Moaning, aching, memory
Exquisitely painful to touch.
Why do I reach for that place?
Cease, hear my command
O, ears open! Tormented mind!
Comfort I seek but do not find
Each time.

The echo of the lie
Carries on through time

Lie upon lie in time
- Stain

The filthy froth
The couplet wrought
- staining

Froth the filthy foam

Grief on grief
It is heaped
- stained

Grief, O, grief carried on

SkyWlkR88, I only asked a question about your use of "red."  I didn't feel that you should have deleted it so completely.  Never let anyone intimidate you.  Poetry can bend the rules.  You can use any word in any way you wish.  I was just curious and not being critical.

He was secretly gay
I don’t care one way
Or the other.  Brother!

But he’s the one who
Set himself up as
The judge of morality

All the while he knew
He was completely past
Having to live in reality

All the boys and men
That power can control
At will are never set free.

We have had our full share of ridicule
From the self-assured.
And the contempt of the arrogant
Is motivated by “their own desires.
How can we safeguard ourselves
From following that futile course?
Through love, of course!

Heat comes up
Heat cools down
Hot-white love
Can turn cool-blue

High color rising
On the horizon's line
Reflecting many colors
In a lover's eye

Beneath each new day
After every storm,
There must be a calm
As lovers often know

The salvages have been cut away
And all has begun to fray
The fabric-cutter now holds sway
In the fabric of so many lives

It started with one tiny thread
With what somebody wrote
And then somebody read
The fear then grew and spread

Like some great moth-ridden cape
With in which massive holes gape
Your minds have now been *****
As many fear the ultimate date

When the fabric-cutter begins
To trim, first foes, but in the end
The woeful trim of even friends
When all is cut away at bitter end

Hence, not even he will have the win
Nor protective garment.

For all that has been taken
I am receiving much more
The hope that has been delivered
I take it, but I give some to you

The beautiful thing with hope
Is as it is divided and given
It regenerates and becomes whole
Until the original hope grows

And doubles again and again
Like a cell as it creates its own copies
And doubles again and again
So just like cells, hope will divide until

There is more than enough to share

There is no malice
Hidden in my words
Truth be told though
- He is not okay

He is living large
Within his own mind
Back to his heyday
- The 1980s

But he is living it again
Where he was 'kinda' on top
- And

Had the public a bit fooled
- Wildly wealthy
Was the phony claim

He recently explained the
"one rough hour?' needed
- He's not healthy

If friends and family really cared
They would get the poor man help.

The bunny rabbit
would climb from her pocket
and hop around on her lap,
And we would all laugh.

Joy at seeing a remarkable sight,
She had a tiny little rabbit
Which lived in her apron pocket.
We believed it to be true.

For we had seen the tiny babies
That she would often save from dogs.
She kept them warm and fed
Until strong enough to be set free.

But this little one was always there
Living in her apron pocket and never grew.
Only as we grew did we come to understand.
She always had a hanky or tissue.

It magically transformed into the creature.

Our star was rising,
Our sun, at its zenith

As our hidden desires,
Secrets of our hearts

Revealed under
A moon in culmination.

Give me one rose hour by hour
To build for me loves glorious tower
And turn this pain into smiles
Give of yourself un-beguiled

That I might trust love once again
Thus except you more than mere friend
And make me know that all is truth
Having given the effort and the proof

Then this heart of mine can rule
Show me your love never decreased
For love became an unruly beast
O, diminish love not in the least

On throughout all time.

"It is like a wildfire that you cannot stop",
Burning all around, you in the middle,
Until all is burned down.

You stand looking out, wondering

How you made it through,
Made it out only slightly singed.
Life is a wildfire that you cannot stop.

I cannot hear your name
Without an apparent melancholy, and yet
I am indifferent to everything but your name.
You see my predicament,

I, causing my own stab to the heart, say
It over and over again.

You had completely satisfied all that my heart
And affections had hoped for or even wished.
“Baraye,” is a word meaning “for”
Or “because of” in Farsi.

You stand
Gathered together,

The lines of your branches,
The ink of your markings
Standing out.

On your grey-white paper
I will fill your book
With beautiful poetry.

A mist is rising, collecting in a fog which wraps all.
Reflected in the tall highway lights, shadow-like.
Obscured from full vision the traffic whizzes past.
Day will soon be dawning, and the fog will not last.
For now, I sit in the veiled cloud of humidity rising.

Classical Dictionary:
Scrapbook
Peaceful
Lady
Adore
Ballet
Embellish
Fondness
Balloon
Ephemeral
Love

Scrapbook, a Poem
The Peaceful Lady Adored Ballet
She often Embellished her Fondness
For Balloons for they were as Ephemeral
As Love

You left a trail of breadcrumbs
That would lead back to you.

Hungry little bird that I am
I ate them one by one, and all,

Every single one,
And here I am.

Like substances broken out from your favorite perfume,
Somethings apart from the whole cannot be understood, nor enjoyed.
The beautiful scent comes from the delicate balance of each component.

Ingredients in your favorite dish do not taste as good as the whole.
Try eating flour on its own and see how far you get, and yet
A dessert made with it can be culinarily divine.

