Staring up at the sky
Everything starts to swirl
Time, space, reality even…
All flowing and growing into this one moment

Staring at the stars it all becomes clear
All what, I don’t know
But its become so clear
Transparent, invisible even
It’s the clarity of confusion

Its so late and yet so early
In the morning and in life
My outlook and future are bright
Even if I am so buggeringly oblivious
But I am not worried
Just enjoying the moment

I stand and I spin
Trying to absorb it all
Then slow to a stop
Facing away from my home
And I run, run and fly

But I quickly sputter to a stop
To what do I fly?
From what do I run?
Nothing…
In either direction there is nothing

I trudge my way home
I pick up my seat to head back inside
But I glance again at the sky
And am smiling anew
For it is still there
In its beauty and glory it has stayed me through this

As I turn to go in
Still grinning like a fool
I come to realize a few simple truths
And the knowledge I knew them all along

I know nothing
The future is coming
Be happy and have fun
For **** happens
But life is good

I’m there in the end,
For the rest I’m around the bend
Ultimately feared by all
For I appear at their lowest point
Yet even more by those who fall.
Yet to some I seem to anoint
The ultimate pain reliever
For all but the most staunch believer
In life and its splendor
For those who love and are tender
Yet eventually I’m there
To pluck you from living
Like an inconvenient hair.
Yet for as many as I can I am forgiving,
But who ever heard
Of a cloaked one who could
Save those who have no need
To lie in the dust and bleed.
I hope for your sake
You aren't soon in my sight,
For I am no fake
I’m there to block out the light.
The pale rider has compassion
And he’ll save your life in a different fashion

Nowhere does it say
a poem must rhyme,
it helps with rhythm
but there is no need.
as I stare at the page
they run through my head
unwilling, unwanted
washed up, and overused
tattered and bruised,
it cant be helped.

While most force rhymes
into their places
to make a poem work
"like its supposed to"
I can't help but see
that just produces drivel
that can't be called poetry.

My rhymes come unbidden
as if they were hidden
inside somewhere
only to come out
into the glare
of critics who doubt
the power of the rhyme,
a poetical crime.

The rhyme is a tool
to be used as seen fit
doesn't matter if it's cool
or the poet's a twit
sometimes it's weak
sometimes it slides
but give it a tweak
and feel how it rides.

Rhyme isn't a necessity
but it works
and helps me be a poet
and always will I know it

I never thought of laundry
in such a light as this.

A chore, no more no less.

Never this dark seductive mistress.
Never this muse that sparks fire.
Never this exciting event.

But I guess I never thought of laundry.
No, loading the washer and dryer
is rarely on my mind.

It is the slavery of folding
to me raises a heavy hand.
'Tis with a dark heart I hear
the ill fated buzz of the dryer
calling me into line.

The bucket line of one.
Hauling load after load
to be dumped in a sweet
smelling heap, piling higher
with wrinkles and creases.

I do not know why
I am tormented by folding
I can only hope
I can reach the bottom of the pile.
For while I've been writing
I've been folding all the while.

Don't take my picture
it will steal my soul.
But the snapshot is taken
despite what was said.
And up high on a shelf
it in mute witness stands
to the flow of life
in the household.
Or as others before it
it is tossed in a box
forever entombed
fleeting glimpses of light.
Albums and scrapbooks
adorn it with cheer
to be shown off to many
but few really care.
Trapped in wallets
it sits grimy and smeared
buddied up with George.
Living in fear of a camera
afraid it will take you away.
For our time here is short
as the shutter flies
Don't take my picture
it will steal your soul.