crawling up a mountainside,
filled with certain dread.
knowing that a misstep,
will probably leave me dead.
that’s what writing feels like,
from inside my head.

falling from an airplane,
a pack upon my back.
in love with total weightlessness,
without a single lack.
that’s what writing feels like,
when everything’s on track.

finding the tiny pieces
  of the broken vase
putting them back together
  with nothing out of place
would be altogether simpler
  easier by far
then wrestling the decision
  entangling my heart

What does it mean
  when someone appears
    surrounded by a glow?

What can you do
  when you can't stop thinking
    about someone you know?

Would you know your soul mate
if she tripped in to your life?
Would you give up everything
to see her by your side?
Making tough decisions
will always cause some pain.
So live and risk rejection
or die silent once again.

You cannot ride the rapids
afraid to rock the boat.
You can't aim for the bleachers
if you're too afraid to choke.
A life under the radar
may seem safe and secure.
But is it truly living
when only fear's endured?

I truly can't imagine
   how dull life must have been
      before the art of writing
         gave advent to the pen
How did the hapless poet
   recharge his weathered soul?
      What outlet had the writer
         stuck in that bookless hole?

One more time.
Just one.
Just one more chance
to remember
how it felt
and I'll never ask
for anything again.
Ever!
Except for one more time.

miscommunication based on fear
destroyed the fragile buds
of friendship
or more

what was once a smile
so bright and so warm
is now a look
of sadness

losing the opportunity
to show the depths
of my sincerity
physically hurts

so I pretend like all is well
like nothing happened
and save my tears
for when I'm alone

If a picture tells a wordless poem

Then a brief glimpse, starting with a glance and
ending with a knowing wink,
would be a short story.

And too, a playful exchange,
culminating in an unexpected tryst,
needs be a novella.

And thus, an afternoon chase leading to:
a heartfelt talk, a fevered clash of naked flesh,
and a midnight mocha by a lively winter’s fire,
must be the the opening chapter of mankind’s greatest epic.

No Tonka, no Barbie,
No Monopoly game.
Just a pack on my back.
The rest have the same.

We start at age three.
Continue 'til death.
I know I'll have work,
As long as I've breath.

Our families need money.
We're the poorest of poor.
All our older brothers,
Are dead from the war.

From sunup to sunrise,
I carry my pack.
I try to walk fast,
Just in case we're attacked.

I'd complain of my plight,
But who would I tell?
All of my friends
Share the same Hell.

I've heard of a place,
Where kids get to play.
I hope from deep down,
I'll see it some day.

But likely as not,
My kids just as I,
Will carry these packs
'Til the day that we die.

welcoming grace, dignified and true,
blooms passionately, brilliantly from the
glorious heart of this earthly angel

crossing an ocean, like royalty and then
crossing a country, like a pilgrim leads to
friendships that no earthly power can demolish

the queen of WDC

enamored eyes, bulging with trust, lay me
down to sleep and keep me protected in
ten thousand layers of love

flaky biscuits and delicious, country-sausage
gravy, or the world's very best lasagna
smile warmly as I come home from work

soul-mate -- not just a quaint concept

"justice for most," screams the reformer
"justice for some," yells the status quo
"justice for all," wishes the repressed

black metal carts with beige metal drawers
stand at attention against the bleak wall,
holding the treasured secrets of a powerful giant

Neither justice nor secrets are well-protected

"Universal health care is too expensive,"
explains the fully insured bureaucrat
while his constituents fight to make ends meet

"here, have some more money,"
offers the slick, teflon-coated lobbyist,
best friend of the health-care industry

Obviously the twain have met

little blinking lights, yellow and round,
fight to keep up with the incessant
whirring of the tape drive

the old unit, yesterday's model,
wearing it's rolled up power cord like a crown,
waits patiently in the senior center under the desk

Eventually, the whirring will stop, and the two will rock side by side

humming fans and clicking keys echo
like colliding tumbleweeds through the
desolated dessert of the computer lab

