I embarrass myself nightly
but am I always to blame?
To look is as easy
as staring lovingly at a leopard,
whose cubs cry from woeful pangs.
Yet I oblige,
for it's easier for me to fall
than to entertain, tame or sate.

I saw the saddest scene today,
when a boy— now a year older—
abandoned his bicycle because she was older.

Enticed by lust, on his new bike he rode away,
caught up in the moment—he didn’t mean to scold her—
yet no second was spared to look back over his shoulder.

I stopped watering my lawn, eyes where the bike lay,
imagining the loneliness felt when he disowned her,
and I felt emptier than a bike’s seat with no owner.

Even inside my home, on my conscience it weighed
because of their tryst, there was another knower.
“He took her for a ride, and he didn’t even know her.”

In my mind I console her, such idle words I say,
for nobody’s pedaling foot would ever suit her
until that pettler’s foot stopped blocking the suture.

“I was like you recently, so for you I pray,
though, the absence was open and lacked closure;
hopefully, your steel frame employs better composure.

“Nostalgia will make him pine for his yesterday,
pictures’ll frame the story of love lost when he’s older.
In time, loving hands will lift you up,” I told her.

With work in my past, I sit at a bar,
kissing the whiskey date in my right hand.
A man, as fatigued as me, takes his place
ten paces to my left—the corner seat.

A box is slipped from his jacket pocket,
which contained the well packed words of many lives.
The luckiest one was pulled from its cubical
by a weathered, unsteady hand’s fingers.

Praising his release from prison, with anticipation building.
The light in his face breathed life into him.
The tape—whose cogs turn forward—
plays the cigarette’s song; the cursive words spill out.

Audibly visible, I watched the smoke intrigued.
“Finally, a break from my daily building—
the one who confines my colleagues and me—
now, I can breathe a breath of relief.

“We spend each day waiting to die
never knowing peace, for we know our fates already.
We work each day praying for release,
but family comes first—it’s for them I work.

“We’re always being told we’re unique individuals—
yet we remain clones, individually wrapped.
Seen only as commodities by those who rule.
An invisible hand selects the slaves that be.

A breeze cuts him off, I wait.

“At least my servitude comes to an end,
so soak up what you can, while you can.
I may seem infinitesimal to the likes of you,
but you see your self in me, it’s true.

“I’m you in a minutes long microcosm.
You and I will never know true freedom
because all we’ve ever known has been prisondom.
The only liberties we know are delusions of solitary thought.

“When we’re released from our shackles—
that brief moment before passing—
they say we suffer a blissful ‘death rattle,’
but I say ‘nay, we don’t display disdain for that peaceful sigh.’”

Then, snuffed out in an instant,
the tape recorder ceased its spinning.
I stared waiting to hear more of the smoke’s wisdom;
however, he hadn’t had time for even a “Goodbye, and enjoy life.”

The intersection of air and aroma,
together brings sustenance and nostalgia.
That air, which once helped you breathe, now clogs your throat,
like a seafarer wading without a boat.
Epochs passing, as a lost love’s scent batters
the mind’s shore, once more sentient life scatters.
Here and now is lost, forgotten touches felt,
as waves of her sweet laugh dull any din dealt.
Like déjà vu she’s there then gone, now forlorn--
roused from the dream, which floats away before long.

Artificial wind
heard overhead; turbulent,
roaring, and distant.

Sigh*
feeling alive just isn't what it used to be.

Dormant eyes slept open'd,
sought but hardly for naught,
lasting evermore.

Red and white yin-yang,
Angels and Demons pass by,
Highway median.

These are the nights I should be out with friends, but I give in to the allure of writing instead.

When I close my eyes
I fall from the sky
gasping for air,
while squinting I cry.

Nauseously excited
Landing will be a cinch
knowing I'll stay safe
while the onlookers wince.

Over head I see a plane
one day I will fly,
and if e'er I climb too high
I know I'll ne'er die.

I notice,
while sitting with a pen,
harvesting words
for the task I was given,
fantastic dreams
of ****** exploration,
unobtainable and maybe unrequited,
cloud my mind
with a most fatal attraction.

