A tree falls in the forest,
and it doesn't make a sound.

A man yells in the forest,
and local wild life forms a mob.

A man falls in the forest,
and he doesn't make a sound.

A tree yells in the forest,
and we all run like hell.

My friends describe me
as a man of few verbal words.
Funnily, the words are chosen
poorly for someone who
thinks so much about what
a person should and shouldn't say.

Last year, a classmate told me
she would get at least three words
out of me before our study group
quit for the night. I responded,”You lose”.

I bow down my head
straight into the pillow.
I whine a funny sound
and wonder about duty.
Life seems to be all
and all seems to be
nothing but disappointment.

Anointed to be dead
from the first time I was alive.
I strive to show hope,
to be a silent messenger,
but duty seems to hold me back.

The great deep red within
always wants to fight back.
Smack the wrong until it's right,
snack on the souls so easily broken
by a single word that refutes their madness,
while my face turns to a smile.
Walking a mile in my shoes
is being hungry for relief.
Starving for sanity shows my vanity.

Ineffable nefarious taradiddle.
The endless fable, and riddle, of Cain and Abel.
One slew the other without a quiver.
A man went from cinnamon to eerie evil.
Labeled unstable and mentally disabled,
Barely able to bounce back
from being set adrift on a dark and ***** track.

He turned his eyes to the Aurora,
faced the same fate as ***** and Gomorrah,
the most hated man in all the Torah.
The father of ****** and maker of Pandora's box.
He walked with what God had seen as a pox.
Forever caught on this plane
with blood on his hands and ice in his veins.
Looking down, he felt stained and inhumane
as he observed the world he caused so much pain,
yet now, he is all that has remained sustained.

Now again, he turns to the Aurora.
He finds nothing but the sky's acid rain drip down
across an unholy frown and a mark for a crown.
He walks through each desert and town
searching for someone holy to guide him back,
but not a man is good as him now.
Not a single man stands his height
because he became a symbol for whats right.
He seeks good according to God, not himself.
Human kind is now much different,
and his sin against his brother is now not the worst,
despite the fact that it did come first.

There he sits.
The moon is in the sky,
like clockwork.
His personality changed
from yesterday,
along with his clothes.
Tonight, he's draped in stars
and showing only a quarter
of his wonderful personality.
How humble he can be.
He's playing off the light
of the fireflies
like a violinist from a conductor.
Look at that...he's higher
than the shadow connected trees.
My old friend,
you have a flare for the dramatic.

A poet searches for love
and a bird attains flight.
Whisk wings to new heights.
Don't stay on the ground,
its the same as being in a cage.
Soar though a zephyr on every page.

Today I became a tree huger,
because yesterday's random hug
ended with the red and blue blinking lights,
a frontal shot, two side photos,
and my new roommate
who has claimed the top bunk.

Love is the sanity we all keep,
the feeling from others we all seek.
Love is a feeling that gives you life,
despite the fact she's not your type.
Even though it can be used to hurt much,
nothing heals more than the human touch.

Love at first sight is but an arrow away.
If Cupid's bow would fire,
maybe this dead man's pyre
would be simple wood for a blaze.

Turn off the lights, and say what you see.
I hope it's love for life and a gentle plea
to hold on to whats right in front of you,
because you don't know what you have til its gone.

I hope nothing but love for you,
because I have already lost.
Time has past, and I already know the pain
that comes with removal of the Cupid's arrow.

Absent of thought,
I wait for the meal
that we know too well.
I know the noodles
will seem undone,
the flavor will remind
of times past where I knew
nothing better than easy food,
but I brought it anyways.
I don't want a photo
of my childhood,
I just want lunch.

The funny farm is the place to be.
We have soft beds, prescription meds, and cable TV.
When we party, someone loses their job,
or they might lose a limb if we form a mob.
It's one of those places you want to find yourself.
Electroshock is fun if you bring pop and chips.
Careful being around us, we're bad for your health.
Best of all, we're about to set sail on our blanket ships.
To the unknown and out of room 213!
Quick, hand me the bleach, I want to feel clean!

Sewn together to be torn apart,
bitten, beaten, ripped to pieces.
Put back together with used parts,
over time her quality decreases.
Drifting like petals in the gentle breeze,
the Doll goes where the wind blows.
She knows hell would have to freeze
in order to get a brand new set of clothes.
A ribbon wrapped to cover a tortured head,
wooden buttons and her bow colored red.

Untrodden silver cesspool, 
Darkened by bombshell blast, 
Riding in weathered abyss, 
Covered with killer cannon fodders past. 

Black battle went into starstruck night,   
All started to fall, but not all fast, 
Over tricky time they all did fight, 
With wind guiding bloodstained mast. 

Lovers light broke with rising sun, 
Gleefully gallivanting through hours passed, 
Tediously tiptoeing with hopes to run,  
Over red salty sea made infinitely vast.