"Leading the AL in RBIs" squawks the
dingy, white speaker in squeaky stereo
"Best ERA in the majors," it offers a short time later

Watching computers, not have problems, is boring

bound although innocent, the network cable
waits patiently, ready to pounce on any
unsuspecting, incoming internet traffic

cursing the plethora of refrigerator decorations,
the critical back-up tape peers nervously
around the hectic office space

Neither servers, both serve up their data

the candy bar snickers at the can of soda
the can of soda, keeping tab, waits for its
chance to crush the bar of candy

suddenly, a pill bottle pulls out a tablet to
write a prescription but rolls off in disgust
after spilling acetycylic acid on its shirt

Trying to choose a snack gives me a headache

a square pad of paper, red glue on one end,
hides under its sheet and glares at the
yellow post it note.

sporting a fingerprint tattoo,
a black and white BIC pen clics its
stic while it waits for work.

Paper and pen make their mark together

Fireflies flutter, and lightning sputters
around midnight
as sweet dreams glide effortlessly
into my brain.

Passion's a river and my innards quiver
without a sound
while fantasy and reality switch sides
and board my plane.

My uvula twitches, and my viewpoint switches
from dark to light
as buried longings, once lethargic
prepare to soar.

Caution's neglected, and safety's rejected
upon the ground
while delicious morsels, poetic in nature
finally begin to pour.

Cotton puppies chase their tails
fluffy soldiers fight
cotton kitties play as well
lightning lights the night

Cotton puppies chase their tails
across the nighttime sky
but when the rainstorm starts to wail
the cotton puppies die

...and then PETA showed up and wanted to know whether there were sufficient air holes for the lamb to breathe and how the separating of the lamb from its mom went and whether or not the box was organic and free of all chemicals known to cause allergic reactions among lambkind.

The prince pulled out his legally concealed pistol and shot the PETA representative.

The ACLU, not arguing with the prince's right to carry the legally concealed weapon, but objecting to his failure to alert the PETA representative before shooting him, offered to take on the case of PETA v Prince for free, as long as PETA would agree not to protest the Jack In The Box deliveries that would be a thrice daily occurrence while the ACLU readied itself for trial.

The prince, misunderstanding ACLU's motivation and fearing the eventual loss of his right to legally concealed weapons, looked a little harder and deeper at the box and, voila, miracle of miracles, began to see apocalyptic scibblings regarding the fast-approaching war of Armageddon and the importance of a "well-armed militia" in the winning of that unavoidable conflict.

Recognizing the chance to shore up the faithful -- and put to shame the rest -- the Christian Coalition adopted the prince's message and gave it more teeth.  They stoked the flames of hellfire, added more levels to the depths of hades, and notched up the sufferings to those found guilty by their Lord, the Good Shepherd.

The ACLU responded, adding the Christian Coalition to the complaint.

The battle lines were drawn.  The ACLU and PETA stood on one side and the Christian -Coalition and the NRA stood on the other.

People argued and screamed and fought and condemned.

Then, a little boy of five, wiser than his years and saddened by the preemption of his favorite cartoons in favor of live coverage of the proceedings noticed something nobody else had.  Neither side any longer had a picture of the lamb.  So he drew his own.

"I'm smarter than you,"
says the fool.

"I won't need your help."
"I already know it."
"I've done this before."
"I don't need you to show it."

"And besides,"
says the fool,
"I'm smarter than you,"

Gestures of kindess --
"I don't need that, no thank you."
Offers of friendship --
"Get away from me, will you?"

"I'm smarter than you,"
says the fool.

Only the kind
are afraid of nobody.
Only the lazy
mistake spotless and muddy.
Only the wise
realize that they're not.
and only a fool
feels free when he's caught.

"I'm smarter than you,"
says the fool.

"I don't need your help."
"I already know it."
"I haven't done this before,"
"but I don't need YOU to show it."