Behind a window
I travel the world
with melody carrying the road.
Today is freedom
and tomorrow is open.

I stop

Clear skies in my head,
because when Johnny reigns
it pours.

A lure
left
taken.

Thank you,
for a beautiful night.

Tables scattered--
Round illuminated islands.
A snubbed cigarette whispers its last words to the room.

Vanes spinning--
Records circulating air.
Hypnosis settles like a dusting-- coating the mind's past troubles.

Her voice--
Softly traveling in waves.
Weaving a blanket-- alms soothing a once cold vacuum.

I now know bliss.

I’m alone in watching a coal burn
a solid object internally lit.
A tongue of fire
whose flames don’t lick.

A heart

The allusion, now clear,
yet the edges remain blurred.

Fire and flames struggle and fight,
without a lifting wind they’re weak.
Their culminations are short lived.
Deadened ashes.

Lust

Embers remain
after the excitement is snuffed out.
The slightest breeze kisses their cheeks
and they show new life.
Glowing unconditionally.

Love

I’m alone in watching a coal burn out
slowly
s l o w l y
s  l  o  w  l  y
f   a   d   i   n   g      a   w   a   y.

Even when the fire is lost,
the embers of love will burn on.

A slight change is never noticed
when the frame of time is small.
As children we grew each day,
only the the annual notch showed how tall.

You may be the one who’s static in traffic
caused by construction—a nuisance it’s true—
but it's  the one now home from abroad who says:
“Everything is so different, this is not what I knew.”

The paradox is queerly commonplace:
This feeling that from day-to-day nothing has changed—
except maybe which day gets crossed out—
yet time spent in nostalgic reflection shows
the sheer metamorphosis that has come about.

We always move forward with goals in our telescopes.
When the glorious day comes in passing, it will end and that’s that.
Like the student, eager to stop school when the flowers first bloom,
will soon see foliage—a punishment that time begat.

They say you never know what you have until it’s gone,
yet few of them pause to watch the world transform.
They tell us to enjoy each day like it’s our last,
yet they curse time spent inside caused by a cleansing storm.

Even I neglected the sun’s sky, who gave way to the moon now born.
Precedence was given to my pen and this foul verse without scorn.
Yet, only the sun’s birth can give rise to this sentiment I mourn.

Clarity of mind,
like a window pane,
can be a lens to observe life;
but regardless of how immaculate,
there will always be a film in between
hindering true limpidity.

To be truly colorblind,
(and I mean truly blind to color),
I see as a heavenly gift.
To never know complexity,
the world's beauties remain untainted.
The masses would say I am missing out,
but ignorance is bliss.
Simplicity is a heavenly gift to me.

You see me and I see you,
we want to believe our actions are true.
By true, our own, but neither is,
we're all an imitation of what we've seen.

As trivial as a yawn so contagious,
or a popped knuckle that makes your insides itch
with the desire to follow suit daunting,
until the release of air and distress.

And as complicated as genetic code-- offspring following--
so naturally unnoticed like metered swallowing;
but like the mother ducks, who allievate stresses
of waters strong, we learn to cope from elders.

Whether it be innate or not,
had we not aped we'd be naught.
Forever we will remain children
who want another's toy 'til it's dropped.

I fight against time
by refusing to subtract
an hour from clocks.

You think that I'm weak
and don't see what you seek.
Wise eyes can see through trees,
but can't stop a deer from stepping into the street.
An arrogant doe not yet peaked,
stares into the headlights,
whose dangers she can't see.
What matters is that they shine on you,
negligent to the fact that they blind you too.
Bathed in light a deer will never move,
lost in their bright Narcissistic pools.
Flying above, I can swoop and save,
but first you must be willed to look away.

I heard someone say
"it's going to be my first marriage,"
today. God, how sad.

I had a dream that felt quite like reality

To begin its tale I start with the day,
which opened the same as any other--
with my eyes fixated on a cigarette in an ashtray.

I put a light to another so he'd have a brother.
Hopping in the shower the lights and I shivered,
blanketed by warmth the cigarettes became a vase with a flower.

