To be sentenced
to a year and a day
of life
because one must
because others have tied
their lives to you
because you have
the only job

to plod forward in faith
alone
because the thing with feathers
was crushed beneath
the branches
when its perch fell

is to exist;

it is good to live once again,
to feel the soul branch out
and green,
and hear hope
chirping at the feeder
re-hung in faith.

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

Solemn silence singing
joyful dirge in parade
for bemused muse.

Because recycled
themes keep showing up, guess
I'm a green poet.

What works, what doesn't,
what words sing while others croak...
paper balled up, tossed.

if any
one
were to be
no
    thing,
then every
one
would be
(supreme)ly
being.

Having shot up
(with two flavors of insulin)
before bed,
I've been instructed to snack.

So I drop fifteen pills
with an ounce
(of water)
and wait for the subtle wave
of unreality
to flow through me.

Never thought my Eskimos
would be four doctors
and a dialysis nurse.

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

Sweet spring air kissed by
amorous sunshine, building
slow heat for summer.

Now: yesterday's dread,
tomorrow's history; the
only time we live.

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.

My fear sleeps so far
tonight, cradled lovingly
in the arms of faith.

The soil supporting growth
has long since been rinsed
down a muddy arroyo
to some alluvial plain,
someone else's loam,
ripe for seeding.
Roots were exposed,
gnarled fingers aching
for firm grasp,
finding air
and just enough wishes
to remain suspended
in place but not in time.
A place to stand under,
and understand
the stand of trees
nourished now only
by memories
of warmth and moisture,
the gentle showers
of tears and praise,
the embraces
of worms and earth.

Bones of dreams remain,
picked clean of pretense by the
winged passage of time.

He was a simple man of simple words,
or high-school girl with broken heart who thought
they had a message, or a call, or not.
Arriving with a sense of the absurd,
a bittersweet purview on life and love,
together with a gift for nuanced phrase,
appreciating how the language plays
upon the mind and tongue, they rise above
the well-worn similes, the tired cliches
for days, perhaps for weeks.  Then comes the time
when human ugliness shows up to flay
the budding poet.  The evidence of crimes
committed: smoky circles, nameless gray
reminders of whose gifts they took away.

There is a deep honor befriending an elder;
returning the blessings that we've been bestowed.
Also a frisson of fear we have held, for
we pray we are gifted with honor, not owed .

In spite of seeking,
struck dumb by immensity
of my ignorance.

There are so few true
men of Christ around; God alone
knows why Bob left us.

When offered the gift
of myself, I no longer
seek the return desk.

Spring's rush of warmth, the
morning breeze edged with the chill
of winter's last breath.

sub-tropical heat
best observed from a chilled room
with chilled drink in hand

Ignorance adores
uproar; rage is all the rage.
To die a peaceful
death is anathematic.
Smile, nod. Ignore ignorance.

her spirit broke the very chains of being
as light as light itself and glowing soared
on unseen thermals currents long ignored
freed at last from caged dreams of fleeing
her body sings of sunshine clouds and thunder
her hair the very wind upon your cheek
a strength of beauty kept for those who seek
a force of nature full of awe and wonder
through with cringing games of male and female
surging power of life in every move
deepest sleeping third eye wakes to see
the mountains trembling as they tell her tale
every smallest gesture howling love
embracing gods and devils equally

I must not yet be ready to love,
because in every woman's face
that tears me out of time
I feel no gift, no grace;
just loss
                  and ever lonelier.

What
           ((holds)) you
to unyielding self?
Petrified
you stone your sins
and still miss the mark;
attempt to beat soul
into healing.

Fool.

Even this
nascent struggle
to understand
casts another rock.

Would you lobotomize...
****** a stick
into your eye socket
to see more clearly?

Suffering is
in the resistance;
you know,
and do not accept
grace in the hands
easing you toward
the gentle current
of Spirit
washing around you.

Why?

