A river carved
between nobles
One for sinful pleasures
the other a white voice of reason

amongst the multitude of rapids
they spill
sinful and holy colors
into the river
canceling the other
to a gray tinge

it is balanced
but one side could
seize the other
in noble duel
of swordsmanship of fate
flooding the land that dictates
giving into their waters

we are the estuary
that obtains these actions
thus the color of the river
feeds into and tints
the larger self, the ocean

it is about the time
when gold meets
the earth

the light emitted
romantically sings
the land to slumber

it is about the time
when thoughts drift
and eyes wander

they follow
painted brush strokes
made by pulling winds

it is about the time
you call
it is distant and faint

a sweet sound
carried to my ear
as it is meant to be

it is about the time
I turn to you in half light
As twilight fills your face

It is beautiful
soft and warm
in the waning sun

Here I sit
Boiled by the days rising water
Its close I fear to the edge
The splashes singe what’s left
Temperature rising
It roars out of control
Hands finally touch five
A simmering day, coming to an end
The day now a vessel
Removed from the source
To cool the angry waters

Watching through the pane
Your hands as cuffs
As you unveil the earth
Tending what you sow
The Night Before last
Under the blood moon
It was that night
Where we spoke and
Planted seeds of old ideals
We would be as the land
Nurturing one another
As we both worked
To bring callused hands
Gripping the fruits
Of our labor
To our humble
Farm house table
These days would be long
Out in ribbons of gold
And slight scent of country roses
Would be our remuneration
These are our seeds
That we both planted
That we will water
That we will grow
Soon my love
As they are ready
We will pick each
Dream and live

How did I get here?
Upon this bench,
I sit.
Watching the frames,
fill and flicker.
It is screen play,
you see.
You are the star.
These other entities,
they are just extras,
in your world and mine.
So, I watch the scene,
as laughter echo’s and
foot steps scamper.
Audiences infected,
by your momentous energy.
Although they do not know,
you, nor do I?
Or is it that I do not understand,
this metaphor of distance.
I wonder about the end,
of this tall tale.
Tragic?
Dramatic?
Happy?
I wonder…
How you must think…
of me?

It is felt
When rays dip below
The unforgiving trees

It is felt
In late autumn
When color is ******
From the land
Leaving towering skeletons

It is felt
In the depth of winter
Where silence
Blankets the house

It is felt
Even in spring
Where gardens are like children
Cared for and fed
But now starved and dead

It is felt
Yes it is
I have felt
This… for years

Find your reflection,
in a lake in the west.

I will be here.

Bring music to the deaf,
let it fill your soul.

I will be silent.

Be the light for those in dark,
shine brightly its a gift.

I will be still in darkness.

Ground yourself in towering peaks,
stand firm and strong.

I am ****** in time.

Find love among Aspens,
lay in the leaves.

I will wait,
and lay with regret.

It is neither here,
or there.
Not behind this door,
or maybe this one, no.
Tis not high? Or low?
Oh, I’ve forgotten so.
One can be pleased,
as I have misplaced this.
My steps miss-traced,
something could be amiss.
Though, it is difficult,
to lose such a thing.
Its hands wrap around my neck,
as it clings.
I can’t hear it ring,
what sound will it bring?
When it finally comes back.
Oh, what happened to it,
I feel like a lout.
Where is my self-doubt?

I'm an eagle,
that flies high above the basin.
Or, am I a snake navigating the forest floor.
Fate is what answers this.
It's cold reaches high and low.
One strives for the sky,
but walks among meadows.
Not knowing of twig they break,
or the path they wield.
Am I an eagle?
I would like to be,
high above the heavens.
Far from the roots that hold,
and nourish.
Am I a snake?
Meekly making way through thicket.
Always finding passage,
through life's perils.
Yes, only fate can answer this.
Fate will choose.

Make no mistake,
you reveal yourself at the bottom.
It's dark and cold,
your pale with black hair,
And **** yellow eyes.