I faced the glass but refused the image mirrored.
No good would come from stalling to dress,
for a package, not mine, needed to be undelivered.

Soon I sat in a park with a friend and a board of chess,
he said, "You need not be here I know your worth,
others need to know you neglect them less."

Unsure what he meant, I still rose and went forth,
to the world of friends who tend to dislike me.
Back turned I heard young laughter and exited the mirth.

Walking in a desert forest, I grew to be rather thirsty.
I ignored the mountain lion that was out of place
and took shelter under an oasis's bourgeois.

Sweating in the cool shade, memory thought to erase
any action I took before I lay to rest.
As I looked down I saw a garden from space.

I had fallen asleep back into reality

Have you ever felt caught in a trap,
unable to escape,
and only when it's too late,
you realized you were the bait?

Good evening everybody,
tonight's a very special episode
about a boy not understood
by his peers so sincere
to his emotive-ish veneer.

The irony's so dramatic
to the Viewer of it all.
Tensely suspended anxiety on air
ever known that what's shown
will work itself out on its own.

That's the way it always goes,
but not without comedic conversation,
awkward confrontation, then happy resolution;
thus consealing that joyous feeling
the reward for sympathetic fearing.

Yep, that's the way it goes,
except this is not a show
and my name is not Chris,
so the fly on the wall
will despise or revel in my fall.

Planet silhouetting atlases
of worlds we'll never know.
Their histories repeat,
through mushroom clouds
of soft pink explosions,
crying their fears for us to feel.
We watch them live and die,
admiring the beauty of life and death;
only I weep when light eminates through their wars.

How do I thank the one
to whom I owe my entire existence?
From the smile I share, to my wavy brown hair,
to the blood flowing through my veins

To thank her fully I think I'd need
each one of a beach's grains of sand--
one for every bit of love she's shared
lifting my soul from frequent despair.

Though that still wouldn't be enough
I'd then need every star in every galaxy
to then shed light on her beauty
and even then they'd be a pale analogy

So I call on the oceans and the seas,
who have separated many, for generations,
on how to cope with the distance
and how others survived such separation.

When we're apart you must feel idle,
alone, and often unthought of--
but truly you're a lifeline, that to me is vital;
therefore, never discount your worth for a second.

So I apologize for the sleepless nights,
spent waiting for me to come home and those spent worrying,
and sorry for leaving your nest so suddenly,
even though you'd wished you could stop my flying.

But I thank you, for never thinking ill of me,
and for nurturing who I turned out to be,
and for unconditional love, though I'm unworthy,
and most of all, for being my mother, and ever so motherly

Does anyone else feel the moon follows just to mock
with that waxing crescent pearly white smile?
The necessary light of my nocturnal path;
regardless of which corner I turn she's comfortably watching.
If only she spoke of the sorrows she felt
so to stop her nightly lamentations.
She holds that smile as merely a facade
one we all know but brush off as odd.
Oh night denizen, your monthly repose
makes me wish I were a star whose light you sang woes.

I look in the mirror, the subject framed--
A monster-- scarred with decades of conflicts,
But others see a youth perpetually tamed.
The battle fought was all within, only to me explicit.

Strifes with friends all in my mind
Overthought words clog reason. Reserved, but virtuous,
Always expecting the golden rule to apply, though none are kind.
The problem's within me
I am too nice, the other's aren't contemptuous.

I must work to elevate my mind, resent less.
Not my neighbors-- my thought; the catalyst of my growth.
An arduous journey, efforts must remain relentless,
But less rest makes me regress, the ebb and flow,
The didactic struggle of history, in a microcosm so small.

The flight of the mind anchored by the burden of guilt
Each new break through shows a hole in the wall
of yesterday's beliefs towards good,
now a window to a grander one built.

Does every soul struggle with this Hell?
The will to do good not nurtured by nature.
I hope for the best, will good will come? Will time tell?
First my soul must work to mature--
No hatred, love only, for all, no exclusions
For He would do the same, forgive forever.