"I'm smarter than you,"
says the fool --
to themself.

Supposition, I suppose, is worse than puppy pantyhose.
Indecision, I decide, is something I sometimes deride.
Aberrations, normally, are things I follow faithfully.
Prevarications, I attest, are often more true than the rest.

Winter brings
falling puffs of weightless white
gliding effortlessly down
to the ground
pausing briefly on the wings
of swaying outstreched needles
from the pine,
the winter wooden warden,
trustee of frozen forest.
Arctic winds
seize hold the fragile snowflakes
plucking, snatching, and clutching
the flimsy
whisps of still independent
drops of moisture from the air,
forcing them
down, down, down to the icy
surface of the silent earth.

eyes barely open as minutes
pass for seconds on a tiny
corner table where I scribe my poems
subdued lighting and neutered
calls from over-caffeineated
teenaged chefs surround me
recycled-paper brown napkins
filled with intelligible-only-to-me
scratchings rest under my tired hand
fifteen second-minutes later I return
to watch hour after tedious hour
slither slowly from the clock
the big hand finally points toward
salvation and I take my coat and gloves
and poems home to read what my soul has spilled
a smile makes a rare appearance as
the tenuous words on the napkin take form and
bring meaning and relief to my tired heart

Jagged bottles, freshly broken, line the
cobbled pathway leading to the house.
An open window and the heady smell of warm beer
implicate the under-employed and over-stimulated
inhabitants of something.
A frazzled flag, ruined by the wind and disinterest
drizzles limply in the breeze. Broken lines and
pointless stars point to broken lives and
pointless wars that spit on the lithe and measured
stiches of an avant guarde Betsy Ross.
Ancient wooden placards, blue and white and peeling,
shoot up through the hoarfrost of the unkempt yard.
Promising something, though not articulated, they
describe a geometric shape, strangely triangular,
between signs and flag and glass.
A strong confident voice, "Yes we can," wafts
through the open window, and floats above the dismal house.
Then a curse word and a shotgun blast and the
willowing smoke from a TV no longer in need of its
power switch punctuate the scene.

It started with a cookie -- oatmeal and raisin,
soft and moist like a May strawberry.
Mom said, "wait." But waiting didn't
taste as good as stealing.
Cookies came and went -- grade school turned into
high school and lessons turned into tests.
The teacher said, "study hard." But studying
wasn't as much fun as cheating.
Graduation day arrived -- as class Valedictorian,
my speech brought my classmates to tears.
I said, "Don't ever sell out." But selling out
is easier to do than laboring.
I started my career -- working in Corporate America.
Easy money schemes abounded.
The boss said, "don't break the law." But bending
sometimes leads to breaking.
Sentencing day arrived -- convicted on nine counts.
I'm eligible for parole in fifteen years.
The judge said, "resist temptation." But resisting
doesn't satisfy like enrapturing.

All that remained
was just an enigmatic shell.
All that remained
of decades filled with things obtained
to quench this narcissistic hell,
we realized we had to sell
all that remained.

With mouth agape, just like a clown,
I'm drifting through a brand new town.
All captivated by the lights,
I'm glaring, staring at the sights,
that awe me with their high renown.

As though wearing a royal crown,
I'm floating through this well-known town.
Above the sky, I reach new heights,
with mouth agape.

Too high for life to pull me down,
I'm soaring through this humdrum town.
On wings that arc above the lights,
I scarce can see the dwindling sights
of people, places, things and nouns,
with mouth agape.

Playful cups of sensual coffee tease each other across the way,
flirting, steaming whiffs of flavor -- double espresso and latte.
With a touch of creamy caramel and a shot of mocha too,
muggy coffees, slow as turtles, serve double entendre brew.

I love watching Susan write.

She puts every ounce of her being
into coming up with something wonderful.
Her nose twinkles and she purses her lips.
A glance heavenward
when she needs the right word or phrase
is rewarded by new inspiration and
transforms into increased vigor
for her writing hand.

