Constantly my desire's mind spins ‘round
Oh lover, my feet dance above the ground
None can affect as this love I have found

Never before has life been so fine
Intoxicated by your lust filled wine
Eros and Cupid, oh help me pen this line

Are these birds singing just for me
Lo and sweet are their melody
Enchanted, enraptured by mind, soul and body

Newness in every tender embrace
Every breath, every sigh, every thought in its place
Gone are the questions, your touch did erase

Of passions, you have taught me well
Of desires, you have yet to tell
Do I tremble under your nakedness spell

Will you whisper in my deathbed ear
I love you and will always be near
Now let go, and do not fear

Awake! Ye ancient brittle bones,
Unfold yourselves to me.
For I am sick at heart
And an unprevailing cause mocks my sleep.
Our time is upon us.
We must gather together now as one
While the squeak and gibber
Of these impious spirits haunt our very purpose.

Awake! Ye sleeping minions,
Ye true warriors of love,
With hearts and souls at well deserved rest.
Though our duty hath been done 'tis true,
And deserv'd the slumber of all eternity,
The devil's fray is ashore
And 'tis time we take on flesh and finish the closing battle.

As it is unwritten on our souls in heaven
We, the last moral servants,
True at heart and conscience,
Are to become one in the flesh for the last clash.
Aye, but here's the rub,
There'll be no battlefield for to drive our staves into.
No streams to run red with the blood of gentle kin and death mongers.
No blackened sky from pyers ablaze.
This, the last battle shall be fought
Not with blades of contempt and disdain,
But with the sacred sword of Love,
A sword that God Himself shall forge.
He shall gather all our souls
And cast them into His sacred furnace, to make His sacred whirling mace from heaven.
For no man hath made a weapon that can ever thwart the madness of war.

The power of Love has come to fruition
And we mortal warriors shall wield Its might.
For hate is the true enemy here,
Not zealous underlings
Eager to serve their dispirited hearts.
Hate is what burns in their eyes,
Hate is also what blinds them.
And now, like a handful of bees,
They torment the earth with their misguided mission.
Hate is the tinder
And lies are the winds that fan their unholy flames.
With the patience of a weaver
They loom their imperfect prayer rug,
That the god in their mind may think them humble.
Yea, even now as the pestilence kneels and prays
And bows its head in gesture,
It is in gesture only.
His ancient prayers, though once righteous and profound,
Now come from lips tight with blind hatred
And God strains to hear his worshipping.
For the God his forefathers bowed to was a loving merciful God
Who's auspicious whispers kissed the words of love, hope and forgiveness.
Nay, death was not upon His lips.
Though they wave the ****** banner of their unportentous god,
With misread writ their disjointed false prophets blindly lead them on.
Like scornfilled women whose wrath is tainted with the blood of a thousand censorious years
And can not wipe their memories clean.
Their ceaseless thoughts of revenge eat at them,
Like brain-sick harpies madly gnawing off their own limbs.
Bid you make haste,
For he is at the door.
He has been here, settled in and quiet.
He wears the hats of peasant folk and hides.
Fie, fie!
To skinny among the masses and plant seeds of terror
Like impish gnomes.

Rise up bones! You rusted mantle clad mercenaries of the dark
I do beseech you
Walk into the light, into the light of omega
The reckoning
On to fight on no battleground!
On to fight for no faith nor religion!
On to fight for no flag nor country!
On to fight for all mankind!
On into the battle to end all battles!
For the **** crew and the earth has begun its retrograde.
Already have our thews began to form,
Soon, once dusty, moldy hands will take up the truncheon's length of Hope
And do the deed for which we were born,
And for which we gave our breath.
Heaven hath made us one,
And our single beating heart of love is the sword with which the dragon shall be slain.
Fuse skeletons of passion's might,
Our virtuous calling awaits.
No more will the earth tremble in fear,
No more will there be this god and that god,
No more will man be blinded by his mind.
For his pure and loving heart will be his home,
And his long awaited soul will be his peace.

*Peace       Salam      Shalom

Several million years have past,
since the cosmos dumped it's trash.
But the book said
that it didn't happen that way.

