he sleeps by day
or not at all
as night expands
his life grows small

my mind opens to
unlearned knowledge
unwritten words
unspoken voices
unrecorded lives
untold wisdom
unearthed by
unceasing
undertow of
universal
understanding
undeterred
unless
my mind closes

she treads unholy ground where you have faltered
shoulders broken soul to see you rise
she would kiss the sacred salted waters
seeking only sweetness from your eyes
her knees are buckling, carrying a burden
soft as love and heavier than stone
lips release a sigh that's only heard when
she feels safest, thinks that she's alone
tenderness to touch and heal the wounded
child within you hiding from the world
forgiving feet walk 'round the evil you did
bids you sleep, her arm around you curled
she's the reason flailing poets try to
grasp her gracious great unreasoned why.

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

I can but reach a hand your way;
nothing says you have to take
it up.  It's all I have today,
but grab hold hard, for god's own sake.
That path I know; you've gone astray
and farther on, the going's rough.
Times like this I can but pray,
and pray that that will be enough.

I have a wound that only trust will heal,
a scab encrusted on my bleeding soul.
Your eyes will tell me how much to reveal.

At first, the pain was much too great to feel;
the void within a black and gaping hole.
I have a wound that only trust will heal.

I learned the need to cover and conceal -
to curse the hurt and go on with my role.
Your eyes will tell me how much to reveal.

Love's embrace a temporary seal,
the depths too raw for topical control;
I have a wound that only trust will heal.

Another saw it, said it was not real
and did not want to see I was not whole;
your eyes will tell me how much to reveal.

Debride the edges gently, I appeal;
a healing touch will help the stitches hold.
I have a wound that only trust will heal;
your eyes will tell me how much to reveal.

Hanging a warning
sign on Tampa Bay's bullpen:
"Flammable Solids".

A fleeting glimpse of who I was,
a second sight of youth regained
was paradise to blinded eyes;
a gift of passing time detained.
A shaggy bear with angel's voice
was how a critic once described
my work. Through age and not by choice,
the golden tone grew tarnished, bled
of grace and wings. Last night...last night;
the angel burst through graveled throat,
dipped, soared in unfettered flight
through every song and spot-on note.
Expressive, strong, no cracks or strain;
what joy it was to sing again.

whispering words not yet created
humming all forgotten lines
the unborn, the unfinished
cradled in loving arms
the arms that hug the sleepless
and hold off desperate pursuers
apropos of nothing, comes unbidden
as you work, as you drive, as you sleep
at the worst times possible
nothing handy to scribble down
dictation of the gods
whispered in words not yet created

We are not blood, but blood we have become.
Not by way of rituals arcane,
but common trials on common trails we've run.
Spirit calls us both; we must stay sane
to aid our brothers, sisters on their way.
We may be relatives in law, by name;
we grow in kinship, stronger every day
the journey's shared. I'll tend the gentle flame
which lights your path, and shows me paths of peace
unseen, untrod by my unsteady feet.
And as you offer souls their pain's release,
you channel Spirit, make relief complete.
My spouse, your sister, made the crossroads where
our travels could merge close enough to share.

To my friends
who can write
fresh-smelling
bouquets of words
with splendid color,
I offer my envy.
Mine are the blunt, stunted words,
rooted in the cracks
in pavement,
or forcing their way
to light around
overbearing rocks.
Some useful
in their own way,
edible or flavorful,
some with a
pedestrian beauty,
but few that one
would bring home in a bunch
with a box of candy.
More appropriate
in a grimy, young fist
crumpled in love,
destined to be vased
in a water glass
by a doting mother,
or shredded petal by petal
for the sake of soothsaying...
he loves me, he loves me not.

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

Water a website
with depression and watch all
the poets pop up.

My poet's eye is tired;
please, muse, raise my spirit to
Spirit...grant me life.

What do I say
when a telephone rebuilds a bridge
I burnt some time ago?
What do I say
to introduce me to a stranger;
someone I already know?

It took time
to swallow pride and understand
some feelings had to end.
It took time
to set aside a love gone past
and see you as a friend.

What do I say?
I know a hundred writers
and a thousand of their rhymes.
What do I say
when all of them desert me;
I create these naked lines?

It took time
to tear you from my dreams
and once again to make you real.
It took time
to be assured that I could feel
exactly as you feel.

What do I say
when life breathes in a friendship
that had died some time ago?
What do I say?

Maybe put away my poetry
and simply say Hello.

