breaking my body
against the blunt instrument
of your tethered soul

Winter sun bleaches
sky French blue above the sand;
false warmth lures, beckons.

Your poems leave
a trace of a breath
stirring hairs
on the back of my neck,
a shifting of weight,
quiet, implacable
creak of springs,
footsteps,

a pause

footsteps
a door closing.

Would I could live by
what I write and what I see
each minute, each day.

You are light itself;
you are blessed, you are blessing.
Peace always with you.

I once worked the sign
at the intersection
of Facebook and HelloPoetry.
All those years when
secure in my job,
flush with cash,
I'd not meet the eyes
of those who muttered
"thank you, sir"
on those rare occasions
when a crumpled dollar
fell from my hand into theirs.
So I now tell on myself
to bleed the shame
from the arrogance,
never knowing the courage
it takes to look the privileged
in the eyes and ask for help
until I stood on the corner
clothed only in my naked need.

Hello Poetry's
existential dilemma;
should I Like myself?

I'll be back when I
have a greater dream than to
live another day.

My heart is filled with overwhelming peace
in spite of what the doctor's tests reveal;
a sense of love and caring will not cease.

For one whose life had been one of dis-ease,
where dreams died off, existence seemed unreal,
my heart is filled with overwhelming peace.

There's been no letting go, no caged release
of pent-up terror, prayers, nor appeals.
A sense of love and caring will not cease.

The demons fought for years have been appeased,
their hellish hounds no longer nip my heels.
My heart is filled with overwhelming peace.

Embraced by those whom I expected least;
misunderstandings cauterized and healed.
A sense of love and caring will not cease.

My chosen family, listen, if you please:
Concerned I am, but fear's not what I feel.
My heart is filled with overwhelming peace;
a sense of love and caring will not cease.

An old salt sits alone at end of dock,
to watch the ships home safely from the sea.
Not that his weather-beaten lips would ever talk
of voyages his mind takes, odysseys
the younger sailor he once was signed on,
where friendships sailed into romantic ports
of call.  Now safely berthed, he casts a fond
remembrance back on battling violent storms,
a roller-coaster ride on cresting waves
of lust and anger.  Something near a smile
will almost crease one side of sun-scorched face;
a glimpse of paradise sails 'cross the miles.
Young sirens beckon, call him to his past;
he'll walk home safely, lashed unto the mast.

Slender, sinuous
strand sending succor, support,
soothing struggling soul.

What brings peace must first
break down resistance, comfort;
old habits die hard.

Who've tasted freedom
will have no appetite for
less; silence be ******.

When people learn how
not to hate in the name of
love, Spirit breathes free.

Understand that
you lost your husband
a couple years back
to heart surgery
and breast cancer.
His ghost has been
wandering in and out
of your life since;
must have been a 
real pain
to see him sitting
vacant
next to you on the couch
in the empty seat
you left for him.
Just curious...
if you could have him back
after all this time,
would you take him?

There is nothing left;
a voice without an echo.
Thanks to those who've read.

Had poet's breakfast
this morning; a tasty bowl
of Synonym Life.

Compadres gather
around the hearth, rekindling
warmth of memories.

I ran around town
all day, and you couldn't leave
me one ******* plum???

She lives to love a man who once could sing
his way into the hearts of many crowds;
once strong enough to pick up anything
with either back or mind.  Her man had wowed
the critics with his skill with a guitar,
with songs that brought salt water to the eyes
and lyric laughter.  Could have been a star,
connections came and left, not realized.
The cracking voice now breaking hearts instead,
the left hand hanging, useless, by his side.
His back is bent, his heart is weak, his head
is filled with possibilities untried.
What's left of him can barely take her hand...
and yet...
                 and yet, she lives to love her man.

Definition of
an American poet:
living a half-mile
from the canyon's cliff, but still
insists he lives on the edge.

Discovered a new
"poet", Diksha Patel, a
master plagiarist.

There is a
thousandandone
year old man

you'd never guess
to see him

for that matter
you'd walk by him
and never notice

he is old
he is wise
he tries to change
no one
but himself
and then only
on alternate Tuesdays

the few who know
will once and again ask
"how do you do it" and
"of what do you dream"

he will say
he will always say
"i wake, i live my day
until i sleep
i sleep, i dream
to live another day".

a thousandandoneyears
a day at a time.
he is a happy man

your tears are ninjas
tearing my still-beating heart
straight out of my chest

Take a hit;
hurt a bit
and get over it.

Flourescent hope is
tapped by reality; picking
shards out of my skin.

there is a vast peace
in the respite
of disease;
aware both of
infinite time
and finite life,
giving notice to
what endures,
what passes.
each moment hangs
glowing in
the sunset of eternity,
perfect,
ripe and juicy
as the strawberry
growing
from the cliff.
tiger of living above,
chasm of death below,
hanging by a
breaking branch
with red-stained lips.

Every artist wants
to be admired, adored; so
few of us worthy.

icy blue skies are
clear and cold reality;
not a dream in sight.

Ray of clarity
breaks through my clouded vision
and warms my spirit.

winter's whisper shouts
louder than the full-throated
bellow of springtime.