And as this minstrel looks around
at this "drunk on ancient dogma" town
wanting Heaven, all they do is pray.

Celtic faces black with coal,
patiently await the dole.
Smoke and cough and cough and smoke, to Wally World they do fly.

For there's a caustic cross upon their hill,
protected by a local still.
Or is it the other way around in the wettest county, that is dry.

Who is this vagabond I see,
he walks the streets in search of thee?
With the stench of cheap addiction in the air.

While rats guard a yellow stream,
Arthur's long forgotten dream.
He mumbles verses, but no one sees him there.

And down at Ruby's so many more
just can't seem to find the door.
They use to know the game, but have forgotten how to play.

Wild Bill you old crazy sot,
"The Seven" have, but you have not.
Maybe you can show us, show us all the way.

Dr. Stangename counts his jack,
prescribing hits of "hillbilly smack".
Let's pull a tooth and buy another day of cheap grace.

Watch high above the S.S.D.I.,
a once frozen war machine will fly.
While Arthur's dream crumbles into space.

I climbed The Pinnacle to find,
the fallen star had left behind
a bowl of cryptic confusion, guilty illusions in it's wake.

I told a lady with a PHD,
"Now woman in Afghanistan are free".
But she just sneered and said, "for heaven's sake!"

Listen you can hear the swords,
of the ancient feudal lords.
Clans of clans, left over ways of thinking.

Children, bearing children, beg.
While "The Seven" sit upon the keg.
Deeming them not wise enough for drinking.

It wasn't always this way.
Arthur almost had his hay day.
That's when the devil's broken promise beget a faithless town.

And in the years when King Volstead reigned,
some rode on the gravy train.
The ***** were in their court, and they sold his Crown.

I hope someday this rhyme is moot,
and we all get to share the loot.
And they let the ghost of "Ragtime Harney" play.

For it clearly isn't working here,
just like a party with no beer.
There's no reason for anyone to stay.

Up the road it's "a hundred wet",
and I'll see you there I bet.
You'll give them the prize, that you could have won.

And while you smoke and spit and chew,
power-ball and bingo too.
The lesser of the evils, like self righteous boll weevils,
fearing truth upheavals just like this one.

This is a hell of a way to get to Heaven,
livin' your life at the mercy of "The Seven".
Dying to get out. Dying, you stay in.

While "The Seven" get rich, by keeping you poor.
The keepers of the keys to the barrel house door.
And don't tell me that's no sin.
This is a hell of a way to get to Heaven,
a hell of a way to get in.

Hungry for love
Starving for truth
Awaiting to be wanted
Searching for proof
Tossing the pebbles, watching the ripples run.

Open my heart
To someone's trust
Trying not to be dazzled
By a last chance for lust
Dispelling the myth that someone always ends up hurting someone.

Ain't it about time we learned how to live together?
Ain't it about time we carried each others heart?
I think that it's a crime not giving each other the gifts we were meant to give.
If love is all we need, ain't it about time we start?

Leaving old baggage
By the side of the road
Streamlining hearts
Lightening our load
Remembering to forget what we did not want to learn.

Looking for signs
Thinking we know
Planting the seeds
Hoping they'll grow
Blindly we watch, impatiently awaiting our turn.

Near an old Kentucky town
I made my livin' underground.
And seldom would I see the light of day.

Where coal once was king,
I made may hammer ring.
That's a sound that will not soon fade away.

But now the coal train’s turned to rust,
and my lungs are full of dust.
And my time on this earth is through.

For forty years I dug their coal,
till the minin' took its toll.
Now all I ask is this favor of you.

When I die, when I'm gone,
o'er my body sing a song.
So the angels will come and take my soul.

Dig my grave neath the pines,
on a hill far from the mines.
Make my tombstone out of number nine coal,
make my tombstone out of number nine coal.

Near an old Kentucky town,
while the leaves were fallin' down,
a family lay their kin to rest.

While they sang "Amazing Grace",
with a tear on every face,
a miner got his last request.