You float,
in your prison.
Void of breath,
and golden rays.
Bringing life,
and color.  






You’ve hit bottom.







Below this,
you feel helpless.
As a trapped animal
waiting to die.

The weight I carry,
was all for you.
Now you left me,
at sea.
I’ve drowned,
months ago.






In 2018, I hit bottom.







Below this…
Glass like,
motivation shatters.
Further you fall,
into darkness.
Your voice,
no longer ripples.
Let it take you.









How much further?








With struggle,
I can’t sink like a stone.
There are souls,
who need me.
Your hand pulls,
me down, it's heavy.
I kick you,
I punch you,
I struggle,
to let you go.
Your grip is,
loose and careless.
Like the past three years.

With a swift kick,
I am free.

I


Let


You


Go

In seeing,
as a child,
breathing blinded.

As we fail to remember,
what we want,
and need at that moment.

We are greedy as ants,
following the path,
striving for the same leaf.

We are small,
humbled by blue sky,
and the night stars.

Only then we remember,
who we really are.

it is one desire
I have kept away

it is there behind Revenge
a jealous sister

she is there

her hair black as vanilla
eyes cold and numb

she taunts and pulls
to reveal

the flickering
foresight

of what is capable
what is expected

center stage
she quivers

“Revenge is a thought”
“Revenge is a coward”

“let me act”
“perform”

******!
She pulls

******!
She yanks

pulling at the very
thread of desire

her sound is dark
yet sweet

a howl
screaming for embrace

a performance
rhythmically polished

with saber and dagger
tip toe and pivot

she performs
the act

the act of
revenge

What is love,
if not told to the heavens?
What I feel for you,
is locked deep in the ocean.
The more I know you,
the Deeper I go into your forest.
What I want is not empty,
like weathered plains.
It’s not murky nor dead,
as I step through your swampy past.
It’s whole and true,
as the smell of rain in April.
Its beauty is among the sun,
in spring.
All I want for you,
for us.
Is an adventure,
of love everlasting.

Beyond the ridge
Together we clamber down
The pitch is sharp
With field floral and dust

Sister in forefront
And I far behind
Limping to the tune
Of catching up

My Naked feet scarred
By fierce barbs
The palms bleed
beet red

Gripping the handle
Of a vessel of water
That didn’t escape
Once from its spout

We stop amongst
Sapling timber
As the gold
Lights the terrain

This jaunt is meant for two
It is made before the gold sleeps
A ritual of emotion
Within each of us

Its purpose is to pour
The putrid water
That plagues us
And our thoughts

We are inconsolable
Son and daughter
So we pour each day
Into the puddle

Droplets of memory
Splashes of abuse
Ripples of habit
Spray of deception

Since then
The puddle is no longer
But a vast body of liquid
A lake

Most have been swallowed
Except for a small parcel
Where we rest our feet
Upon the ridge

The flood has taken years
But we hold the ****
And nail it shut
The pressure is there

We can feel it
One of us will have to
break
To release the flow

One of us will have to…


break.........

“just a small dream”
“It was childish to think…”
I thought

The cold stole my breath
And froze each digit

“It was childish to think…”

My body slunk into white
As the thought raced through

“It was childish to think…”

“that”

“I”

“could”

“fly”

You should know,
that I no longer follow my compass.
Where the wind pushes,
I lead with squinted eyes.
The horizon is far,
cradled with opportunity.

I’ve taken the step for once,
without you and your map.
I’ve held my hand out,
gave you coordinates.
Yet, you hesitate.

You should know,
I’ve tried.
We no longer scramble,
the sharp edges of “what if?”.
Instead, the question is,
“what now?”

How did it come to this?
I thought with the sun.
Tying the string,
on brush and broken branches.
Will you follow?
The hints, arrows, and signs.

Our maps are different,
one south and one north.
Still, I tried,
circling landmarks left and right.
You will not go north,
but south.
We depart in full gate,
away from our point.
Alone.

