the wind is a ghost, the sages agree
but their argument snapped on a technicality
the spirits that flow in silence, sincere,
will never deliver what just isn’t there

where is the gift that was promised
how could this day ever end
the beads that we fashion
seem strung toward naught
and high ideals confronted
with a very silly reality
where do we go
where was I before birth
how do we live without answers
without a single clue
as if the very stones we tread
were also concerned with their demise



Wednesday, November 27, 2013

the sound of water the sight of trees
the crushing vice of memories
the hints of understanding led,
to declarations left unsaid
that skipped by meaning
and fled to feeling
a place that deserves little trust
sunbeams lead to floating dust

well, you don’t hear much these days
regarding Adam’s fall
how his frail, human ways
****** and ******* us all

all he had was Paradise
imagine that embrace
with just a small sacrifice
he could stop our fall from Grace  

he must have felt the touch
what the French call ennui
the Garden didn’t matter much
it was just another tree

he could never know the pain
that knowledge was his sin
or what the ages would contain
had his Father taught him discipline

from this moment springs

the improbable

our minds

which can soar to anywhere

are all we have

there is no alternative

objective thought

does not count



Tuesday, November 5, 2013

as I am haunted by the past
and know that this is twisted
by far desire that pounds away
as if anything existed


Friday, October 18, 2013

a wall as metaphor fits the bill
to these thoughts ***** nil
a massive wall near six feet wide
covered with sharp stucco side
that ****** pierces the forehead skin
as heads bang in a continuous whim
for tell me what is a reality for
when breath and bone are felt no more

Saturday, October 19, 2013

when roots are free the plant will grow
but no one measures how far it is to go
by earth,
field,
plow stone,
shine,
air,
rain

the mass of a living world remain
an untold mystery behind curt pages
of the driving soul and the spirit wages


Saturday, October 26, 2013

men have risen
from their bed from sleep
to pen and scribe for the canon
philosophical matters deep

I rose from my bed from sleep
to pen and scribe my day
equal to the thoughts of giants
my parchment, reality

unhealthy amount of golf here's some poetry from the days of dark corners of 2009

beside summer, three months of anything is hard to take

dear Kate Moss: I will marry you immediately

try to add a little sanity
but it sure is a lonely job
in a world where all is vanity
and emotion rises and bobs
thought is a solid thing
this world is way too sizeable
a speck of eternity’s wing
an’ nothing  be recognizable

as illusions go
the dawn is right up there
along with happiness
it picks a spot
of darkest darkness
beginning to glow
oh so very slow
and calls the birds
to begin their dances


Monday, November 4, 2013

try to add a little sanity
but it sure is a lonely job
in a world where all is vanity
and emotion rises and bobs
thought is a solid thing
this world is way too sizeable
a speck of eternity’s wing
an’ nothing  be recognizable

numbers are fascinating fictions
since their existence is in question
by some very smart people
but at the same time
are greatly accepted as truth
by a great mass of data
balanced on a pin

Tuesday, October 8, 2013

Live fast, die young.

Live slow, still go.

not sure that’s possible
as far as the matter can be seen
one head just like any other
a symphony of verse
I should never had entered the room