Within reach

as if a mirage

yet, this time

it's all too real.

Every gardener
knows what it is
to be pricked
by a rose’s thorn.
to that end,
-wear gloves.

Routinely these words
miss most
and reach only a few.

Some call them trite,
lame
or flat.

Not up to par;
nonetheless they fill this space
and await contemplation.

aching muscles,
these memories;
a blood stained t shirt.
all the while
pretending
not to feel pain.

Needed someone
to understand
if you fall
you can get up again.
-Why glass bottles
are full of sand,
how it goes
round and round.
Nothing's bound forevermore
not hate nor love.

There's talk of redemption
in crowded halls,
and as they adjust the dial
there's an addendum.
hard to tell
just who is right
although everyone knows
who is wrong.
no doorway in sight
in this mirror funhouse,
but the poor have TV's now
isn't that nice?

Constant

yet, ever-changing.

Just as waves

on the beach;

so are the years

and us.

I had some things to say
-and as the age wages on
and hope starves
as love lures the moon and the sun,
I find once more
I'm full of words for you.
Simple minded hearts suffer the most;
caring deeply has its cost.

There is this scream;
a voice that is loud,
but often incoherent,
yet powerful.
The walls of my mind echo
this scream
and pages are filled
with lousy reproductions.
For it is delayed
and smoothed out.
The raw shrillness
stays hidden within.

The flowers
have been
dying
ever since
I picked them
for you.

It's sink or swim
till the words pour in.

Nothing becomes everything
beneath the mighty pen.

And a smile on your face
is worth the pages and the waste.

But, I won't walk you through it,
I'll just get you to the door.

Suddenly
you cast upon me
doubts and flaws;
not a single virtue
as resentment creeps.

It’s waiting
jut round the bend.
not a lover
nor a friend.

was there at the beginning,
will be there at the end.
For now it waits,
till we meet again.

-Minding my step
sidewalk’s cracked and broken.
promises littered
throughout the streets.

Unaware
of what awaits,
call it the secret
of the Fates.

Life is there
in the in-between;
those moments
that build...

and death
is just
something we seldom
talk about.

hollow hearts tear at the skin
lust and passion-idle friends
bottles clink during the day
shatter at night.
whispers turn to screams
as the end begins again

The one on her left wrist
reminds her of a family member
now long gone.
On her right forearm
a flower, because she liked how it looked.
On the back of her neck
a gecko she got in Cancun
and on her left thigh, one she'd rather forget.
None add her up or subtract
who she was or who she is.

Been drinking
as if the whiskey
will grow stale.
Meanwhile
not  a single word's been written
since the start of this hell.
I don't mind the silence,
it is the nights that bother me;
the moon and starlight
reminding me hope once lived!

thoughts are passing cars today;
ever changing,
constantly
on the move.
colors blur
and details clash.
one after the other,
the next
faster than
the last.

When all is failing- as it often does.
Laughter might not be enough,
nor beer and alcohol
nor praying to all the Gods.
-No matter,
just keep in mind,
sometimes it's your turn
to lose
and that's fine.
It is a long game after all

Bittersweet song
on my radio.
Reminiscing on our story
as if conjured.
Some roads fork
and divide,
others turn to dirt
and get lost in the wilderness.
Still, there's a melody
to be found;
memories fondly held,
despite the lies.

Akin to summer rain
or words you can't
seem to articulate
or the smile you feign,
The risk you take
once more.
Even coffee with an old friend,
or moments you regret.
‘bittersweet symphony’
on the radio.
And tears from your eyes
- right on cue.

Away from the roots of it,
far from the truth;
there you'll be.
Asking questions no one can answer.
dodging stares,
slurring, launching
slings and arrows
at your darling- your sweetheart.
Hard to believe this could be your reality,
but it twist and it turns all within the bounds.
Yet, physics will mean little to you
as the heart aches.
and the roots of it all
are out of reach now.

A misplaced comma,
an misused apostrophe;
what some call extra skin,
not fat, but a flap.
The military calls it a redundancy,
although some find it repugnant.
A synonym for excess,
a form of alienation; disgust.

There's beauty there,
willfully beyond my reach,
yet ever so near.
Its light reflects
upon my eyes
and consumes
all clarity.
Not mine,
not free;
nor shining for me.
Still,
there's a skip
a rhythmic beat
within.

Way back when
we knew nothing,
just kids trying to fit in,
to understand;
what's this life all about?
something we've yet to figure out.
Still, we laughed freely back then,
way back when.

Cupid had no say
between your heart and mine,
it was a different fate
which our paths intertwined.
No chocolate or wine
nor a perfect line to win your heart.
Still all that's true lingers in your eyes,
our love, like clouds;
firmament
where all takes place.

All this bottled up
nostalgia;
pour it
and drink up.
A dream
sustained
in the air;
a star
without
a name.
Ray of light
hides
between
these glaring eyes.

Yours is a path less traveled.
Rythmic for the love of drums.
Got cabinets full of bills,
things that’ll never keep.

A string thugs ever-so-slightly,
but it is visible you see?
Freedom was sold,
hope you kept the receipt.

