why must we all be
angels               or
devils

sometimes both

lets be humans
and laugh
at
our futility

On the lonely road, a crow was picking
At the fresh remains of a dead chicken.
It’s the circle of life, as far as I can see.
Everything is food; both you and me.
It’s all circle and cycles, you see.
Running away and then back again.
Life the enemy in our old age
That started out to be our friend.

It’s all ashes to ashes, dust to dust
Even solid steel is a victim of rust.
We can pretend might makes right
But that doesn’t stop the fall of night.
Water is necessary for us,
But without air, there is death.
We can live but a few moments
If we do not have our breath.

Without food, we will get weak.
And stone can break our bones.
Fire can consume us it is sure
But fire needs air, it is well known.
The crow pecks bones without joy
It is what it must to do survive.
The crow does not worry or frown.
It does what it does to stay alive.

The people that use that road
For the old crow’s grisly feast
Do not care for god or books
Or superstition in the least.
Congregations of god surely will
Hire mourners to wail their grief
About the loss of a pious soul.
No more honest than a thief.

Day's last thoughts play
through the creases of my sleepy mind.
Questions pile like the flakes
on the sidewalks outside.
Square of purple light in my white wall,
                               painted night grey,
glimpse of snowfall--a buzzing, fuzzed-out
scrambled teleplay.

Through interference I'll slide
                                      eventually
          ­                                          down into
                                                     dreaming.
and change the program.
For now, the channel remains right here.
The Winter flickers 'cross my face.

And that window's purple
                              square is a small piece
of a tired world just trying to fall asleep;
A single view of a wider picture
that covers miles. Bends lines into a face.

Impulses race through a fading mind.
Snow is piling deeper
on the bike path outside.
Retrace my steps as eye lids close
                                over distance
Still that square glows--a buzzing, fuzzed-out
scrambled episode.

Through interference I'll slide
                                      eventually
          ­                                          down into
                                                     dreaming
behind the credits.
For now the channel remains right here.
Half-smile flickers 'cross my face.
A different place and some different ways
to transmit greetings across this space
and to broadcast all our withheld wishes
                                             would be fine.

                       But tomorrow I'll wake up.

             And these re-runs never stop.

And that window's purple
                              square is a small piece
of a tired world just trying to fall asleep;
A single snowy, interfered picture.
                   A half-formed question:
     Are you watching this same thing?

We work so hard and forget what
       matters the most,only to
              achieve what we
                  won't leave
                   this world
                       with.
                        Sad indeed.

A heart
Will die a thousand times.
Love
Won't work out right.
Sadness is a
Circle ****.
Hope won't burn
So bright.
Wars are fought
Without consent
A world so wrapped
In sin.
If every day is ending
How can I begin?

Seeking the words with which to convey
all of things that I've wanted to say
high on a mountain or out on the beach
wrestling as they remain just out of reach

Poems sometimes
aren't enough ,
just
a hunger falling
from fingers  ,
hiding in paper

pretending to
be a statement

the less you write,
the more relevant
it is

i try and try
and all i get is
accusations

i cannot live your life
for you

but i can live my life by principles,
even if you disagree with my path

Buzzing, itching, crowded mess.

Pounding, pounding, in my head.

Nothing matters, not anymore.

It never did, never at all.

Slowly sinking, drowning, cold.

I think I'm starting to lose my hold.

My grip on reality is wearing thin.

It's time I let the demons in.