I love watching Susan write.

I didn't like the prompt.
I don't think it liked me either.
Staring at me,
laughing really,
it mocked my inability
to be inspired.

But I was inspired.
Doubly so!
Just not by it.
I was inspired by the class,
by my fellow students,
by the poems we read, and by the poems
waiting to be written.

In a way,
I was even inspired by the prompt.
But don't let it find out.

How can a story
be devised
from just an idea?

How can a complete
novel appear
from just a thought?

Can something small
like inspiration
be buried into the
ground of creativity and
with the patient watering
of diligence in writing,
grow into a believable and flowing text?

I (a seed) that it can.

people -- blue jeans -- t-shirts -- volleyball -- sparklers -- *** its -- stone bridge -- pine trees -- new trees -- old trees -- fireworks -- grass -- sonic boom -- picnic chairs -- bicycles -- oak trees -- bare neck -- tickles -- sneezing -- bless you -- slight chill -- cloud cover -- police cars -- policemen -- uniforms -- night sticks -- sweat pants -- baby strollers -- skull & crossbones -- muscle shirt -- sweat shirt -- baseball caps -- fountains of sparks -- greenery -- dandelions -- yellow weeds -- wafting smoke -- black man in white shirt -- white man in black shirt -- SUV -- Boxer dog -- red wagon -- smoke stacks -- asian couple -- running shorts -- acrid smoke -- ice cream truck -- double trees -- pony tail -- mosquitos -- fishing hat -- yellow truck -- handlebar mustache -- bad *** attitude -- shaved head -- balloon -- barbeque -- sunset -- affro -- tennis shoes -- multi-colored hair -- canoe -- golden purse -- playing band -- American flag -- folding chair -- name badge -- red, white, & blue -- skipping rocks -- cargo shorts -- matching couple -- bike path -- hippie hair -- low rider -- peace sign -- golden chains -- waning moon -- waxed legs -- hoodies -- striped shirt -- victory dance -- short shorts -- cigar smoke -- watermelon -- Viking's bag -- leopard skin jacket -- skooter -- digital camera -- creepy stalker dude -- tent building -- horeshoes -- personal space invaders -- glow sticks -- picnic basket -- cooler -- smoke bombs -- plaid skirt -- 77 sweats -- interracial couples -- motorcycle -- orange vest -- plastic ball -- face paint -- cops in two different uniforms -- split tree -- pregnant lady -- trash talking horeshoe player -- street lamps -- playing tag -- large blue cooler -- bright green pants -- humorless boy

I saw the calamity,
But not in time,
To stop the collision.
I feel like a spectator,
In my own life.

Events keep happening,
Without the ability,
To affect the outcome.

I see the future,
But only the moments,
Beyond my reach,
And outside my power.
In my own life.

I keep going forward,
Without the ability,
To affect the outcome.

Life is to be lived with gusto.
Those who fear making mistakes,
make the biggest one of all.

Live life.
Love it.
Let others see that you love it.
Help them to love it too.

When you look back on life,
the moments that will stand out
the strongest
and have the most meaning
are those moments
where you embraced life
and yanked everything you could from it.

Don’t worry,
either,
you won’t break life.
Our lives may be fragile,
but life itself isn’t.

Feeling hopeless, useless
Rejection left me low
Way too low

Death became an option
The preferred option
But no go

I woke up, stomach pumped
"******* paramedics!"
Profound woe

Many memories missing
Many bridges too
Reap and sow

Faith and hope dismantled
Dreams all entangled
Sun won't glow

Reaching out for others
Former friends AWOL
New ones show

Love and concern offered
Their judgment AWOL
Hope can grow

Equilibrium regained
Hard lessons learned
Now I Know

Listen to the lullaby,
Let its rhythm calm.
Leave your problems far behind,
Love its healing balm.

Listen to the lullaby,
Loiter in the song.
Let the music make you high,
Live where you belong.