Chip away now
remove what need not be
reveal the vision
the shape
the form
the dream
the vision
my vision
my dream
Find what lay beneath “the mechanized hum of another world” (from Third World Man by Walter Becker and Donald Fagen)
this world
the one that I live in

Chip away and tell the tales
rime the rhymes
Hurrah, a poem, a prose, a tinkered set of words
While bombs go off, and shots **** the innocent
while the replacement hormones surge through my veins
I am finally finding a place in between the titrations.

I am alive again. I am here and now
Chipping away with my Andalus font size 18

With my first breath, I become
to wander till the last
to be and be and be some more
time slow at first, soon fast

And with his last draw of this world's breath
an orphan I become
His time well spent I take my place
to hear my distant drum

Dark dying thoughts once swallowed me
like harpies chattering on the wind
But with the truth of death fresh at my door
I greet him as a friend

Together we shall walk and talk
and leaves and stars will fall
I will see the patterns unfold
once hidden revealing all

If a tale need be tattled,
the snawky Snawk would arise.
With its snickley tongue of arsenic blue,
and loathsome gamboge eyes.

To the King of the stickley Snicklers,
the Snawk would spill his talk.
But scuttlebutt was all t'was,
for he was but a snawky Snawk.

Might you ask
who am I be?
I am a jawky Jawk
who talks incessantly

of the snawky Snawk,
with his snickley tongue,
and his breath of kyarn,
and Beelzebub dung.

You see I knows of him all too well
and well he knows of me.
Invidious brothers, one of the other,
same Mother both have we.

Now the snawky Snawk spins yarns
so dark and thick and odious.
One might find his fatuous canards
to be though flatulent, commodious.

But If ye be a gawky Gawk
of the snawky Snawk beware,
For his loathsome camboge eyes
can squinny a ribald stare.

To your knees his gaze will bring you,
you'll tell all the tales you know.
Then he'll tattle them to the Snickler King
and off to the headsman you will go.

That is, unless, you know the ballad
the Snawk is most offended by.
'bout the frowzy blowzy stable boy
with only just one eye.

He lost his eye in a snickering match
twixt The Snickley King and he.
But got the best of the old nabob,
for he could cachinnate you see.

He did cachinnate and aggravate,
till the old King did concede.
The stable boy was the better of the two,
his tongue cut like a snickersnee.

For the frowzy blowzy stable boy
was not able to tell a lie,
nor could he mince his words with honey,
of the truth he could not hide.

And if one day you find yourself
in the land of the quidnunc kith.
Shun the snickley Snicklers,
and their sniggering King forthwith.

But if ye meet up with the stable boy
though untidy he may be.
Dare not tattle of a soul,
he'll let fly his snickersnee.

And remember well, the ballad he sings,
of the King he did do down.
Drink in its waspy strain and keep it nigh,
lest the snawky Snawk cometh 'round.

These are my eyes
they see only what I see.
My red is my red, blue, blue
My vision of God, my feelings of love.
My thoughts, atypical, unique.
It is not that I wished it this way,
it is as it always has been.
There has never been anyone like me,
and there never will be.
I can't help being me,
I don't do it on purpose.
If you asked me “Do you believe in God?”
I would have to reply, “In order to answer that question honestly,
I would have to know what your rendition of God was, completely, and I don't think that is possible. ”
And so it goes,
one person looking through their own tiny little holes
at their own world, thinking that others see it the same way they do.  
Though we think it is the same, it can not be.
It is in that thought that I find Power.
In the uniqueness of being.
Together we make up a whole.
Some parts at peace and healthy,
some ridden with the cancer of hate and revenge, misled by ancient beliefs,
and yet it is there that I find my purpose for being here.
In the power of just being here.
To witness myself in this fleshy body, and in the collective body as well.

1.
You can never go home,
not to the home you left.
When you leave, you get bigger.
Not necessarily in girth, but in consciousness.
When you come back,  everything,
even the walls of your parent's house,
seem to have shrunk.

2.
Look.....
Here comes the parade.
With its paper mache floats
and twirling batons.
Cub scouts and boy scouts,
all in a neat blue and drab green row,
followed by a high school marching band
playing "Stars and Stripes Forever".
From bygone wars, limbless surviving soldiers flinch with every cymbal crash.