Each hurtful word said is a soul's laceration.
The ire over, but there's scar tissue--Past's physical identification.

Birthdays are foolish;
a day is simply a day,
nothing is special.

How can I call you friends,
with your naught time of day.
A mockery of the word;
a hell with no real cure.
I forgive injustices.
Always.
I just wish
to understand the bases.
Mine and yours.

Hello Dear Friend,
         It’s been a while since I’ve wrote you.
Woes of lost friendship must have driven me here,
in fear of other lanes that is, to this letter.
Laughter and joy has been had, them in lieu of you.
Ewes can ape wolves, as you’ve seen in three years prior,
the choir sang the same triad, this time quiet.
Quite sad— I know, but I’ve spoken enough on me,
for thee I am writing, and to thee I now write:

You must have been busy bringing joy to the world;
or joy to a world, of one I’ve met never.
Another basis, wherefore, I stop this stasis
of silence. We’ll needn’t recall to remember,
for like the migrants of nature, nothing has changed—
only the season, or maybe just the weather—
regardless, the moral stands as thus: History
has shown those of the same feather flock together;
so, as such, we do not lose time in relearning
quirks or behaviors—innate powers take over

Then, again, the inane behavior shall ensue.
Fluid synchronization of minds—now union—
is source to the river highly known for knowledge.
Dialogue sows the seeds, such that comprehension
of grand ideas, which sprout like fruit at the Lethe,
can be harvested to feed the minds of others.
Thoughts that they found too puerile, we now encounter
regularly, and never have we thought to laugh
at any one. Instead we laugh coyly, as we
discuss things of great measure absentmindedly.
The weight of measure felt by us knows few others—
wherefore, I ask: what deserves merit? But One knows,
and those answers lie in the minds of the many.

But here I must stop, for I, quite abashedly,
feel your response to this notion has bearing on
the rest of my premeditated first letter.
With Godspeed I send this, in hopes—with haste, you’ll read
and respond. At last a new dialogue begins.

Remember: those who look— will find,
       *Your Dearest Friend

So grateful am I,
to be a part of all this.
A community--
the ace of a single suit.

Humility I must show,
for who am I among you all?
I am not Hercules, nor Achilles--
merely a mortal among gods.
And        you        are      gods.

Oh, how I wish to emulate thee--
your verses are flawless,
your ideas so succinct.
When I compare my work to yours,
my poems seem weak.

Are your Muses more granting?
Do you care more than me?
Cant be, my heart has been spilled--
on this page it bleeds.

Yet every poem I read,
by an author that's not me,
leaves me feeling embarrassed
to share the same space--
this home we call "HP"

The white cloth of old
is, and always was,
tainted slightly
with yellow or brown.
Yet, it was white,
nonetheless,
to them.
So, how do we
set our standards
moving forward?

Such reverend sanctity
is destined to change.

Trivial pursuits
of incorporeal joys
are essential to our existence.

Five bars boxed conceal my fate,
opulent stiff trees sit outside an iron grate.
I can't leave this prison for I'm the secret's committee--
my captors want the source of my surreptitious serendipity.

In the surreal landscape stood a man
laying in the vertical catamaran;
he's not a man queer and unknown,
but a queer man with the same face as my own.

I stare as I stare, and a smile breaks
like a mirrored leaf fallen, ripples a still lake.
The forest becomes him, for blurred vision ensues.
Teared freedom he uses, for to blink I refuse

My oppressors' gaze won't break away.
Believing I pine to nap under the trees' shade
Yet I'm as liberated as I am confined,
so my life alone I will never mind

I've done, will do, and am doing everything I want,
so when I close my eyes the wind is my confidant.
Speaking to me I follow its every elision--
the eurythmic breeze unleashes my inhibitions.

Leading me to the dark corner of my cell
with beauty all around me I stay in this hell
As night falls the bars rise in turn,
for the clear, star-streaked sky I yearn.

On queue the creek of a door latch is heard
I must choose but my decision won't be deterred:
the door leads to my guardians' labyrinthine maze,
the window-- a drop to the darkness, who preys.

