Coastal mist and mountains blue as ache—
Troubled waters in midair, streaming across
Such mirage of openness and tangled range,
When will the gathering skies sing me aloft?

Whether it's scientifically proven or not,
I know it to be true;
the best cure for a hangover
is more *****.

A noise woke me up.
Stumbling through the empty house I
struggled to find it.
It was odd,
seemingly everywhere I went it got louder and louder;
this thumping, pulsing, rapturous noise.
Giving up,
I reached for the half full bottle (the deciding factor to a bottle being half full or half empty is not the attitude of the drinker but the contents contained in said bottle) of *****,
took a swig,
chased it with orange juice,
took a swig,
chased it with orange juice,
etc.,
etc.,
etc.,
and so I began this day as I had ended the last one.

In a glorious and raging state of mind I stumbled...
(no, I've already used that)
... I fell down the stairs and watched the sun as it climbed and climbed
and I'm not sure how long I lay sprawled on the wet November grass
but I know how long I thought of you,
and I know how long I've been thinking of you
and I've been thinking of you for days.

We make a lot of wishes
On candles and shooting stars
Maybe we're superstitious
Or maybe our lives are just hard

We make a lot of wishes
For we don't like ourselves
We wish to be anyone, anywhere,
anyway, or anything else.

We make a lot of wishes
For we want things to change
Wishing for a difference
But everything stays the same

Warmth is a jumper,
a knitted, sewn and cross stitched bunker
in which we exist and sweat in, let out sighs of
I am okay or  I'm always this upset,
and behind those patterns we see the world
through a window the size of a pea, an out-of-focus
key hole where we can watch and wait
and be warm in the thought that
we've no work tomorrow.

Warmth is a blanket on a bed,
a mass produced widespread piece of material
in which we can dive under and have serial sleeps
that carry on into the evening;
and the light coming in through the wide window
hits the Hiroshima shadow-damp on the side wall
making it dance with the commuting-home-traffic.

Some nights I forget my way to the home
home? where is that? which side of the road?
I keep straying away empty streets I roam!

Where is the ****** moon? I shout
the moon is gone but the stars are out
stars, please, handhold me and guide
tell me my home is on which side!

Am I awake or a pawn in a game?
why every house looks the same?
my steps fall on some window light patch
I must go back must start from scratch!

window? ah, is there one with a face?
so I can say it's my address
hey stars, be this seeker's guide
lead me to my home, take me to her side!

may be a door for me kept ajar
two eyes are staring one guiding star
one heart that knows the night is not out
two ears keenly waiting for a shout

catch me from falling put me on bed
despair seizing yet hands on my head

*moon is ****** stars gone to fetch morn
I don't see her tears her nights forlorn!

Resubmitting for you consideration. posted to HP, my first week here, and another that got swallowed up in the multitude of words.   But I like it a lot, it makes me smile and perhaps it will find a wider audience, a second time around.



Do Not Put a Poem Here Until You Have Bent your ear to Shakespeare's sonnets

Until you have bent your ear to Shakespeare's sonnets,
Till you have laughed with Ogden Nash,
Wept with Frost, visited Byron's ghost,
Read the songs of King Solomon,
And once you
Despair of being their equal,
Shed your winter coat of worry,
***** your courage to the sticking point,
Begin to write then with reckless courage,
Unfettered abandon, make a fool of yourself!

Scout the competition.
Weep, for you and I will never surpass
The giants who preceeded us, and yet,
**Laugh, cause they thought the same thing as well...