3.
I watched billows of cottonwood clouds
swirl down a summer hometown avenue,
they met on the street corner for a song........
"Alley Oop", or "I Like Bread And Butter"
These ghostlike voices will live there forever,
innocent, asleep, numb, waiting.
Soon, the postman will bring your future.
Soon, you will be just a number on a lotery ball.
Soon, you will have to dissect luck or fate.

4.
I took my 87 year old Father to gather his tools
from his long time place of work.
The instruments of his livelihood.
He did not need them anymore, he had retired.
Some tools he had used since World War II,
some he made for a specific job.... never to use again.
All neatly placed in toolboxes built in the 30s and 40s,
yet not a trace of rust.
These were the tools of a tradesman,
a (Tool and Die Man).
He once told me, “Son, if I can’t fix it because I don’t have the right tool, I will make the tool”.
I thought him to be Superman.
But there I was, loading up my Father’s history,
to take home, to be sold to the highest bidder.  
I myself have made my living playing music for audiences.
I also have tools.
Guitars, amplifiers, harmonicas, microphones.
There will come a day, in the not too distant future,
when I will have to “retire” the instruments of my livelihood.
Though I will not be as stoic as my World War II Father,
I will go kicking and screaming to the pawn shop,
remembering every song that fed me,
and every chord that made people dance.

I'm takin' the back road home,
to find some home made apple pie.
Where my dreams are still hangin' on an old rope swing,
and every day is like the fourth of July.
And I'm takin' the back road home.

Sometimes I need to go to the well,
and drink in those lost memories.
Stare into the faces of a faded photograph,
and once again be as young as I please.
And I'm takin' the back road.......

........Home is where it all began,
home is where I go,
when I feel that cold and lonely wind begin to blow.
There's a candle in the window,
a smile on every face.
I'm just in time for supper,
I bow my head for grace.

I'm takin' the back road home,
So I won't lose my way.
Though it's long and winding and it takes more time,
there are rivers to cross and mountains to climb,
and I've been so long away.
And I'm takin' the back road home.

Beulah went to Memphis, just to see where the king was laid.
Bought herself a ticket, first time she’d ever been on a plane.
She sashayed down to Graceland, closest she’d ever been to the king.
Every gaudy jumpsuit, jet planes, and all those diamond rings.
What you gonna do, now that you’re king is dead?
You better get on back to Kentucky, lick your wounds and feed your head.

Beulah went to Memphis, feelin’ just like ol’ Tom and Huck.
All 5 foot and sassy, struttin’ like a Peabody duck.
She’ll be in "Blue Hawaii", long before the crack of noon.

Right where he shot his TV, in that jungle room.
What you gonna do, now that you’re king is dead?
You better get on back to Kentucky, feed your mind and lose your head.

Beulah went to Memphis, didn’t see where the King was slain.
All caught up in Vegas, she didn’t hear His sad refrain.
She was takin’ care of business, while the Angels sang, “We Shall Overcome.”
Didn’t hear the message, dazzled by the pandemonium.
What you gonna do, now that their King is dead?
You better get on back to Kentucky, rest your mind and feed your head.

Beulah went to Memphis, just to see where the king was laid.
Poor ol’ girl, he rocked her world, and then he went away.

She was thin and svelte,
And when I held her, a perfect fit.
I’d caressed her face,
and she knew me.
My fingers found her every button…..and I could turn her on.

But alas,
she is like a fragile flower behind glass.
I have locked her in a dungeon,
safe from harm.

She wears armor like a medieval knight.
and has become an urban soldier.
Though still steadfastly by my side,
she has grown cold,
uniform,
vanilla…..
a number.

But sometimes late at night,
when they are not watching,
while the cruel and shattering world sleeps,
I slowly undress her,
take of her skirt of mail,
and in the fully charged glow of togetherness,
we are once again,
one.

*Uninspired after enclosing my new Galaxy s5 in an Otterbox.

The Rusted creaking lies,
whispered through putrid crooked teeth,
from underneath his ragged brim.

Time-worn top-hat sits tilted on his bony head,  
yakking jaw, spitting prostulations, intimidations,  
while swirling tattoos filled my eyes and propagandized, and hypnotized.