You should know,
its time to say goodbye.

I love you.

“Keep your nose clean”

His intent was momentous.
An ant like phrase,
with mountainous exorcism.

“Keep your nose clean”,
His voice like Zeus,
thunderously subtle.

Echoing and vibrating,
through regret, sin,
and fueled debauchery.

This phrase kept me true,
on-course through,
dark seas.

A map to navigate,
knowing when,
to steer away.

“Keep your nose clean”
I hear him still,
his voice sobering.

“Yes, grandfather.”

“I will”

I, seek
that crest in clouds.
A mountain of time,
awaits my feet.

This defeated path,
has peaks of highs and lows.
Some descend beyond the crust,
into depths of unknown.

The tracks I lead and leave,
void not others.
But, stray far from the norm,
each step soon becomes my own.

As I climb, the steps awake,
in the land and mark fate.
These steps can’t be wiped away,
instead they freeze.

One wrong step,
could prove to be my last.
Even ******, I climb,
over each obstacle.

It is endless, it seems.
The time spent,
day after day lifting each foot.
Trying to live in moment.

Or, I could let my feet rest,
let them stop and settle.
But, longing will still plague,
my soul, my being.

So I seek the endless,
shroud that towers over.
I will continue,
the fight, my fate, my journey.

On a cool damp night
the patter of the port subsided
drips of the cold rain echo

a captain ripe with whiskey
breaks the silence of the harbor
feeling his way back
to the flat on high street

navigating his feet on each stone
he muttered to himself
“left, right and then right again”

ending at a stoop
he found the *** within three
“click” the humble door opened

entering the dwelling
ready for the weeks pummel
he swung his fists at the inhabitants
especially the women, the wife

this night was routine
the smell of whiskey, puke and **** is familiar
but, tonight the mist in the air was different
his blood boiled with fermented spirits
his eyes gazed an emptiness of black

with a quick hand
reaching for a sparkle of steel
he firmed his grip and pulled from the block

it made a “ting” sound as it cut the air
meeting gently with mothers throat
with rage, his eyes stabbed with intention
holding the cold steel to freckled skin
his remarks filled her eyes with fear

and I in the corner, watching, listening, feeling and rocking
yes that was you, as a sea captain
and I was there

Black berry bushes
Wagon wheel fields
And a paint chipped house
Is where you
Spent your younger years

Fragrant straw
And fresh dew
Filled your mornings

Clinking mason jars
Were the bells
That rang in the,
full breath of summer

sprinkle of soil
on your cheek
bare feet
and a dog
named Cash

if I was there
if we met then
this is how I see you
and how I would fall
in love

Go north,
into Frost’s domain.
Comparing your soul,
and walk the same path.
Stomp the ground,
to make it real.
Walk in the wood,
in the grass and snow.
Follow the steps,
learned from the past.
Diverge in the thicket,
and follow your heart.

How did you do it?
Will I have to die to?

it was sometime in November
amid caffeine, books,
and fermented spirits
we laid parallel
as the morning sang a hymn
welcoming the new day
the air was between
crisp and warm
you could hear
the crunch of fallen blades
as pupils rush
to their next shift
transfixed in wonder
of who will give in
to the morning
our bodies
navigating  an endless sea
of tangled cloth
trying not to cross
into lands that border our own
even though these exquisite
properties became one
in the dark before last
it was sometime in November
you turned over in graceful play
and smiled
with nervous blinks
that complimented
the lingering sentiment
of autumn

Hands cracked as dried soap
******, battered
working out on the dust
its hard and still

a whisper of a geared wagon
tickles the ear of the fickle man
it is he... the man who points
he checks his list and nods
the man receives his daily remuneration

crackle of the sand paves the way
to a tin roof collective
where blurry eyed gentlemen line the plaster
the fickle man trades his social note
for a golden friend

I am opaque.
Just as a chameleon,
I blend.
But, long for color,
that connects us.
That too is opaque,
gray even.
As clouds,
heavy with rain.
Or fog,
as I reach blindly.