So what do I do? Flip a coin with no sides.
With the decision face up in the moon's candlelight.
Frozen by fear of the known and untold.
Convinced I'm not ready, my merits must mold.

I drove at night
on the left were frosted clouds sleeping on the horizon.

I drove at night
on the left a red ribbon blew in the wind like the hair of the iconic Cossette.

I drove at night
on the left solid and flashing lights made me think of Christmas.

I drove at night
and arrived home.

never accepted.
often alone.
strangely thought
can define us
either together
or on our own;
so is it wrong
to question the norm
while idiocy
nestles comfortably
like a worm?

Battling passive aggression
comes off as aggressive pretension.

You came to me in a dream,
O Specter of Sensibility,
to help discern the distant
drowning dirges of dying doubt

We walked—our party’s steps
quite quicker than our own.
As the gap grew greater,
they disappeared into the night.

All alone along an amphitheater’s path,
my ghostly guardian gave life
to the story I had wished to hear.
Clarity obtained—each player was one of us.

Eyes straight ahead, she didn’t break stride.
The waves of her voice took charge,
powering the reels that play,
saying, “So, you slept to know?

“I’m here for you and you alone
so you could see me in reality.”
A proper lady she was,
so small talk preceded needs.

She went on to tell of how,
“patience at present is prudent.”
“And purposefully perplexing,” I thought,
listening in reverie.

“Just as I return oft in your dreams,
so too will what I embody come back.”
She was cold so my arms became alms.
We sat in acceptance until the crowd caved in around.

You stood there, probably cold,
in the frozen foods aisle.
Actually, you had a peacoat on.
When I first saw you,
I only saw your back.
Your hair looked wiry and blonde,
I thought you were aged and frail.

When you turned around with a gallon of milk
your face surprised me.
I was swept up in awe and stared too long.
Your eyes-- blue, kind, and calming--
rested on pillows of roseate cheeks
that looked recently swept by winter winds of New England.

You looked at me, too, but with an austere expression.
I said, "I hope the tempest of your mind
soon finds peaceful resolution in tranquil waters,"
in my head.
She walked past me
her audible rhythmic steps
made with untied,
disheveled
boots.

A beatnik
simply keeping a beat.

One thousand lives lay before me.
Smooth edges jaggedly intermixed
each one has its place.
Some are the corners of a frame,
others fill the void.
The voices unsolved each screech-- annoyed.

When they find their place silence reigns.
Engaged in a kiss only seen on a silver screen.
Lips locked so perfectly, so ingeniously engineered
Their places found through trials and plight
as tired eyes glaze over the chaotic table.
How can this game depict life's fable?

Samuel Coleridge might be proud of my Kubla Khan attempt.

I sit with you, my friend.
My silence--I can't comprehend--
words fail me, unsure what to say;
simply, "It will all be okay."

The answer I gave is right,
but sincerity dies with trite.
Life's tribulations have reason,
even for this recent treason.

Time will connect with the timeless--
then sense can be made of all this mess;
but when, I cannot be sure of--
'til then, I'll console you with love.

This idea of clarity--
closure to the problems that be.
An illusion that may comfort.
"How do you know?" Is your retort.

"Cause the world works itself out"--
If that's the case, I then doubt
my, now former, preached discernment--
Discrepancies make me repent.

It's the perception that counts...
"Don't depress when confusion mounts,
you searched all reason-- all, but one:
     That your life will be better
     If the clarity remains undone"

One time not too long ago
a sunset would avert my eyes.
Its beauty surpassed my idea
of reality canonized.

Soon, I adjusted and could stare,
and read what the world would tell;
but then a light, whose eyes I could not meet,
had intoxicated me like a Lenaea's spell.

Then the earth quivered as I fell,
awaking hours later and alone no longer.
The light-- superior than a mundane description--
was the warmth by whom my soul was conquered.

