Great anguish brings great inspiration.
Words flow from my lips,
Fresh and cool. Trickling ever downward.
My mind never stops rushing and my pen follows suit.

When in times of great happiness I am sent out to sea in my own ideas and hopes.
Words are salty little splashes of ink.
The pen my canoe and the paper my little boat.

Between great sorrow and deep happiness is a desert of contentedness.
No words quench my longing
when words could cleanse the land,
flood my soul.
Thirsty, lost, hopeless,
wandering in dust with no voice.

Art rests inside the vision of creativity
Art comes alive with that interpretation
Art is cultured from craft
Until a masterpiece has evolved

Jl 2016

angel wings shielded my vision as i peeked at you through silky white feathers;

i whispered in a devil voice "i will make you feel what you never imagined--
i hold holy secrets and unholy sins"
i got on my knees for him but god knocked me from grace
(i am a fallen angel tempting sinners, lovers, fathers and hopeless romantics)
cut off my wings
remove your ring
undo the buttons on the stiff white shirt, beg me to fill what was lost on sermons and hymnals 

(moonlight illuminated my naked body)
(i made a deal with the devil while i danced beneath the stars)

come willingly to the edge and fly away with me or
fight my siren song and face the hand of god

Peter was my carpenter
he used only aged old wood
he’d snatched in passing
from passing away places
and neglected or unwanted forms.

Split from first use
he’d choose their resurrection
stripped, planed and straightened
shaved, sanded and shaped
- a re-incarnation - he made

my table, a flat pine oblong
knotted and notched
once blackened wharf wood
planks of purpose
reposed and renewed.

It sits steady in the kitchen
reliable and ready each day
but when I turn my back
or leave for the last time
each night, I wonder if it is there

its four legs held tight by gravity
or, if it moves in any direction
flying, soaring or shuffling
or, is it a negative space, an absence
gone far away forever, like Peter?

I am a carpenter, a dramatist, and a director,
And there’s little that all those skills are all good for,
But if you piece and you play and you pray,
They stick together just well enough to stay,
And you’ve hammered and scripted together
One little dream that’ll last forever.

A good dreamwright is hard to come by,
The kind that builds dreams that don’t die.
It’s a shame there’s so few of us
When dreams are needed in abundance.
Someone needs to make them from scratch
Oil the hinges and make sure wheels attach.

Some of us are good, some of us are bad
But we’re responsible for every dream you ever had:
The nightmares, the adventures, the vivid fantasies,
That play on your deepest desires and anxieties.
We are the ones that make sleeping souls laugh,
For this our artform and dreams our craft.

Take my heart,
Crush it
Then feed it to the birds
Pretend that you're helping
Stopping the hurt
Feed my empty soul with words that caress me
Til I burst
You were good at your craft
Obviously rehearsed.

I don't think poetry is rhymes, more than words locked in time. More like shadow caught in glass, a mirror that reflects the soul.
all you are and all you hold, and everything you have sold.
As shadows roll from our hands the mirror can already see our plans. Servitude, solitude, tradition, honor. Label your code or drown it in water.
Let your mirror define your soul, let your words reverberate all through time and all through space.