You don’t see me.

I am opaque.
Unworldly in sight,
but warm with blood.
Feverishly pumping,
want and need.
To touch,
that touches nothing.

You don’t feel me.

I am opaque.
Follow, I do the waltz,
seamlessly to impress.
Supporting each step,
as your wings are spread.
Catching the wind to fly,
I fall, knowing my place.

You don’t need me.

I am opaque.
Embrace,
is how I dream.
In reality, separated,
by brick and stone.
Each break mended,
carefully from the other side.
I am tired and sore,
but I pick away.

You don’t want me.

I am opaque.
With a low head, I choose,

to stay this way.
Defeated, the fog rolls in,
thick and vengeful.
I will do what I do best,
blend.

I am opaque.

You're gone.
I’m shattered.
Perfect little pieces,
of self broken.
Reflecting each side,
the hero that fought,
a poet that was adored,
the helpless romantic,
even the sadist.
All of me was for you.

Sweeping up whats left.
Assemble with glue and tape.
I am not perfect,
but I still love you.

there is a piano
it sits amongst woodland shroud
your tread
are what press the keys
to play a melody
of a woodland experience
this hymn
is different for each
as it entertains
the one that it suits
that one is you
so play the piano
the piano
in the woods

I am up, the house is still
Even after I have already taken the pill
It is here I write perfect forms with a modern quill
streams of light fill
and distill the dark passages at will
the ribbons finally reached my poet mill
where I read countless works from my till
until the silence is broken by a sound as loud as a drill
with a giggle from my sister Jill

I can not write.
My hands ****** in time.
I scream at pixels,
some dead in the corner.
I want to open up.  
Let it pour out as an ocean,
until overwhelming empty.
Composure must be kept,
as this is an art with structure.
The words must perform,
as dancers do before an audience.
As they read this,
it is only half of what is felt.
They can’t smell the rot,
that infects backstage.
The nagging screams,
that would make the world deaf.
Or be blinded by black,
during the bright of day.
I just want to be felt.
Release the tension,
of societies chains.
Or your chains perhaps.
They choke,
my voice,
inhibit my steps.
I want to just run.
Each send is a cry,
in a soundless megaphone.
Can I reach them?
Does this reach you?
I can’t write anymore.
Press send.
Scream.

we lost you in April
during the rains
it was as if the sky was grieving
we lost you right before the blooms
that awake during the crisp morning
we lost you, and it is April again
they speak to you now in silence
and in memory
we lost you…yes
maybe physically
but, I see you during the spring
where life is full and lush
I see you in the cardinals  
they fly free in ribbons of gold
this is where I see you
among blue hydrangeas

Pass the pasture
of four legged wool
beyond the knoll
and to the hill
here is where I sat
as still as a frighten fawn
the fragrance of sweet grass
and black berries
filled the air
remembering my
grand fathers words
“hard times will come”
“experience you will gain”
my nostrils widen
taking in the fragrance
I shall not burden myself
with these boulders
instead my eye and mind
will transcend pass
this physical beauty

Resenting the light,
from the Olympian,
that warms my wool.

It cowards behind holly,
that grows in the pine grove.
Retreats to shaded cold,
below timber arms.

It is disgusted to the sight,
of white, yellow and orange.
Prefers the blue of night.

As it fades, flows and steeps.
It becomes clear,
pillaged of its white veneer.

Though, it carries forward,
like a grudge that won’t melt away.
Or is it more like love,
ever changing.

Or even as stubborn,
as a cold bedded love.
That brings life to you,
at least once a year.

But, in the end
it recedes.
Into the wood,
from under the holly.

Then waits,
until you’ve almost forgotten.

