I strike a hot match against those Front-Porch-Sitting-Mowing Freaks who live across the street.

I'm out there every morning;
Afternoons, too,  
My grass stands tall,
And my fingers dance lightly across my dulcimer.

I'm strumming 'Wildwood Flower', mistakes and all.
I get serious with 'Whiskey Before Breakfast', not well done.
But then I break out with '******* Creek.'
And who can fault me for that one?
It's a happy tune, done well, or poorly.

Those **** neighbors sit across the way.
They don't even bother to stare.

Something has changed.
There is still no sparkle in their eyes,
But I am happy.

*It isn't my job to entertain the world.

Whatever other costumes might have been hers for the choosing,
She wore the robe of disenchantment.

She should have been taught,
Truth skates a razor thin line that will slice the flesh from your bones
When you try to deny it.  

The mask she placed upon her face, a tragicomic mockery of belief,
Its blue-black marks tattooing her cheeks,
Were a constant reminder of her mistaken identity of herself,

Mistake.


(And in that moment of stark realization,
Didst thou not ponder the sickening irony of a life gone awry?)

I was thinking about us
about our twisted mess
of love and lust

of ****** unfinished poetry
about stars and misery
and damsels in need of a
knight in shining armor

of how you're so gentle
when I crave the opposite
all I ask for is aggression
and you can't even give me that?

I sat down today, meaning to combine
the words "love" and "lust"
(because, dear,
that's all we are)
and all I could come up with
was "lost".

My lips were wounded,
badly hurt by the broken glass,
of yesterday's love, tumultuous.
You came by after a while,
a floating silver cloud,
providence, brought you here,
with a healing potion
ready at hand.
In no time, you exorcised all the demons,
a wizard you were,
with wonder filled eyes I witnessed
what you did.

From under the rubble
you pulled me out,
removing debris, you retrieved
the lover in me by and by,
your searing kisses
quick stitches
made the scars vanish,
without any trace,
a magic you alone can summon,
with such finesse.

Now  my smile
has the sunshine sheen
that has gone hiding
when the lips were
hurt and bleeding.

Living is a cross
That any one of the rock-faces
Comprehends.


We are drawn
To many seas.
We drown wholesomely
In the failures of confrontation.
The rain
Drenching
Our doorsteps
Has nothing to do
With the simplest desires
And lacerations
We bring
To the smallest acts
Of living.


The child
On the broken catwalk
Hearing the sounds of our hunger
Without understanding
Throws echoes back
To the earliest abandonments
Of love.


Minor devastations preceding
Horror
Resonate the ineffable.
The mothers that wake
At the slightest sound
And the fathers that
Smoke all night
And the rest of us who are
Vigilantes from the demons
Of oppressed sleep
Find at dawn the clearest
Images of bewilderment.
Even the best things
Collapse beneath the weight
Of ignorance.


Living is a fire
That any one of the wave-lashes
Comprehends.
___
Source:
http://www.universeofpoetry.org/nigeria.shtml

Next time what I'd do is look at
the earth before saying anything. I'd stop
just before going into a house
and be an emperor for a minute
and listen better to the wind
      or to the air being still.

When anyone talked to me, whether
blame or praise or just passing time,
I'd watch the face, how the mouth
has to work, and see any strain, any
sign of what lifted the voice.

And for all, I'd know more -- the earth
bracing itself and soaring, the air
finding every leaf and feather over
forest and water, and for every person
the body glowing inside the clothes
    like a light.

your name echoes,
fills my head,
each waking thought,
screams the sounds of your name.

Cars on the highway
And their lights through the thick fog
Are my companions

The hum of the fridge
And the ringing in my ears
Sing my mind to sleep

Now I imagine
Maybe the morning will come
I dream it will not