the dog in the neighbor's yard
trots his little path between the two fences
over and over....back and forth
the grass is threadbare when he runs
spends a moment hawkishly staring out one fence
at the world going by
angry barking at a cloud
then trot to the other fence to see what has
transpired there
a rain begins
he trots back and forth
leaves begin to fall
he trots back and forth
the wind gets chill
he trots back and forth
isn't my life such
sitting here at my fence
looking out at all of you
trotting back and forth looking out your own fences
trotting back and forth
in our own little universes

the quiet place where i write
breeze swept field and shade tree
in the distance mighty towers
construct of hammers and hands
down by the ocean and its mighty ships
the scent of open water stirs the soul

this quiet place
where my heart builds little worlds
magnificent noble creatures come to wrestle
with a deeper sea of dreams
this quiet place where
innocence still laughs undaunted by the world
when my pen can speak its heart
unchallenged by the weary day

this strange place my heart goes to put pen to page
a place of memories both real and wished
a place where all could have been and was
this quiet place
crepe paper constructions of grand dreams
christmas tree tinsel lions chasing dawns wicked approach
where innocence still has the heart
to take joy
to take joy

drinking in the beauty of fall afternoon
chimes carry your souls song lightly
as you travel the autumn road to
the northern most house
that lay in the silence of the chill air
a windy sunshine had beat
upon its door all day
now night has crept forward to lay siege
darkness crouched at the window
with all its implied intents
inside its rooms
shrouded in silence
you sit in the near darkness
rubbing a free hand on the surface
of the mosaic floor
it forms an image of a woodland in spring
it forms an image of the promise of rebirth
the thoughts of a windy sunshine linger on your heart
here in the stillness of the northern most house
waiting for first light
not knowing what it will reveal
waiting to find out what you will be
the promise of tomorrow
or the tears of yesterday
its quiet in the shadows of the northern most house
where a windy sunshine will
beat upon the door all day

red fragments of plastic litter the
sandy soil at my feet
i gather them with one at a time
while my soul searches for a song to impart
my pen grows strange in my hand
its words have a feel to them
foreign deranged

the phrases float disjointedly
they refuse to knit into a poem
while my mind is troubled by a scattering
of autumn winds
the red fragments arranged randomly
on the small backyard table
sunshine illuminates each with precise clarity
the fragments are my poem
and i shuffle the pieces back and forth
trying with a maddened mind
to knit them into a beautiful bird
but they only keep forming the ugly face distorted
they keep moving of their own accord
to form a jagged edge
i breath and **** at my coffee mug

the red fragments thorny in my head
they have sand clinging to them
and bits of the brackish water that
the nights rain had left for me
these words are incomplete visions
mere phrases like incongruous men walking
random paths in a field
when two meet they shout their ideas
at eachother and part company full of
suspicious glares
a draft of this randomly worded madness
flows from my unwilling pen
the red fragmentation
of the incomplete poem

she is a blatant caricature in loud technicolor
her presence shouts ****** innuendo  
alluring with dark undertones
her past shadows her every word
like clouds passing over a weak sun
she is the road untold but by the few hardiest of souls
her skin tangles his mind
as she watches him in the rearview
runs her hand through her hair repeatedly
he is mesmerized by moist lips parted  
around phrases dark and foreboding
the cool calculation of her casual appearance
he is sleepwalking a dangerous dream
he is a dramatic parody in shades of pastel
a sorrowful tale told hesitatingly full of doubts and fears
full of the gentlest of loves
weak and stained he stands in the fell shadows
waiting for her rusty razor blade kisses
she has him
like clouds passing over a weak sun
and he loves her for it

tookie winfeild was a friend of mine
from way on back down the way
back in my river days
mean old man with a heart of gold
ugly old geezer with a silver tongue
ole tookie could talk a mile a second say nothin at all
ole tookie was as crazy as a jackrabbit in heat and twice as slick

used to see that ole codger strolling on the avenue
with some young honey on his arm
carefree as sin and twice in its debt
yes sir...ole tookie was a friend of mine
back in the day we ran that river
like it was our private playground
mean old man with a heart of gold
ugly old geezer with a silver tongue
both barrels for the lookers
and a bottle of shine for the sippers
yes sir back when i was young that river was ours

they found old tookie winfeild up on the river
frozen to death in the dead of night
took to drinking up there by his lonesome
and shouting at the moon
aint no good ever come from no crazy man
least thats what they say
but old tookie was allright
in his own crazy way
mean old man with a heart of gold
ugly old geezer with a silver tongue
he was a friend to many a poor boy
down the old river way

she builds better butterfly's from the dust on rusting pipes
they fly in the starry sky while i cry
in a panic she paints them into a panoramic
but butterfly's recognize their own limited size
so they build their own chicken coop in my soup