My palms hit
With every step

Weightless …

Moving lightly
Swiftly along paved routes
I am fast
Perfect in form

Perfect …

I am always running
From what is
From what is now
And who will be

Faster…

I say to self
limbs tense
My gate in full

Pushing…

Determined
People say I am
Of things needed
And wanted

Farther…

Just a little more
It s right there
Its in reach

Finishing

Why?  How can I?
Looking forward
Eyes fixed on horizon

Passing…

Not giving in
I have much yet to tread
Because I enjoy

Running…

Dark and black,
coffee spilled.
Crimson spoiled,
white paper walls.
Empty stares,
full of wonder and fear.
Few connections,
what will be next.
People in the hallway,
one near the door.
A pearl high in the sky,
illuminates tears.
A door slams,
silence speaks.
Innocent screams,
in dramatic collapse.
Man tightens grip,
war has begun.
Stillness in the room,
a man at peace.

I sometimes forget or regret
Not knowing you
Your roots run deep
As does mine
But your shaded limbs
Stole my light
Pilfered my water
You were a rotted tree
Plagued with fungus
that grew into your mind
infecting the heartwood
it poured out through your limbs
spilling into the air
choking the saplings
as we fought for light

it was only then
when you were cut
removed from grounded roots
that we could feel the
warmth of the sun
that fueled our growth

she dances into black
engulfed in a wheel of hues
her limbs as if time lapsed
reveal the colorless to color
follow her, meet her steps with yours
mimic the routine based in ritual
paint each movement with small gestures
feel the momentum of each pass
let her lead through the dark and the unknown
she is but a nimble teacher
one who teaches each daunting step
that you carelessly fumble
your stride pressed in the soil, set but true
finding each print is fate
you can’t stop stepping forward
but, she will lead, on your rhythm
it is up to you which regiment, which plan
just take the first step
she will instruct and correct each fluid motion
from the beginning, middle and end
until your last performance
like many before, in pure innocents
you waltz at the edge of your stage
it will be graceful as a summer eve
ending with only in the sounds
of the night

Peering through the pane
My eyes fixated on color
A brilliance
Lit by a golden glow
I place my hand on the pane
Cold and crisp
It is Sunday morning
And silent
The faint sound of the breeze
Keeps silence in tuned
I am now in trance
As I peer through
My breath slightly fogs
It is Sunday morning
And I am tuned with silence

My grandfather often tells me
“follow silently in the wood”
they, the timber and fauna listen
for heavy steps and cracks
and with one careless fumble
they fade into the limbs
he said “tread lightly and listen”
perking his ear to the wind
only then, if your silent
peaceful beauty will emerge

I once fell asleep,
to pleasantries of sound.
As the ribbon slides,
it painted color vibrance.
An emotional luminance, that made,
the soulless whole,
and the blind blissful.

Sleeping to strings,
felt like death.
Not the regretful kind.
It felt as if laying,
in the field,
staring at the bountiful sky,
as seasons pass eternity.

A melody of,
exuberating melancholy,
was infectious.
As if my body,
gave into sickness.
Now its still,
in joyous null.

Let breath subside,
slowing to a faint whisper.
Sink into a nothingness mind,
drain all to slumber.
And listen to Prélude.

The wood is calm
From my bedroom window
Limbs sway gently
Giving tranquility  
I seek refuge in this moment
While chaos starts to breath
From the heart of house
With each gasp
the yelling screams
as it stains through the wall
my eyes falter only once
turning to the hall
as if to see it
creep up into my bedroom
breeding its hate
I turn
seeking refuge…again
in the wood
it is a slight calm
in this chaos

Though, should I
or have I begun?

To feel the tussling
Of blurring bodies.

Transforming and dancing,
Through these very halls.

Where aching is thick,
and a embrace is a release.

Should I begin?
How should I begin?

Swallow the dagger,
stabbing from behind.

Let it sit deep in my stomach.
Push it further, where it can’t cut.

Where will it end?
How will I begin?

Under lock and key,
Just where I left it .

It escapes as it did just now,
conjuring a puncture to bone.

Blood flows,
Rushes out into the world.