What truths I know
are neither quiet
nor clear.
I listen to
the dull and ignorant
when I too
tell my story.
Vain and bitter, yes;
for I have
a lifetime of
comparisons.
Late in life
my body calls me
to wholesome discipline
and gentility.
The universe unfolds
with and without
the full consent
of this particular child.
Peace with Spirit
will keep peace
with my soul.
In spite of
and because of
my best efforts...
it is still
a beautiful world.
I can choose
to be cheerful
and careful.
Strive to be
human;
happiness follows.

gently
            coax
the vision
from
          the ether
nurture
              the swelling
of the shame
with a warm
compress
                  of words
it will

            drain

when not
contained.

shiny straight hair
sky-blue eyes
lips made to cradle mine
shoulders strong yet delicate
******* supple and ripe
tapered waist, flared hips
legs finely turned
by a master carver
feet to be worshiped

all perfect pieces
never fleshed out
into Woman

I have forgotten
the song I wrote for mother
just before she died.

when
the poison
is ported through my heart
and eventually arrives
on the slow boat
to its terminal
when
it does its designed job
while picking up side work
in other organs
when
the projector is shut down
and the reality
is walking beside me
within me
I will let you know how I am.

when poems die and all words dry on dusty
tongue    when eyes exhausted can no longer
see    when water's song is still and tired
rivers stop their run    when life's been zested
and no juice is left    when every day
is one thing after one more ******* thing
all it takes is one small drop of love
sent by a stranger, friend...perhaps a god

Solemn silence singing
joyful dirge in parade
for bemused muse.

a crooked ugly man walked up
and said "all hope is spent
i'll build a wall and save you all
and be your president

believe me, i can cure all ills
and make all merkins proud
if you'll just take this oil of snake
i sell to every crowd

for any lie becomes the truth
if you but scream it thrice
so plant the seed then others bleed
and you don't pay the price

come spend your vote to buy my line
of prejudice and hate
ignore the churl of all the world
we'll make our nation great"

a machinating woman comes
the way her husband went
"i've done no crime i'm next in line
to be your president

you see how he goes off the rails
and nothing said is true
i can't shoot straight, i fabricate
but never lie to you

lost last time when set to win
this time did what i can
and worked my scut to undercut
an inconvenient man

we're dealing from the bottom, folks
the country's gone to ***
i may not be the best there is
but i'm the best you've got"

so laugh about it, shout about it,
when you've got to choose
your **** is hoist on Hobson's choice
the poison or the noose

trace your faded prints upon the dirt
around them, mud congeals to form my hurt
failing falling stars confuse my path

I shuffle feet for miles but stay inert
all false the trails refusing to subvert
antipathetic strands to stir my wrath

The trees all flay themselves to spill the secrets
thou swore undying oath to never keepest
lest all worlds align to hide the truth

Pausing, taking breaths beneath the deepest
floors of pits that tenderly would keep us
undestined, lost and wild to know our youth

And seek you out I must, I must, I will,
at universe's end, a galaxy
where we would rest, reborn; become, to be
where every breath relaxes into still

Ever will you walk alone, until
you witness me in my entirety
Come, my unforgotten one, you see
arrival less one is a bitter pill

Once upon a rhyme I had belief
my life contained some wisdom to be shared
with those around me.  So my soul was bared
to spare my readers pain, perhaps some grief,
or offer up examples good and bad.
Foot by foot the path was measured out
upon a trail of no uncertain doubt
until the sacred truth would be forbade.
On walking down this road none cared to take
the woods throw shadows, light and dark alike
upon new mornings, nights of memories.
This too, this too shall pass.  On this I'll stake
what life remains, in hope in time to strike
a trail through all the vague uncertainties.

why a poet?
because a poet
hears the words
which sing the
purest harmonies
because a poet
paints their portraits
in pastels
of phrases
because a poet
dances their agonies
into leaps of faith
and pirouettes
of passion
because a poet
sees
the beauty
in the commonplace
and captures
the moment
in a snapshot
of ink and white
because a bloodless world
cuts itself
a thousand times

and the poet bleeds

Usually I'm
too busy being happy
to write about it.

So much unsaid
with voice unsure
in years unspent,
to be undone,
unthinkable.

What gently falls around me now
and settles soft upon my soul,
fleecy coats on autumn's boughs;
drifting, shifting, white and cold?

Deeper, deeper, piling high;
at least chest level at my door.
I dare not venture out, for I
might lose myself forevermore.

Each a crystal, each unique,
when multiplied by billions they
inundate my world with bleak
and heavy stillness. Children play
in brilliant sun and cloudless skies;
the blizzard blows behind my eyes.

So is it true that
if I'm up all Sunday night,
Monday doesn't come?

Another poet, reading Sandburg,
claimed the challenge of a poem
is a sense of sound and structure.
Blank verse not verse at all,
but wolfish prose in sheepish clothing -
tennis played without a net.