A simple idea recorded on paper,
a circle in a circle—splendidly taper.
Like an egg in an egg—forever fertile.
Like a phoenix’s birth, emerge from the kindle.
With each welcome to life comes a new lesson;
with the experience of yore as your weapon.
Continue with the task to chisel the tip--
ceasing only to rest-- 'til that spherical disc
announces a new day. We can develop
a new way to refold the envelope’s sealed note.
The poem you have enclosed has your aside--
“Your Attention: ‘A simple idea’ is inside.”

As I watch the sky’s canvas change
I begin to think of the painter.
That one who is watching the same elsewhere,
and what he might think of such a scene.

Sitting, he would be looking out watching the sky’s stage alter,
painting gardens’ clouds, each colored different, span silver through red;
switching-- torn between red roses, white lilies, or orange tulips--
forming the garden's space, quickly. The eve’s sun dips down gently,
giving way as blue hues ascend opposite that orb’s retreat.
Envious, Sun lets Moon's beauty pull lovingly over him.
Nature’s nocturnal chorus singing, lulling its audience.
The bittersweet dark—another day, the painting not quite done,
put to sleep. The silent din engulfing his mind’s empty thought—
darkness switching on that light which calms artists’ creative springs.

“Light Regardless of its source—may it be pure
as the sun’s rays, or some modern substitute—
has some aesthetic quality. I’m not sure,
however, where from the light best contributes.
Is beauty derived by where the light emits?
Or is it enlightened by where the ray hits?”

He began mulling this thought over; turning it over and over—questions born.
A discource of such phenomena will show a thought forming--
nay, a riddle; with answers hiding, not wanting to be known:

“Is it the sunset’s orange and red that awes,
or the blueing clouds opposite that cause pause?”
The dams holding thought buckle; ideas, questions flood the bard’s mind.

“Is a smile’s worth found in its owner’s mouth,
or the ensuing grin, no longer pout?”
Plain idea, now broad. “Because a smile can be contagious…

“Is the eloquence of a speech seen as art,
or inspiration now gained to do one’s part?”
Words, an entity with power, reign over—the poet awakes.

“Is a poem’s verse the beauty of the bard,
Or diction plied with inferred worth— it’s guard?”
That ability permits the ineffable to be explained.

Eyes adjust to the sun’s speed—now energy and courage’s built--
awakes from that swoon. “The slothful lovers stay behind,” thought Sun,
“Neglect not that flight presented, which taken, betters the will:
'Brighten the world.' That dark denizen inspires warmth in me.”
The sun’s rise concludes those thoughts studied the night before-
grabbing his brush, thinks: “En Guarde stubborn canvas, my mind’s at ease.”
Vitality-- flying wild thoughts which emerge--decides
what key his baton should direct them, either the drawn sun’s source
or the face which welcome’s its colors being exemplified.

After a minute of looking I turn my gaze,
happy to leave that place .
Knowing full well in a full day
I’ll have this dream occur once more.
That daily walk, whose length directs my drifting thoughts,
rotates the sets of beauties dreamt, each fresh from a growing list long as time.

Lovin' you is easy 'cause you're easy*
Mirrored instruction on both sides
of a countless-sided sword
toil the earth,
so all that grows
believes,
as if it's truth,
because lovin' you is easy 'cause you're easy.

If silence is truly golden,
then why does its presence pain me?
Being without your words creates
a veiled distortion within me.

Throngs of false thought and poor reason
can no longer be neglected.
If only your voice could release
these demons my mind has collected.

If silence is truly golden,
then yours must be cursed like Midas.
Maybe my ramblings are unjust,
Over-thinking is logic’s Judas.

I accomplished a feat I never thought possible,
staring into a mirror not fully sure if I should,
I looked into my soul avoiding my vanity,
the glass transparent of opaque clarity.

Scared of what haunted even a laureate,
whose pilgrimage is an allusion taken for granted,
the serenity was sand scooped by my hand,
and each second's passing left its ridges more empty.

Soon, the shadows of lives moved, awaking my mistake.
Now noticing the lapse of minutes lost,
I made sure no one noticed my mind's vacancy,
then looking to the mirror, I see its prisoner's turned back.

We sat silently
to watch the sunset
on our phones.

The artist dragged
a hand across
a city skyline
in the sky
while the paint
was still wet.