I came to a courtyard of my own making,
To a cottage by the sea at the worlds edge.
I furnished it with my left over life, complete,
Barren and colorless and I wrote the newest
Book of psalms out of tinder and flame, a tome
Of grey and useless poems, unheard of songs
And reams of flesh.  There in the lightest dark,
By the Druid stone that was placed just for me,
I planted a creeping yew tree.  And the moon
Sang in celebration and silence like a fallen
Priest.  
                    Under the covering hazel trees,
That sprung to life after the longest winter,
Which taught me to forget my name, I now
Struggle with light and my body, warring, torn
Is fading slow, like the always arriving, down
Turning solstice, the climates of the mind,
Where it is digging the never ending shallow
Hole only the spreading eternal yew, that I
Planted, will ever know and only the Lazarus
Moon shall ever rise above.

I came to a courtyard of my own making,
Was it dream that led me there or my eyes?

This night is cool.
Stark change from the heat of day.
The wind blowing hard.
Left and right.
Undecided like me.
Breeze soothing and calm.
I've let go, the noise of it all.
Trees thrashing with life.
Wind is soundless.
But through the trees it wisps.
Grass around my ankles.
Wind turned attention seekers.
They tickle furiously with motive.
Dispel all thought, motives and intent.
Leave it all behind and focus on myself.
The mosquito's have been kind.
Tonight they turned a blind eye.
Just this night the world has wanted me to see.
I'm connected to this earth and it won't let me displace.
Reminding me I've not gone.
Somewhere I was not meant.
This world is a strange place.
We're all only a little bent.

You are what you are
no bypassing the issue
And if you force change on someone
the issue is you

we all were created to be something
from the addicts to the presidents
for those that may be wondering
hopeless nerds and the awkward
are who I represent

Me? I'm a hardened cynical writing fiend
inking and abusing pages like schoolly D when he asked, P.S.K. what does it mean
you won't find this engrossing
as I'm prone to bouts of vicious self loathing

You? well clearly you must like what I write
I personally don't see why but hey that's alright
but then you always are your own worst critic
So even though I may think I'm dumber than a post tied to a box of rocks
you may see something different

Bottom line is, we all are something unique and strange
because of this humans should try to engage
the idea of being loving and not war hungry ******
because who know how long we have until the final curtain call
And when the author's pen makes that last click

When love was young and bore an immigrant
Soul, how fresh and adventurous the years
And brinkmanship, my rite, was took for grant,
Aye, in my flotsam and jetsam, I spent no tears
Which by and by a greedy sea of beginnings
Has left no bounty, but cargo delivered or turned
To wood adrift, which built but useless things,
Children love tossing in fires bonny burned.
Here I lie, on the waters edge, searching—
For something to contain my emptiness,
My wanderlust, but like shy waves lurching,
I wrestle now, toward land, not loneliness.
Though I spent my life as a flag unfurled,
A disembodied soul is without this world.

Always see one worn  .  .  .
Lone shoe in streets and alleys,
  .  .  .  Never see a pair.