I think my cat's a drug addict,
but it's difficult to know.
It could be a problem with *******,
by the way he bats at snow.
I've already considered amphetamines
seeing the way his ear's perk;
though maybe its caffeine withdrawal,
some days he's such a ****.
He could be hooked on ecstasy,
his pupils often grow wide.
Sometimes I suspect he's dropping acid
since he just stares outside.
It's possible he's smoking ***,
he's always in a haze.
Maybe he's popping too many pills,
as sleep takes up most days.
My cat could be on ketamine
and eating magic shrooms.
It explains his invisible friends at night
that he chases from room to room.
He could be 'Chasing The Dragon'
like he chases his tail or ball;
Or ****, or hash, or bath salts,
hell, he's probably on them all!
I should do something about it soon,
he's becoming very dramatic.
Tomorrow I'll check him into rehab,
because I think my cat's an addict.

Whilst walking down a hard chosen path,
a boy did spot a leaf.
For in the wind it flirted and danced,
then stole away like a thief.

Give chase he did, this rural lad,
so trusting of the plant.
His mind a race with only one thought,
"To lose it, I simply can't."

A smile on his face, he made with great haste,
he jumped and grasped at the sprite.
At last he caught the petal of gold,
and cupped it from taking flight.

"Have mercy my lord!" the sprite did call out,
"Do handle this flora with care.
A wish I will grant to you fine sir,
If my life you choose to spare."

The boy gave a laugh. " Fear not little sprite,
on my journey I wish not to tarry.
I am called Tom, but a simple woodsman,
the son of one Doreen and Harry."

"And what of your wish? young master Tom."
said Leaf, yearning to be free.
"The trees you come from are mighty and grand,"
said Tom "I wish for their seed."

"To home I'll return with this gift of yours,
placing each in the soil by hand.
Then the years will pass by under my watchful eye,
till a forest of gold does expand."

"A paradise for all man, animal and plant,
shall be your gift to me,
But to make this dream sweet waking life,
I require a bag of said seed."

With a smile of delight, Leaf dispersed into light,
forcing Tom to shield his eyes.
A moment then passed and he peered in his hands,
to see a sack seven fistful in size.

Inside Tom did see, seeds of amber and sunset,
enough to build what he planned.
So he set off once more, now assured of the road,
to bring life to his paradise land.

As Gloom gathers, in oncoming night,
from hills to streets it smothers the light.
The vile wind approaches a small country town,
it's stolid shadows feeding off of the fright.

Villagers panic at horrific sight.
They cry to the sky to be saved from their plight,
but Gloom cares not for a beggar's mercy;
to it, these peasants are simply a blight.

With Gloom ready to strike, hammer swinging to smite,
many heroes step forward, unarmed, poised to fight.
Small and meek, but strong of the mind,
their idea's and spirit does give them pure might.

They charge home at Gloom, turning wrong into right;
their stand 'cross the land causing hearts to ignite.
And when Gloom retreats to dismal dwellings,
the heroes rejoice! Now their souls can alight.

There's one plate up in my cupboard
and it makes me kinda sad.
I broke two of the others
whilst doing the dishes mad.
The fourth was dropped long ago,
a simple mistake of neglect.
That's the problem with me and dishes;
I pay them no respect.

But this one last lone plate of mine,
it's chipped and battered and bruised.
And I fear if I go on this way
that plate won't be mine to choose.
For there are other plates up in the cupboard,
much larger than my own,
but I don't like these plates, not a bit;
I don't want them in my home.

So place, I will, my love and care
into this one last little dish.
To have it greet me everyday,
that's my eternal wish.

Pacing pacing to-and-fro,
speaking aloud with cat in tow.
Ranting,raving,shouting,craving,
whispering a secret all hush and low.
No crowds to gawk, no eyes to peer,
just pacing, ever pacing, from mirror to mirror.
No dishes washed, all dust on floor,
sailing small studio door-to-door.