Sand is nice but what is it without the ocean or the ocean with sand?
You could plunk an alpine mountain down into a desert and then what?
The delicate ecosystem will not survive for long and then you have desert.

And what of literature, poetry?  What is its substance made of in the end?
Metaphors, meter, rhythm, rhyme, imagery, assonance, alliteration,
Words, phrases, stanzas, tone and form, ideas expressed to eke out the essence.

How do we construct a poem?
Poetry doesn't have to make sense,
But we want it to.

When the veil of mist hangs
Across the pastures and fields
The day is dawning gradually
Turning all things to color.

The sun swims in these pools
As a diver swimming slowly immerges
Out of the depths into sea-blue light
And begins to see clearly.

We feel the brief touch of cool mist
Before it can fully dissipate
Leaving us to immerge into our day
Warmed by the touch of the sun.

This new day breathed its first breath.

Stealthily moving through the forest,
Slinking in and out of trees, weeds, wildflowers, is the fox.
Red deer appear in an open meadow grazing.  Dusk is near,
The yawning day begins to close its bleary heavy eyes.  And
A distant raven caws a warning that he knows you are there.
Nature is not fooled by the games we play.

Our ancient genes carried us forwards, theirs, and ours.
Millenniums have passed by, and we each have stood
In one another’s presence.  The forest, the field,
**** and wildflower, the fox, the deer, the ravens.  
Not by pure magic, not by happenstance, but by design.
And we are so very blessed to be among one another.
  
A rich tapestry weaves like a comforting blanket around us.

There is something that fascinates
Me about your language.

Hairs bristle on the back of my neck,
My ears tingle when the words

Touch them and I burn for wanting
More of those lines.  Leaving me

Wanting so much more than words.

As drops of blood color water
That certain shade.  Pink?  Rose?
Lovely in themselves.  Coral?  

While the starfish slowly crawl
Across the mighty ocean floors,
The stars in heaven swirl overhead.

And we all continue to die each day.

For beth fwoah dream Boleyn

The pale moon, shrunken
And as faint as a pencil sketch

Shines down with sly smile
Looking over the forest below.

She is ill in her waning phase, but
Is comforted knowing she will wax.

Wild nettles of the night rise up
Wrapping her burden in mist.

The tides listen as she commands
Their rhythms and they distils their vapor.

Her victories are unfurled of wrappings
As they stretch out like ribbons of roads.

We are all puppets and go as directed.

I want to transform you
Making you like new
Sparkling with a pink glow

Difficult things tainted you
Turned you almost blue
With a sickly pale

A bad smell clings
A smell of death
I want to make you live

But as the French say:
“Il n’y a pas plus sourd que celui qui ne veut pas entendre.” -
“There’s no one as deaf as the one who doesn’t want to listen.”

I could forgive you just about anything,
My precious one.
The sun will still rise in the sky,

And my heart-wound will heal
My eyes will dry.
But we will all be changed by careless acts,

And never be the same.

What is race?
A construct of bigotry.

I am part Scottish
I am part German
I am part English and more.

I am not ashamed of these.
I am not expected to be
Nor to explain that heritage.

My blood is mixed
With African, with Native American
Why can't I claim it?  Why must I explain it?

Why should I disown any part?
To make you more comfortable?

I must admit, however,
That I am often ashamed
To claim "human."

I watch the
Velvety dusky rose
Which risings up from
The clinging horizon.
The sky desires it
More than the blue
This time of morning.
And draws it away
Into itself until
It is all gone
Into the bright
Light of a new day.

Dropped from the same tree
Within the same orchard
The nuts soon cracked open
And out they popped
Dried and shriveled up
The fruitage which carries
The same DNA of the tree
The meat inside is rotten
Eating it is very bitter
And all who do eventually
Die from salacious lies.

Dog gone those lawn people
Buzzing around like bees,
Swarming on mowers.

Rushing around with leaf blowers.
How they are bothering me!

Hitting piles of doggy poo which
My lovely neighbors leave behind,
Too lazy to own pets responsibly!

As if the noise was bad enough,
I have put up with the smell of that stuff!

Spring is all, "Here I am!" in blooming color.
Summer is like, "I'll warm your bones as no other."
Autumn comes and brings the gold
As it waits for winter to unfold.

I have a monkey on my back!
I pour it into my coffee cup
I give it a sip and a smack.
It is white and dreamy,
Oh, so thick and creamy
And yummy fluffed up.
I simply cannot get enough.
I'm up to at least 2 cartons a week
Do you think they have an Anonymous
For that?

I glanced out and there he was
Sleeping like a bug in a rug
On the hard cement ledge.

Where has he been, my homeless man?
Hospital, jail, a shelter for a change?
I was just getting accustomed to him gone.

But there he is once again in my purview.
Oh, the drama, to see a being always sleeping.
How could he have caused me such worry.

When you crawl into a bed of roses
you get up close and personal
with the lovely flowers and their smell,
but you also get scratched, bloodied and torn
by the thorns. It cannot be avoided.
We must let love apply the medicine
and help us heal.