The very second I put down my pen,
I began my process all over again.
I've been getting up at 7 o'clock (am).
Why?
Such a dangerous question.
If I were to wonder why
I comb my hair, I'd have the answer.
If I asked myself why eat meals
at 7:30, 12:00, and 5:00,
I'd have an answer.
But I don't know why I have answers.
Why do I care when I eat and
how presentable I appear?
I fear someday I'll wake up and
ask why I should wear pants, or
why even stand?
That day, I might crawl to the
front porch, and carry a
newspaper and slippers to the dog.

Beasts within fight
to emerge above
ranks of blood.

Know your place,
run with grace,
avoid the club.

Tear into necks
filled with flowing
thick crimson juice.

Twin devils bite
under moonlit night
with primal fright.

Endure great strain,
know each pain,
avoid the club.

A walk through the misty wood.
The trail latent with track of hooves,
which tell me the ways the forest moves,
into the endless green hood.

I would step to dance upon these tracks,
but the sound is what holds me back.
I shouldn't disturb the animals around,
or step on the forests leafy gown.

The powerful sounds of the forest,
not meant for a tape to be repeated
because the pure sound is sweet to my ear,
and to my heart, it will always be near.

Faded tree figures loom near,
visible as a smear
on what used to be the Mona Lisa.

The great work of art
goes to waste
as its paint is fingered,
by each person,
like its some sort of photocopy,
covering the masterpiece
with old, dirt, and impurities
that are not naturally occurring on skin.

Leonardo da Vinci would be appalled
at our treatment of his gift,
made to be given to one person,
yet he loved it...
and gave it to us instead.
Now stare once again
at its poor condition.

A shadow cast over days past,
like a mast spread for a wind blast
hailing from the wintery north.
Don't think it done until the day's won.
The mistake was made,
the spider web spun over a grenade
that landed on our shores.
They attacked our backyard,
yet we don't act scarred,
we brush it off despite
their continued shelling,
like we can refuse what they're selling.
Telemarketers don't send tapes yelling
that we're all gonna go to hell.
Only enemies that know
we have already fell.

Frost makes its way from beyond the azure blue, 
snow falls as fast as it will please, 
passing through a cold winter breeze.

The clouds shift to a form the world anew, 
never learning how to fly, 
white sparkles float down from the sky. 

I stare at the night sphere to search for what is true, 
pure ice shows how a person can be, 
as the winds wail in currents freely as the sea.

You can call me a lune,
cause I'm crazy enough
to play the game of love
and think I can win.

Even Smokey the bear influence
couldn't save us from this forest fire.
Oil and fire will soon be mingled
with human anxiety and distress.

A flower is poetically redundant,
I'd rather use a bomb with wires -red, green, and blue.
Cut one, let's see if she loves me!

Silence is the great communicator.
It tells when to shut up.

Have a conversation with me. I'll put up three walls.
One for my thoughts, one for my feelings,
and one for my incredibly smart mouth.

A battered head,
a bleeding brow,
washed in silence.
This is a prayer
for the victims
of ignorant violence.

You don't know when it started,
you began feeling half-hearted.
The peace within is broken,
you want speak but your choking.
And you can't let it go,
never be unspoken.
Often you're left in stitches,
yet your soul is worth untold riches.

A dusty street,
where the children meet
that have no alliance.
This is a prayer
for the sufferers
of ignorant violence.

One day they're safe, then they're not,
wars are not what we sought.
Explosions only leave what you believe,
while the helpless mothers grieve,
crying for help from God.
The angels aren't coming,
their sounds are leading to nothing.

This is a prayer
for the shattered vagabonds.

Lost in the fog, tripping through words
I stumble upon sight of a flying bird,
but he’s not really flying, he’s lost too.
Poor thing belongs in a zoo more than I do.

That’s hard to say, considering my giant jaw.
Considering the laws against my sharpened paws,
But I clawed my way out and I’m not going back,
Either way, I’m running; now let's get back on track.

Rocks ripple my river reflection
as amber and caramel leaves spiral
from sleeping oaks
landing atop water as lily pads
and clothing my mirror image.
I envy the resting trees,
tucked in for the winter.

And the monstrosity
walks up again to tap
on my tank.
GOOD MORNING *****!
You may think
I don't remember much,
but guess who forgot
to change my water last night, ha-cha-cha!
Your lucky I'm still living!
I'd leave to save you the trouble
but we both know
I don't have that choice.
Just so you know,
wearing the same underwear
two days in a row is never
acceptable, no matter the species.
When you feed me crumpled gold fish crackers,
I start feeling like a cannibal.
I'll make you a deal,
flush me and we'll call it even.
After living with you for three weeks,
I think I'll take my chances
with the sewer alligators.

Fire sleeps within all 
the brightness makes the darkest shadows seem small 
can you feel the embers burning? 
and what will fan the flame? 
  
Embers rise high with a gust 
dancing ashes pays tribute to beauty 
of fire purifying all it will touch 
as if fulfilling natural duty. 
  