The house of my soul
has many rooms,
foundation poured
over many lifetimes,
the layout determined
by some master architect.
Each room has
its own view
of the world.
Cannot say I've changed;
can say
as ages pass,
the rooms inhabited
are not the same.

pieces of me in
the shredder; home wherever
the trash bin collects

Electorate now educated by
and through the auspices of internet,
decisions carrying a world of weight
are swayed by Facebook posts. Small wonder why
the grins and gigged brains voted into power
don't need to think about vox populi;
anonymous vox dei spins the lies
into their pseudo-truth six times an hour.
What passes now for discourse or debate
are statuses, conflicting rumors checked
unscrupulously for what shreds of fact
they may contain. God help the candidate
who actually has a plan to put in play;
the way that can be spoken's not the way.

In the heavy silence
of a gathered throng,
he stood before us,
asking us to reach
toward whatever we believed
in soul-bound silence,
and ask the Universe
the most audacious wish
we held most dear.
Spirit in the room with us
absorbed all ambient sound.
I closed my eyes,
beseeched the
Great Un-understood
to prove, to show me
It exists.  Show me
that I pray not to
a ceiling, clouds, the vapors
of overheated faith.
The quietude which followed
stilled my rushing blood
within my ears, behind my eyes
as one by one, the family
chosen, not born
over agonizing years
appeared to me, smiling,
extending their heart's embrace
to cradle me with arms
still felt today.  My friends,
*my God speaks love
through your creations,
and the love you create
feeds whatever Gods there are.

May I present the envoy from the great state of Anhedonia.

We are awash in
love and many die of thirst;
learn to drink it in.

I extend a hand,
a smile to Death, and bid him
comfort in my soul.

Since my father died
so young, always unreasoned
fear of dark, the end.

I have my father's
heart; it will fail me, just as
his stopped that winter.

He worked when he could
(not often at the end) to
keep family fed.

I have my father's
heart; I work for food, shelter
to its final beat.

I say in half-jest
I work to eat better cat
food in retirement.

The half-truth unsaid
is I work so my wife might
eat in retirement.

I pray I have my
father's heart; lived so bravely
and died so alone.

Can't explain the peace
when paradise's cold enough
for sweats and hot soup.

On hold half an hour;
bathroom break costs spot in queue.
Service is ****-poor.

An embrace of words,
voices singing over void of
miles warms heart, soothes soul.

To hide in plain sight
essential to perform; wish
you had got that one.

Light tread, heavy heart;
bears are the realm of spirit
in physical world.
The bridge they are carries weight;
a responsibility.

You
run your(selves)
foaming
over imperfect
jagged
boulders
water
healing, abrading,
breaking me
into round
handfuls of
careful heft,
scattered along
freshly carved
sandy bends
(where more
than a few are
said to have
struck gold),
waiting for
wanderers
to seek a stone
that fits
and skip it
onetwothreefourfivesixdang
across peaceful you
calming as we 
luxuriate,
spread out,
slow the flow
inevitable
inexorable
loss of us
both into
impassive
sea

sacred silence hangs on angel wings
blessing, watching over wakened night
fluttering on the screen, drawn to the light of
consciousness, the truth of darkened mornings.
strong, alone, remotely flipping through the
channels of the restless bar-room soul
charles bukowski, angry, drunk and droll;
pavement wisdom yanked inside, renewed and
resurrected.  rolling stone lays open,
having sprung the latent-night messiahs
preaching to insomniacal choir.
cryptic muse's recipe for coping:
be consumed, entombed, re-wombed by
worshiping and feeding written fire.

To live life in intensive clarity
you must prepare yourself a lonely house.
A friend or three, of course. Perhaps a spouse
or three, as well, though even they won't see
how deep the silent spring that feeds your soul.
Intensity, in truth, is rarely loud
or boastful; more like one who's been allowed
perspective broad enough to see the whole.
Many come to visit, few will stay.
Some believe one lesson will suffice
until they understand in full the price,
the cost it takes to find and walk your Way.
For wisdom's earned not doing as you're bid
by those who knew much better than you did.

Can't see the pathways through the crush
as forest's canopy makes night;
an overgrowth of underbrush
prevents new sprouts from reaching light.
Some cleansing clearing is in store
creating space to feed new life
by burning down what heretofore
had nourished nature.  Now it's rife
with rotted stands of misshaped growth
untended, harboring disease.
I strike the match. The fire is both
destroyer, bringer of a peace;
the aftermath of smoldering soul
with ashen truths to make me whole.

I pray my muse will bear a heavy weight,
as cantilevered dreams of fifty years
come crumbling down, the poor-grade aggregate
made up of childish vision, youthful fears,
watered gruel of faith, reality
intended to cement what cinder-blocks
of present living I stacked shiftlessly
on half a slab collapses.  Time now mocks
my thoughtless, grandiose designs; its tide
sweeps what I'd have my future hold away
in universal undertow.  Aside
from inspiration, vision, words at play,
my muse has double duty to be borne:
a reason I should wake up every morn.

Come, rest your weary body in my arms;
your tattered thoughts rewoven as you sleep.
My spirit wrapped around you, safe and warm.

Cradled up against me, held from harm,
your dreams are free in slumber, still and deep.
Come, rest your weary body in my arms.

Your childlike face protected from the storm
of daily waking nightmares: I will keep
my spirit wrapped around you, safe and warm.

Seductive demons, stealthy in their charms
may bring a restless stirring as they creep;
come, rest your weary body in my arms.

Should you be stung awake by buzzing swarms
of memories, strafing you until you weep,
my spirit's wrapped around you, safe and warm.

The day-to-day may fill you with alarm;
let night sow gentle comfort you may reap.
Come, rest your weary body in my arms;
my spirit wrapped around you, safe and warm.