He whistles round the corner
it's that time of day.
The nine to five has ended
and now it's time to play.
His lunchbox in his pickup truck
had been equipped with more then food.
The liquor store was the next stop
but not the fix for his mood.

Come six o clock he's made it home
and had a chance to eat.
By eat I mean drink his ***
finally kicks back his feet.
Day three without a shower
because there's no one to impress.
Half the time wearing yesterdays clothes
forgetting to undress.

By seven he's watching Wheel of Fortune
screaming slurs at the TV.
Never guessing puzzles right
and finding need to disagree.
His phones been off the hook for days
beeping in the distance.
Come Jeopardy the urge is strong
with more and more persistence.

He grabs the bag of goodies
holds it in his hand.
Getting excited by just the feel
of the syringe and rubber band.
He's sweating now profusely
anxious with desire.
With nothing left to lose (but life)
again he plays with fire.

Poetry is like gusts of fresh air
Harbinger of the soul’s catharsis
Flowing emotions through the pen
Concealed pain written across the pages
Healing the pain which was long buried

scratch off
your disease and
match the dollars,
instant cash from
bells and cherries
like the drawings
of a whistle aren't
symbolic or a warning
for bottomless desires,
buried dreams replaced by
objects cheaper than a
chance or step into
uncertainty.

© Ben Ditmars 2014

Breathing doesn't mind the rain
It takes its time
Moving through your veins
The chill sublime

It takes its time
Softer, faster as we kiss
The chill sublime
We are in bliss

Softer, faster as we kiss
Soaked by the sky
We are in bliss
I hear you sigh

Soaked by the sky
Your lips cry out
I hear you sigh
Releasing doubt

Your lips cry out
Moving through your veins
Releasing doubt
Breathing doesn't mind the rain.

© Ben Ditmars 2014

Virtue runs before the muse
And defies her skill,
She is rapt, and doth refuse
To wait a painter's will.

Star-adoring, occupied,
Virtue cannot bend her,
Just to please a poet's pride,
To parade her splendor.

The bard must be with good intent
No more his, but hers,
Throw away his pen and paint,
Kneel with worshippers.

Then, perchance, a sunny ray
From the heaven of fire,
His lost tools may over-pay,
And better his desire.

Yesterday, my psyche took a beating,
Today, I feel like a bruise
That is past its angry, blue-black peak
And throbs with a dull, distracting ache.

Like the aftermath of a storm
When the formerly purple clouds lighten
But still threaten a final, farewell wetting.

That's me, a bruise of many hues
Across a canvas of undetermined mood,
Turbulent, fierce, bleeding still,
Close to the surface, threatening to break.