As if there is none,
be it by chance
or something other.

A wondering lights up interiors;
Such abundance of articles
more-overs out of use.

No stand is clearer than
a subject nearing sight.
I am.

Harboring dreams,
those that don't allow sleep.
Like nothing
it is still there
waiting for all
that won't come.

A Chimera
ardent in my veins,
like alcohol to an open wound.
Wakes me in the morn,
keeps me up at night.
These nights no more dark than eternal.

I hurt just the same
More or less
Still, there’s no rest
And these pages scribbled
Adorned with ink blots
-every other word
And there’s very little punctuation.
---
Scratched a line that was a lie,

Another removed, for it said too much.
Should be simple to understand
Really;
I hurt just the same.

frail bones
barely
holding;
a past as rich,
as the future is poor.
still
everything holds
until.

feels like a re-run,
a cig you ***
when you’re down
on your luck.
something is about to break,
maybe it’s your day
or maybe
it’s just you.

When
At the end of the day
or in a lull of a moment
you won’t think of me.

Dawn shed its colors
as night passed by,
giving way to daylight.
Wide-eyed, constantly neglecting
dreams cast
somewhere on the pillow.

Tried, but certain warmth would not keep.
Waiting- traffic and work.
Meanwhile a yearning stagnantly weighs.
Once more committed. Another day to waste
whilst dreams lay
somewhere on the pillow.

Baby blue
against egg white,
silver framed mirror
near the pale light;
exposed bulb,
dust ridden.
~All mired in mediocrity,
stretching the lines
and still
falling short of meaning;
always lacking a certain capacity
to emote.

Vow to live.
To meet the days
in revolt.
Death will come nonetheless;
but make no time for death,
rather for life.

Not an ounce of anger
nor arden rage
which typically fill the pages.
There’s a subtle calm
causing such hesitation;
a sense of being stuck.
-Restless, drifting
in a sea of tranquility.

As night quiets the songs,
silence awakes the mindful.
rummaging
through old wounds;
now silly scars of course,
but how they bled once!

The vast expanse
is worrisome.
The search is futile,
in the end is all very foolish.
Knowledge allows the proposition
that there’s a lot we’ll never know.
While ignorance is loud and obnoxious,
completely unaware of it’s shortcomings.
The struggle
takes place in between.

Old New York stared back -resolute,
as I tried to write.
Every line seemed trite.
A scribble here,
A doodle there,
The paper was pale with frustration
And my hands were distraught with tension;
couldn't write a decent line.
Not even after a few glasses of wine.
I love the city and how nothing stops moving,
but perhaps
It moved too fast.

thought the park would help,
really thought it would.
seeing the birds,
the trees,
the colors in the sky
and the light bouncing off the lake.
but, I saw past it,
saw the highway
running along the green's edge.

Keeps searching,
Hoping.
If not this one,
The one still to come.
Heart is rapidly beating,
Constantly grieving.
Eyes flickering,
-Always losing,
Gaining years
And mascara infused tears.

Dust sits on the shelf,
no books or papers
only dust,
remainders of life.
-Staring at it,
feeling nothing.
Hoping for nostalgia, but no.
This sudden detachment is worrisome.
The work can suffer
you know?

If you’ve ever struggled to keep your eyes fixed
on two passing ships as they drift
onto opposite directions,
then you have a sense
of what it is like
to walk in New York City.
The city of old and new,
a close knit community of loners striving
even at failure.
Yet, the afternoon skies are honest,
gray and bright.
There’s warmth still
to be found on cold nights,
all sorts
come alive on that cement island of lights

Pale light
shines down
reveals the blank page.
Nothingness; an opporunity
- infinite.
the fool rushed in,
fiddled with some words,
adding up to nothing.
That’s the worst of it;
light wasted
and ink
and paper.

Innocent is the unborn,
till it's first breath.
A product of guilty parties,
thus ignorance allows it's visceral cries.
I beg,
condemn them not,
their fate (like all) is sealed.
Death,
not one soul has yet forgotten.

Waves arrive at the shore
tired of such
   entanglement.
Your enamored stare;
Like the moon
    Stares at the sun.

In your hair you retain
White sand and a sea flower.
     You adorn my sight
With a bright reflection.
   and the ocean enraged,
              Mirrors our love.

This ache seems to be
like Papa's White Elephants;
valuable in a sense
I've yet to understand.

Busy body, tranquil mind,
a joke I say!
The fishing line
is ever tangled.

Another
wasted morning,
another
throwaway.

The absence of a beat,
an empty seat
dust covered clothes;
a fight concerning who's valued most.
Who is entitled to this or that?
Meanwhile the lawyer stares at his watch.
Little Jenny asks for grandpa,
the room is a sudden quiet
and the temperature drops
and the apple on the desk continues to rot.

tippy toeing around once more,
still all that fails is true
and lies are grand for while,
until, always until.
-alone isn't always solitude
or lonely,
but it is.
I see the words in the air
and when I reach,
they scatter.
I'm keeping quiet
and very still,
maybe something will happen,
or someone might come in and talk
and I can put the pen down
and admit it's useless.