Listen to the lullaby,
Linger in its peace.
Lose the reasons that you cry,
Let your sadness cease.

Concrete blood
Slogs through my
Asphalt body

Silent horror films
Cycle, ad infinitum, through my
Frenzied mind

My comprehension
Entangles truth
With authentic illusions

My hypothesis
Roars to life
In the eyes of strangers

Their expression
Or lack thereof
Contains damning evidence

Simple tasks
Once without challenge
Monopolize my agenda

My adversary
Transformed into Achilles
Receives leg armor

My vigor
Once formidable
Goes on sabbatical

My bed
Once a place of solace
Becomes my entire world

They call me crazy cuz I smile a lot.
They say I’m lazy but I'm really not.
I just don’t fit into their pre-made slot.

I’m not preoccupied with getting rich.
I don’t have snake oil, nor some clever pitch.
I’m simply looking for my own sweet niche.

Some people wonder what my angle is.
They try to bust me like some lame pop quiz.
But in the end what’s mine is my own biz.

So even though I try to mind my own,
I soon discover that I’m not alone,
And like someone defunct, I’ve been knocked prone.

Although this feeling is a bit surreal.
And their attacks belie that they’re puerile,
I’ll triumph in the end cuz I’m for real.

I know the words are still inside, but I just can’t get them out
I want to put all my thoughts down – but only crap I spout
The lofty secrets I could share, would surely change the world
But as it is, they’re wrapped up tight – not to be unfurled

I’ve gone through times like this before – this isn’t something new
I’ve suffered hard to write my lines – I’ve overcome it’s true
But even though I know this spell of dryness has to end
Into a sea of anxious mire I feel myself descend

I know not where the answer lies – I know not what will work
I know not how I can escape before I go berserk
With sadness clawing at my soul and my head so full of grief
The act of writing seems too hard and offers no relief

But even though I’ve lost my hope and everything looks black
Even though my words are scarce and I feel like I’m a hack
Even though the crap I write makes even me feel sick
I have to force the words to come until at last they click

Because I am a writer now and will be forever more
I have to write when I enjoy it and when it’s a chore
So even though my heart is broke and my mind just wants to quit
I push myself to write my words – and not a single one omit

Boredom
Couldn't make it.

Laughter
Took his place.

People
Shared their words.

Applause
Kept the pace.

Humor
Flowed around us.

Poems
Made us think.

Stories
Kept us smiling.

At least
We didn't stink.

Artistic charm surrounded us.
The seven of us read our words.
And only one put up a fuss.
We talked of *** and bugs and turds.

The seven of us read our words.
Although one did put up a fuss.
The conversation turned to turds.
And laughter then surrounded us.

And only one put up a fuss.
It wasn't though about the turds.
For laughter is what stayed with us.
The whole night as we read our words.

We talked of *** and bugs and turds.
And nothing seemed to bother us.
For as we read each one our words.
There was but one who caused a fuss.

Words stand at the picket line
Refusing to cross
My ego tries to negotiate
But the words
Remain resolute.

Ideas orbit my brain
Potential masterpieces
I want to flesh out the ideas
But the words
Are still on strike.

When problems come in pummeling loads.
When I see mud covers all roads.
When friends I loved, are Glad to see,
that stressful times have engulfed me.
When the future looks so dreary, bleak,
I just don’t have the will to speak.

I’m sure my problems aren’t that bad.
I’m sure my thoughts are skewed a tad.
I’m sure I still have friends, who care,
those who’d help me anywhere.
I’m sure that things aren’t quite so dark,
but still I don’t see ne’er a spark.

I love to help when others need.
I love to take their hands and lead.
I love to show they still have friends,
whose pledge of friendship never ends.
I love to help them see the light,
but at this time, I’ve not the might.

If you can see my problems well.
If you can see on what I dwell.
If you think friends we both could be,
the type of friend whose love is free.
If you can get my candle lit,
then please step up and just do it.