He is here, he is there,  
on mossy rock, on broken chair,  
floating phantom through foggy air,
to tear into my heart with his dark despair.

His words......his words, I can not trust
they haunt me as the moon.
His chilling breath fowl with death,
my skull becomes my tomb.

And then I hear a distant bell,
it breaks his grip on me.
I run and fall in gentle new snow
and am once again a child.

I close my eyes and drift to our place,  
away from his gaze and grumblings,  
to our mosaic covered Sacristy.

And you take my hand to bring me back.
You, with your Spring scented breath,
kissing away my hoary dreams.  
The bells clang pure as midnight snow,
and I am safe again in your arms.

It all started with a feeling, I guess.
A guilty glance across the table......well,  you know the rest.
She said she had to find herself,  and I did my best
to talk her out of goin'.

Let's get some help, maybe talk to a priest.
I begged and I pleaded, got down on my knees,
but she was gone in a flash, like lighting in the trees,
and left me there a fallin'.

And I just wanna know one thing,
why do broken hearts still cling,
maybe it's my low self esteem
that made me still want you.

When a love is lost and gone,
with no hope of holding on,
even when you know it's wrong,
why would you want to be with someone
who doesn't want to be with you?

Like a trophy on a mantle, a bird in a cage,
like a dog on a chain who always gets away.
I tried to keep her with me, but she just wouldn't stay.
Now, what was I thinkin'?

Lessons must be learned the hard way,  I guess.
I know I'll love again.....well, you know the rest.
The right lover leaves you, when no love is left,
the wrong one keeps you sinkin'.

There's a string of lonely telephone wires stretchin' for a hundred miles or so.
A hawk in a tree, looking down at me, he says that It's time to go.
And each little town that I'd pass through, fighting my way back home,
reminded me of what the cookie read, "Don't let your dreams turn to stone"

Now the waitress has a smile like she's from heaven, but it touches a devil in my soul.
There ain't nothin' you can do at thirty-seven, but keep singin' and hope you never grow old.
Time is a lie; you're here 'till you die. All you own is only on loan.
What else is there to do, but to get yourself through, and don't let your dreams turn to stone.

And if the errors of the past are all that you see when you close your eyes at night,
then hopeless and empty will another day be when you open your eyes come daylight.
And if you look around, and contentment is found amid the seeds you have sown,
then soon you'll find that come harvest time.......... your dreams have turned to stone.

Well, I'm followin' my heart down this long highway,  of gettin' off; I don't stand a chance.
Even if you don't want to face the music, you still gotta learn to dance.
My heart has the power. My soul has the wheel. It's takin' this body back home.
There's a sign up ahead and the words that it read were,  don't let your dreams turn to stone.

*Keokuk, IA   1986

Dad is home
Dad is old
Old and living
Old and dying
Dying alone
Dying free
Free to be
Free at peace
Peace is work
Peace is hard
Hard to walk
Hard to hear
Hear the TV
Hear the groans
Groans of pain
Groans of time
Time won't stop
Time speeds up
Up at 6
Up and moving
Moving bowels
Moving chores
Chores don't stop
Chores keep strength
Strength to move
Strength to prove
Prove you can
Prove you're a man
Man must live
Man must die
Die someway
Die someday
Someday will come
Someday Sister calls
Calls about Dad
Calls on the phone
Phone calls me
Phone from Dad
Dad eats oatmeal
Dad plays poker
Poker is fun
Poker is life
Life is fleeting
Life is dying
Dying alone
Dying at home
Home....
Dying....

I may never know the reasons of the storm that passed my way.
Or the multitude of questions that lay at bay.
They await to pounce upon me like jungle cats at night,
while the din of distant drumming tests my might.

Ever now and then I get a glimpse of who I am,
and I feel myself evolving into man.
Amid the single bars and credit cards and reaching for the ring,
I close my eyes and realize I'm here to do one thing........ I'm here to sing.

I'm strung out on evaluation of what my life is worth,
and struggle with the narrow distance between death and birth.
They say love is never wasted, words so easily said,
so why is this empty feeling, still laying in my bed?