Entombed by need
to atone,
you cannot roll
the rock aside alone.
Stop asking for
"more weight",
Giles Corey...
you are a fearsome man
standing upright.

Spirit says It will
give no more than I can take;
I keep on reaching.

There's a lot more
to being sober
than staying sober.

http://www.soundclick.com/bands/default.cfm?bandID=1398227

A link to my soundclick.com page.  Please listen, and, if you find something you really like, please support your loco musician.  :)

An affinity for
tight spaces;
bears like cubbyholes.

Do you really mean
there is a lack of response-
ability in
our culture?  I don't think so.
The ability is there.

sensual curves
cradled in my lap
long smooth neck
begging for caresses
ready to respond
any time my need calls
vibrating
at my lightest touch
sings like an angel
and can scream
like a banshee
my constant companion
my mistress
though it's been too long
since I last held you

don't fret, m'lass...
I'll always make a case for you.

The louvers of the
windows to my heart are shut
to the storm of love.

Appreciating
the cunning embrace and sharp
wit of an old foe.

Life revolves; a door
which spins from my heart to yours,
soul to soul to soul.

Aching whispers of
family memories, wishing
feelings were attached.

You deserve more than
a few quick dashes of ink,
glimpse of waterfall,
unrolled upon papyrus
and hung to be overlooked,

English contorted
into Japanese styling.
Especially when
you take the trio of you,
me, myself and I to task,

speaking to yourselves
in such a Zen-like manner:
Get out of my Way!
The ten thousand things vanish,
Ego shivers in the void.

Cold, hard wind of truth
knifes through armored illusion,
shurikens spun from
insomnimaniacal
nights, throwing words at the stars.

Sleep and find your peace,
you three, dream of wives and salt,
the whole Lot of you.
Remember you're a pillar
of Muse's community.

A bear in Florida
finds no winter,
no months to sleep
in cozy cocoon.
He watches,
wakened and wary,
for sea changes
and weather shifts.
Many other predators
spend cooler seasons
in lassitude
despite the latitude,
neither hunting for truth
nor caring about
what surrounds them.
The bear raises his head,
wrinkles his nose
at the scent of danger,
the hint of threats
to and from
his environment.

I can't see myself as a whole without going just a trifle mad.

hope the thing with feathers
and I a featherless biped

I tried to write a villanelle
The words come easier
when they're pretty,
form and meter
can be salves.
There is no relief
when writing
of family,
the three-sided dagger
leaves a wound
that must be packed
and never closes.

I tried to write a villanelle,
to package the truth
with enough honey
to make the bitter-roots
palatable;
it wouldn't go down easy,
wouldn't come out either.

This poem a finger
on the back
of my throat
to purge
to flush
to rinse my mouth
from the acid
regurgitated

the Belle of Amherst -
because she'd not stop for death --
her poems still breathe

The satisfying smell
of yeast in warm milk
suckling itself into sisters;
my hands plunge into
the primordial ooze
of flour and starter
and feel life itself beginning.
Evolution of higher forms
as flour is added
and the mass of mess
separates from its creator
into a globe of supple,
warm comfort.
Sundered, one half
becomes our daily bread,
the other, sliced into twelfths
and rolled into serpentine
lengths, turned upon themselves,
drenched in sinful
garlic butter
and roasted like hell
until heavenly.

(n) A phenomenon
whereby the day-to-day
necessities of life
call for action and thought,
not feeling,
and the emotion
catches up suddenly
when the actions stop.

Your words slink around
my legs, purr insistently,
nuzzle at my hand.

Forgive me
if I don't wait for you.
Pray that I get there
long before you must.
Travelling always trumps
arriving,
hopeful or not.
The terminal of one leg
of the trip
is merely a
point of departure
for the next
(so it's been said).
So let's pack a cooler,
call shotgun,
and ride with me
for so long
as there
is road.
When my stop comes,
say the words
and hold me
until I take off.
I'm afraid
you'll have to drive
the rest
of your way home.