The longer it goes, the flames go higher 
and that feeling of madness, lust, and desire 
brings us to where we are, 
the kindling point of star-fire.

An arrogant frost begins to melt,
dripping from the red shingles
onto the progressively muddy ground,
where dark green lines sprout,
erasing the icy past.

Slow growth of small buds
colored pink, red, yellow, and white
take the dream of warmer days
as a twisty hot mirage
strikes the distance.

Life shakes the leaves off the tree,
as all turns bitterly dark,
orange and brown,
and crumpled up on the sidewalk,
chilling down to the beat
of the pidder padder of rain.

Warmth is removed from sensations,
colors fade from a distance to white,
glazed with the purest icing
as the world turns a new shade of grey,
colored only by the feeling of crystals
glimmering like diamonds.

I'm firing a canon in D.
D for dastardly lullaby.
I dare not the tale
of the other six fails.
My pipes will wail
in the seventh sea's gale,
I search for the white whale.

Poet’s pens write to take flight
Like paintings of the open blue sky
And the moon lightly lit at midnight
Growing as trees from Japanese Bonsai

Visions of green briery vines,
Red roses and blue violets,
Written in measured and timed lines
that glide by, like descending pilots

Readers see the shadow on the wall
Writers see the vision from down the hall

At the beginning, when lighting this fire,
I thought I was just playing with matches
until I realized that when my plan hatches
I've got it under control.
Fire fighters can control fire,
but they can't control desire
and now I have lived in my human pyre,
the feeling of hell on razor wheels
down in the pit of my stomach.
The feeling that keeps you up
and makes you write til your numbers up,
and I couldn't stop it even if I wanted,
this task is my final gauntlet,
so I go crazy not to squander it.
It only happens once in a life time,
and it ends whenever the clock chimes,
so I fight to keep that minute hand
from going one measure further,
but I can't fight a time marked brand,
so in the end I will be the server
of all who fight until the end
of the struggle, to help those after me
so I'll cry for others to hear my plea
to treat others right until the world can see
what they've done so well.

Tic Toc at the midnight hour,
peddling along louder and prouder.

Clock my dear friend,
you've done it again.
Every single second I learn
that time has passed,
and you're consistent,
I hear it sixty times
within a minute.
And he continues.
Smugly taunting along
with that perfect timing
envied by all musicians.

Day opens up with light
and darkness owns the night.
Of both times I desire
the sun owns day with its fire.
When sun dims, slowly adrift,
it gives the waxing moon's lift,
with pale beams softly sent
to show a world that's shadow-bent.

Apollo’s chariot rests
below the horizon’s layers
yellow, pink, and blue.
Breathing in the sunset,
night’s chill takes the air
with chirping crickets
hooting owls
and starlike fire flies.

I met love with open arms,
embracing it without alarms.
Caution to the wary ghouls,
the table top is not for fools.
She tasted sweet, felt smooth,
and this heaven was mine.
Life is loose and uncouth,
love isn't only cheese and wine.

Through my eyes she was immortal
and had nothing but lucky charms.
In her presence, there was a portal
to a place where we'd do no harm.
She tasted sweet, felt smooth,
and we'd meet on cloud nine.
Life is loose and uncouth,
love isn't only cheese and wine.

In the end, it all hit the ground,
bliss can't make up for love not found.
My feelings made her face the music,
she did something to shatter my heart.
She was sweet, moved smoothly,
and she could have been my one and only.
Life is loose and uncouth,
and love's not only cheese and wine.

Sleepless nights filled with voices,
memories, and fearful noises.
Hug your pillow and trust your choices.
Breath the poisonous air of muggy summer nights.

Listen up, caviling charlatans.
Forgo the sporadic rebuff,
luminous is the dark
and shaded is the light,
the path to endless days.

If the vagabond's respite
is fraught with retribution,
why continue in shambles,
instead, covet his ways.
Don't lament the shadows,
cry for illuming rays.

Caramel leaves fell as the wind shifted,
to spell the first days of Autumn.
The sun was shot westward,
hovering over the blue marble
as it radiated with playful heat
that waned out of sharp boredom.
One by one, each tree became bare
like the sound of a lonely metronome.
And within the cold isolation,
each tree said it found peace.

I rip through a dream
like I'm coming apart
at the seams of the heart.
I turn my key, but I won't start.

My pen flies to a realm
never spied by my eyes.
He flutters through the air
like a dolphin through a tide,
whisking up until gravity takes.
He cares not where he flows or
even where I am.
Perhaps he will be seen in New York,
possibly Istanbul.
He was once sighted in Moscow
before fluttering to China
to walk the Great Wall.
Currently, he is having the traditional
Earl Grey with Queen Elizabeth.
At the rate he moves,
I fear he'll run out of ink.

The world continues spin
even when all noise ends.
Skipping like a broken record,
dancing to the same tune over
over over over.....