Hurry Darwin, hurry. I need a double dose of time.
To quickly re-arrange these chromosomes , to make me more the prime.
Selectors and Breeders are really all we are.
Evolvers;  Some will still be cheaters, and some will still set the bar.

I have no words,
but words are all I have.
I have tears,
but they are not enough.
I have wisdom,
but my timing would be off.
I have a heaviness inside,
and know that others do also.
I don't pray anymore,
but I'll try to tonight.

*Whoever you are that did this, you don't impress me.
Impress me with peace.

I'll be drinkin' white lightning tonight,
alone with my guitar.
tryin' to remember all the words.


*For George Jones Born: September 12, 1931, Saratoga
Died: April 26, 2013

The Window Up Above  
Songwriter: George Jones

I've been living a new way
Of life that I love so
But I can see the clouds are gath'ring
And the storm will wreck our home
For last night he held you tightly
And you didn't even shove
This is true for I've been watching
From the window up above

You must have thought that I was sleeping
And I wish that I had been
But I guess it's best to know you
And the way your heart can sin

I thought we belonged together
And our hearts fit like a glove
I was wrong for I've been watching
From the window up above

From my eyes the teardrops started
As I listened on and on
I heard you whisper to him softly
That our marriage was all wrong

But I hope he makes you happy
And you will never lose his love
I was wrong, I was watching
From the window up above

How I wish I could be dreaming
And wake up to an honest love
I was wrong for I was watching
From the window up above...

A sadness in my heart tonight
must be told, then dim that light.
To never see its face again,
and feel the pain that eats within.

A tragedy befell, you see,
and stormy nights still torture me.
She fell and died while in my keep,
and now it haunts my every sleep.

Her face so blank and eyes opaque,
my heart fell hard, and then to ache.
No turning back what time hath wrought,
my constant conscience battles fought.

A fear of storms was Mollie's fate,
the night was dark, the hour late.
As thunder rumbled in her chest,
and her heart pounded in her breast.

To run and hide, but never from
the storm that was about to come.
She climbed atop a place to see,
what made this horror, what could it be.

But leashes length, a noose had made.
Fell to her death, no more afraid.
I found her hanging from the chair,
part of my soul still hanging there.

For simple errors can take a life,
trip up the stairs, slip of the knife.
I put the wrong leash on that night,
it strangled her, I took her life.


*Forgive me my fellow poets for this unintentionally dark poem. The tragedy happened a year ago and I am still trying to find some closure. Mollie was a little mixed dog that I was fostering for a local shelter. She was kind and playful, but deathly afraid of storms

Don't look so sad, I know it's over
But life goes on and this old world will keep on turning
Let's just be glad, we had some time to spend together
There's no need to watch the bridges that we're burning

Lay your head, upon my pillow
Hold your warm and tender body close to mine
Hear the whisper of the raindrops blowing soft against the window
And make believe you love me, one more time, for the good times

I'll get along, you'll find another, and I'll be here
If you should find, you ever need me
Don't say a word about tomorrow, or forever
There'll be time enough for sadness, when you leave me

Lyrics and music by Kris Kristofferson 1970

*I tried to write something for this great Country and Western singer, but I think this song says it all.

My Whippet gone,
now dust once again.

I've given him back,
from whence he came.

To run again
in cosmic fields,
waiting to be born.

*Shanzi is a syllabic poem in seven lines  4/5 5/4 4/4/5
Unrhymed
Lines 1 and 2   INTRODUCE the SUBJECT
Lines 3 and 4   AMPLIFY what is affected by the image/subject.
Line 5 thru 7    Focus on NEW SUBJECT that complements and provides a meditative conclusion.
Shanzi may be Titled

Harrogate, TN  November, 2014

My whippet ran
as fast as the wind.

With a cheetahs gate
he could catch all.

And now he rests
his race is done,
all rabbits happy.

*Shanzi is a syllabic poem in seven lines  4/5 5/4 4/4/5
Unrhymed
Lines 1 and 2   INTRODUCE the SUBECT
Lines 3 and 4   AMPLIFY what is affected by the image/subject.
Line 5 thru 7    Focus on NEW SUBJECT that complements and provides a meditative conclusion.
Shanzi may be Titled