Is this a release?
How can I heal?*

Pouring out,
It tastes salty on the cheek

The color is dark,
cold to the touch.

Purging the night,
that stained blood black.

Sifting the chill,
of steel from bone.

Ringing out whats left of gore and fluid,
down the drain.

*I can begin now.
This is the end.

I’m sodden newspaper,
heavy with time.
Mucky layers,
that pull apart in chunks.
Masking detail,
of stories of my soul:
Hymns of love,
transcribed in invisible ink.
Mastheads that yell,
like father did.
Fables of summer in the wood,
when I was a boy.
These are my columns,
my life.

it is times like these my mind wanders
the mind picks a door, a path, a road
gracefully peers down the passage
entering a full spectrum of even more
displayed as little treats
I pluck from the neat order
off I go to wander
dawdle, I shall not
I step through each frame
and experience the blue prints
piece together each puzzle
again I pluck from the order
off I go to wander
this suite is different
large square and black
it plays flickering monochromatic films
that bring translucent drips  
again I pluck
this time it is warm
candle light sets the scene
a bed, a girl and a flipped lid
oh yes, her from the nook
my mind building her perfectly
every curve painted in detail
my hand following each
we step closer

closer...

closer...
closer...

SLAM!
the wind reminds me of reality
I awake
with eyes wide and breath heavy
to a soundless house

Here you you are again
Tripping up each sy  sy syllable
It’s like walking a smooth path
Except, I am skipping

My in-step barely touches the dirt
Before I can form the s s sound
With each skip and st st step
I try to ease my stride

How I long for this
A fluent pace, without a scamper
For I have places to be
And thoughts that need a voice

But, yet I skip and fu fu fumble
Tripping on each stone
And each vowel, noun and sound, mostly “e”
Is skipped and repeated ******

the moon in glory
lights the twinkle in the snow
a fox softly steps

Mist today is effervescent
It lurks during the morn
This marks the end of renewal
And slowly tucks green to sleep

The Mist softly heralds in
A painted landscape
And the smell of falling blades

The straw now bowed
To the slight sent of cold
As the Mist clambers up and down
To bed in the deepest valleys

Finally blanketing
And settling on the landscape

the gold ribbons speak
peaking over the ragged crest
release winters hold

Scribble,
Scribble.
The etchings,
of a dreamer.

Who's quill he,
quibbles with.

Grasping at an idea,
that he hydrates
with ink.

In wrathful vengeance,
he abuses parchment,
with a sharpened wood spear.

Drinking his creation,
tweaking the taste,
that's almost bitter.

Slash, ****,
cross out.
He is vexed,
about the ending…

Another being,
fresh with blood.
Pale with dark black circles.
Fills my sight,
every rebirth of gold.
It's even there,
during its death.
Its subtle whispers,
telling of truths.
Truths I know,
in heart and betrayal.
Pester and fester,
poke if you will.
Not even time,
grays your message.
“I know”,
with force I scream.
“I know”,
I sing.
Look away at the wall,
“breath”.
Open my eyes,
there you are…
In your vile prison,
reflecting flawed detail.
Who are you?
the being in there.

a structure
filled with belt buckles and bonnets
and yellow in tint

it welcomes the day
with bubbled windows
opened to the scent of thawing

with the grip of a steady winter released
the inhabitants embrace the air
and embark on the daily labors

clothes line flutters with white sails
the farmer tends the barren soil
and little feet, pitter patter across the green

this is an awaking
a birth cycle of warmth and light
begins a new

Droves of the dead,
drive through.
Women and men,
dogs doing tricks.
Shiny cars,
and slum deadbeats.
They are like rats,
finding the cheese.
Or maybe god?
Rich women,
poor men.
A nice guy,
in a car soulless.
Screens of pixels,
a father yells.
A mother cries,
her daughter falls in love.
Sunrises,
and then falls.
The dead rise,
soulless and unforgiven.
Trying to find their way.