The rumbling cat circles the chair,
wondering what wakes me
at this hour. A reassuring stroke
or two between lines,
and she puddles beside
in tail-wrapped satisfaction.
Heir to a hundred insignificant sufferings
which scurry and gnaw
at the underpinnings of slumber,
half-awake and fumbling for gratitude,
I choose enough small misery to write.
Don't scare up ambition to rhyme
or scan, or make myself look good,
or put lipstick on the false smile
of swinish apathy wallowing muddily.
Cold, clammy soil suits and soothes my mood.
There is a hunger howling
in hours dark with early morning
for a gentle scratch behind my ears,
a soft hand welcoming my nuzzle;
a nesting ground of warm worn cloth
smelling of home and family
where I can pad its perimeter,
curl into myself
and sleep.

I am cradled by
the very thought of your thoughts;
our shared humanity.

of this i cannot speak
the long days alone
at my tattered plywood desk
seeking words   seeking relief
seeking absolvement
a soul long past confession
any noticeable color
washed out by age

of this i cannot speak
dream of all
i once could dream of
when a song
and a glance
could enchant an enchantress.
over last night's leftovers
my right hand reaches down
to grasp
what my mind will not
that time and place has passed

of this i cannot speak**
most days
there is thankfulness
for what i have
and a shrug
for what i have no longer
days like these
gratitude is a formality
given an abrupt nod
and dismissed

the shape changes
depending upon
perspective;
from the bottom,
an oak leaf,
from one side a butterfly,
from the other a fist.
they have pictures
in color and in sepia
which speak to them
with different interpretations.
one sees a scar,
one sees growth.
they all agree
     it's a part of me
     it doesn't belong to me
     it came from they don't know where.
it's been cut
it's been shot
it's been exposed to radiation
it's been poisoned
it will not die

aha!
rasputin lives in my right lung!

My dreams have always
been writer's dreams: colorful,
vivid, ironic,

visionary and
heavy with foreshadowing.
My early twenties

a sodden nightmare,
drinking away love, children,
family and home.

In dream of chaos,
Spirit I had not yet met
led me down the Way

I had been choosing;
brought me to its granite-cold
game-over ending.

Read my name, saw the
year of birth, but was taken
before I could read

the full final year.
But it began with nineteen.
Waking, shivering,

I could still feel the
achingly frigid tombstone
beneath trembling hands.

Despite the warning,
I carried on as I had,
fearing, ignoring

my destination.
Time was too short in my life
to be concerned with

anything except
living as I ****** well wanted.
Kept suffering deep

and often, wondered
about those friends who shook their heads
at me, and kept theirs.

Came the day when the
wonderful awareness awoke
the Spirit in me

to receive the love
the Universe had flooded,
floated, immersed me

in my entire life,
as I slaked my thirst other
ways. I drank my fill

of freshened water,
the first of many rebirths.
Pulled to solid ground,

slowly by slowly
I stood on my own again,
learning how to live

as the child I was,
adult in years, juvenile
in thought and action.

Sixteen years along
my journey brought me to a
terrifying day:

The thirty-first of 
December, modern era
nineteen ninety-nine.

I went home early,
away from Amateur Night
revelers driving,

and locked myself in,
calling friends and asking them
to call tomorrow.

I watched the ball drop
for the first time in many years...
and cried like a fool.

My Way is not yours,
and can never be.  My time
since is borrowed time;

I sign off on the
loan every morning I'm here.
Eastern spirit has

burnished my tarnished
soul, shining not removing
the dents and scratches

it's picked up during
the trip. Why Oriental
forms? You might have guessed.


Why write of Spirit
and of flesh?  Both are with me
as I carry on.

I must share borrowed
time for it to have meaning.
Blessed I am, having
found a place, a peaceful spot
and people with which to share.