To me, a net's a barrier;
a woven cage of twine and rope
spread to catch me taking risks. It
keeps me safe, keeps me angry,
feeds to full my fear of falling
graceless, from taut wires of passion.

I come to love the fear and anger.
Days of process, days of progress
unwind cords of prior *******.
Rule by rule, step by step there
comes a danger, comes a freedom -
writing poems without a net.

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

Pouring some coffee...stirring up thoughts of you;
they settle down slowly.  Look at all we've been through.
Darkness of morning covers you in my bed -
candlelight's warning blinking out above your head.

It's not dancing out in danger, doesn't signal right or wrong;
but your love leads to forever, so I cannot go along.

I'm seeing too clearly, even blinded by my tears;
for though I've just met you, seems like I've known you for years.
The one that I prayed for through those long and lonely nights.
The one I was made for...all the pieces would fit so tight.

But that picture is a puzzle scattered all across the floor,
'cause the man whose prayers were answered doesn't live here anymore.

You're the woman someone wanted...
that someone who I was.
It's good that you've been good to me
but you'd better go. Because
I'm not looking for a wife, babe
though I love you, please believe
that I've missed you all my life, babe
and I'll miss you when you leave.

I can tell you what's not right, babe,
but I can't say what is wrong.
It's been just out of sight, babe
since the day you came along.
Now my dreams are all in tatters,
scattered all across the floor.
You're the woman someone wanted...
I'm not someone anymore.

Warming up coffee...washing down thoughts of you.

There's a book out there
with my name on it today;
a published poet.

Classically structured,
profoundly spiritual;
poems are temples.

She sang him a song
of suppressed supplication.
He smiled to hear her;
oblivious to lyrics,
assumed she found happiness.

A wind cold and bitter blows in from the west
and stirs up old storms in you.  May we suggest
one cure for the lonely most highly regard -
a tour of the local relation-shipyard.

Our newer relation-ships being built daily
can catch the wind nicely, their sails snapping gaily.
But others we've built have met rougher sailing;
our flagship line shows up a few of our failings.

The first liner christened, the R.S. Obsession,
sank during a storm in the Sea of Depression.
The Intimate's hull you'll see later today
aground on the shoals of Old Fantasy Bay.

The pilot of Dreamboat just plain lost his sense;
ran full speed ahead through the Reef of Defense.
Only one came back whole, the relation-ship Reason;
she's in dry-dock now after only one season.

We're taking the trouble to change her design
and model her after our new Friendship line.
Our new Friendships are (if you'll pardon the gloating)
the match of any relation-ship floating.

We've shaken her down and worked her way up
to running through trials for the Real Lover's Cup.
Though she'll take on a gale yet be pushed by a breeze,
we're not really sure how she'll handle those seas.

Whatever the outcome, we'll learn even more
and strive to build better than ever before.
Cleaner, more streamlined, a true thoroughbred;
let form follow function, with no figurehead.

The storms are subsiding, the wind's dying down;
you're welcome whenever you're this side of town.
And what's more, you're welcome whenever you're ready
to work on this Friendship we've started already.

softly carved
statue
shadowed
bas-relief on the
sheets
submerged
staring
sundered
stiff as stone
spasmed
soliloquy of
squeals and sighs
sublimation of
soul to steam
slinking
sinuously down my
sternum
seeking
.
.
.

add nothing to a
blank page of electrons; scent
of beauty wafts up

A frilly card,
a ****** poem,
stale chocolate
on the clearance rack,
a fading bouquet
for my bruised flower
brings a budding smile
and a burst of color.

Come, let me lavish love
upon your shoulders to start;

thumbs probing for stubborn
points of stress, rolling them
about, plump grapes of pressure
aching to pop.  s  l  o  w  l  y

s  t  r  e  t  c  h  i  n  g  

long ropes of back muscle,
langorous luxurient strokes
all
     the
             way
down to cup the flexors
around
(your parenthetical)
hips.

you didn't even know
you were tight there, did you?

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

panem et circenses keep
the animaux at bay
while politicians sell out cheap
to lobbyists who pay
top dollar for the proper vote
the proper bill to vet
twould be enough to get your goat
were there a goat to get.
the clowns have been elected
and the acrobats do spin
no child left unaffected
and the bread is getting thin
elect the thief who steals from you
and wonder why you're broke
your budget strangled till it's blue
and you've no throat to choke
you've spent your time to buy their lies
the check is in the mail
the economic house of cards
stacked all along to fail
to think that wealth would trickle down
and feed the huddled masses
you're full of something rank and brown
and sanctimonious *****
so till the revolution comes
enjoy your present stations
sure, have your cake and eat it too
it's called regurgitation