finds its demise,
and green things
find their roots
and start to rise.

Spring is on its
mating high,
buzzing with
all that nature loving.
Until the heat becomes
too much
and pulsing passions
push to pains
of heated lust.

Summer strikes
quicker then
a ninja’s throwing star
or some other
adolescent fantasy metaphor,
aggressive expansion
of heated frustrations
scolding the core
of the southern
parts of our nations.
Till the lights recede.

Then I fall
like orange
autumnal leaves
coming back
so close
to those bitter cold
beginnings,
sleeves extend
with their own
warming intent
and sweat stains
no longer plague
my once
wet and darkened pits.

Then the frosty fear
returns here
and
I must write
a new winter poem.