All pauses brief to Howl or stroke,
while contemplating going broke.
All mussed up hair and *** pajamas;
all condiments and no bananas.
The sunlight dim, the sea all grey,
while pacing afternoons away.
The clock tic-toc, the dyer sounds,
but pacing, ever pacing, pacing bound.

Sipping cider on the Saturday porch
while the bubbles and dust moats dogfight among the leaves.
      Paradise,
                   with a breeze.
Catching zees while the sounds of traffic and children,
water gun arsenals at the ready,
**** up and down the street;
the sing song sounds of birds as the flit to meet
on the cables and branches high above.
      Paradise,
                  the only way to ease
into the languid living
of a hot weekend.

I have found the other ghosts,
who wander 'round these dead of night streets.
Who sulk and slink and glide
in suits and dresses,
torn jeans and tank tops;
in moon glow shoes and bare feet.

The ghosts who are but revelers and fools,
thieves and dreamers,
flailing arms frantic at the lights,
         all the lights!
Who bask in the sweet summer rains,
washing clean the night's gaiety.
The cigarettes and ***** and starry-eyed ecstasy;
crawling hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder,
lip to lip and promise to love.
Love if only till dawn.

Ghosts who hide in the street lamp shadows,
smiling fools masking their morosity.
Another night wasted chasing the memory of a dragon
only to return to their haunts' and fade;
decay under the sunrise rays.
Dreaming and scheming
of the next nights jollities.

The cold western wind scurry hurries in
while a 4pm sunset languidly paints
rush hour traffic with hues
of gold, of orange, of purple,
of autumn.
A breeze that nips of winter,
cooling hot summer passions;
commanding the tourists away,
ordering local lives to be prioritized.
A wind so cold yet soft sun so warm,
with a glow that reassures;
inviting the holidays to approach
and hibernation mind to draw people near,
away from the fear of being frozen alone.
This is autumn's gift.

The concrete heartbeat flutters,
in warm autumn night air.
It is slow excitement filled with the song call of **** and vinegar pups,
the calm saunter of seasoned members,
and the hum of steel fume boxes traversing the veins.
Through a ***** glass of rye I observe.
From habitat to watering hole they glide,
up and down the darkened cobble hills
hand in hand,
smiling, laughing,
lonely;
awakened from a weeks long slumber,
all prowl and prance to eat or dance or find
that one time mate.
Traveling in packs or trudging stag,
all garbed to beg, be it by flashing light or a slit of leg,
that their hallowed ritual hikes will grant them what they desire most;
a forgotten night to always be remembered.

Her smile.
It was the petrichor on days when
the sky just decided to cry.
Her smile.
It was the roots of a tree,
my tree,
keeping me planted in reality and letting me dream
of better things way up in the clouds.
Her smile.
Her smile was the sun ray warm glow;
bronzing my skin and heating within
that frozen fickle muscle I called a heart.
Her smile.
It drove me wild.
So certifiably insane the way I could rack my brain for hours
to come up with just the right joke,
so as to paint her smile upon celestial canvas face
the rest of the day,
not having to worry that its daily appearance
was stolen by some cheap movie line.
Her smile
was the only thing in life I was afraid of losing.

The enigma of where's the money
keeps this mind, these feet, always running;
trying to use up all my cunning
to stretch a dollar to twenty-five.
To survive,
stay alive and dream of thriving,
devoting life to love and the written word
instead of handing the receipt with falsified smile
and a "have a good day sir."

It's a dream of saying yes I can buy lunch
and no you don't need to raise my pay, I'm OK;
I work enough hours in the day
to let me get by more than fine.
To not have bills
and food
and rent on the mind,
but instead be designing the maze.
Not running running running through it
looking for quarters in the corners,
yelling "order up!"
while watching others eat the entrée.

Sheets of white
come in the night,
a wispy blanket of cold.
They make me think
of a time long past,
when I wasn't quite so old.