You are not above the truth,

You cannot wrap it up in lies!
Your lizard brain blisters inside
And you will split and peel soon.

It will be soon too late for you to hid
You’ve fooled yourself to your demise
And almost took us down, too, dude.

But your fools will be there, too,
To keep your insane self company
In da prison 4 da criminally insane.

There are always haters
With solid deep seated hate
Willing to step up to use their hate

Inside, without true origin, it resides
It is a hate for the sake of hate

Make no mistake it is on both sides
It is that type of hate that now drives
And haters desire to get on the ride

He comes to visit; I never know when.
He enters and takes me by the hand.
He leads me where I may not know
But I do not fight it as onwards we go.
Sometimes we travel fast, sometimes slow.
At times it is amazing, other times so-so.
My man, Muse is my dearest friend.

Honeysuckle weeks
Filled with humid heat
Where the hot Texas sun plays
And I know where to seek
What it is that hang, unsung,
On an old broken fence rung.

I, in my bare feet,
Reach in, pluck a vine to retreat
Into the cool dense shade
Among the pecan grove, hid away
To sit and harvest drops
Of the sweet liquid inside.

As skilled child harvester, I sit,
Slightly pinch the blossom, then stop,
Free the flower from stamen with a slide
For Summer’s ephemeral gold drops
Unseen treats one only can get
During honeysuckle weeks.

It’s easy to love
From afar
Where you never will know
Who they are
Really.  Truly inside out
Sinew deep

It’s harder to love
Up close
An in your face true love
Seeing warts and all
In the big
And small hours of a life

Yes, this is true of aging,
That as we get older
We become more of ourselves,
A refined reduction
Down to the essence
Of what it is that we are,
The true self like cream rising.
A sliver of optimism becomes a slice
And it is delicious in its simplicity.

One day is very much like the other
But you know what if I have my druthers

I'd choose just one perfect day and make it stay.
I'd analyze and dissect it every day.

I'm sure I'd find new facets along the way.
With gratitude and humble heart, I'd pray

While giving thanks for that very day and you,
Thus, you can see in this way it will always be new.

My little homeless man is gone.
He either found himself a home
Or else they've moved him on.

I look at the spot where he was once.
That place he sat and slept at for months
Since we've have had a couple cool front.

He is missed since he has gone; home; moved on.

The Biblical heart
The complete inner person,
including one’s
desires,
thoughts,
disposition,
attitude,
capabilities,
motivations,
and goals.

The metaphorical heart
can be led astray,
down a path,
into harm,
leap,
be joyful
jump for joy
guide,
blacken,
Love.

Know your own heart
For out of it are
The sources of life,
Love,
Wisdom,
Integrity,
Health,
Envy,
Hate,
Your "fate."

Fate is not
something written
and unchangeable.  
It is the will,
the determining cause
like an arrow aimed taking a certain course.
That depends on the skill of the one aiming it.
Fate is in your hands,
not the universe.
It is not an unforeseen excuse for you to use.

I watch him from afar
From across the bayou
He lies and sits next to
The building on a ledge
It is not his true home
It is his summer home
I guess as I watch him
Sleep all day, lie, and sit
Lie and sit, and stare
It appears that he sees me
As I see him seeing me there
On his roost, day after day
What is he thinking
When he sees me watching
Does he envy my comfy space
Does he wonder about my life
As I wonder about his life
When he is not there I worry
Has something happened
On rainy days he's not there
And I hope he has a dry place
Is as safe as the homeless can be
Does he panhandle nearby
Does he make enough to eat
Are others kind to him
Is he a ******* or insane
How can he sleep on cement
Long hours go by, he sleeps
Where will he go when it's cold
I wish that he would just go
Out of sight out of mind
But he will haunt me a while
Even when he's no longer there
But I wish that he would leave
My heart can't take in his pain
He has already filled it up

Some rush to the train wreck
To seek a sick thrill
Others flee the train wreck
Afraid of what they might feel

Some rush to the train wreck
Not for the thrill,
Not afraid of what they feel
Because they genuinely care

About those in the train wreck

We were beautiful once.
Beautiful mom, handsome dad.
Such beautiful children produced.

But what is the use when scattered
From pillar to post all around this earth
And cannot find our way back to our home.

Butterflies makes themselves beautiful
From an ugly worm inside a strange case.
They are always able to find their way home.

(a corny little poem)
A happy moon smiled at me
If you just look you will see
The happiest skies are filled with love
The moon, the sun, the stars above
So, with this poem I send a hug
And let all above give your heart a tug

Come, grieve with me
The bitter knowledge
Our beloved family tribes
Slaughtered by invaders,
Thieves of greedy intent.

I have put my seed
In this basket woven
By my ancestor's hand
Placed in those outside
Of our Nation to carry

Safely forward.  It had to be
Or we would cease to be.
Take this vessel of blood.
Spread it throughout
What becomes our Nation.

Good morning moon
You Saturday moon
In the sky hanging low
Waiting for sunrise
Above ribbons of color
We'll wait together

We are revived
We are made new
We have become
Part of the young
Standing on shoulders
Who stood on the old
Solid foundations
Of so many others
Past and present
We become one
And tower above
Until we can all see