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.

"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

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.

A writer writes.  
A writer writes when he wants to
and when he doesn't.  
A writer writes when he is inspired
and when he isn't.  
A writer writes when the words are flowing from his mind like moisture off of a waterfall
and when the words are as scarce as republicans in Boston.  
A writer writes because he is a writer,
not because there are people who will cheer him on when he is finished.  
Sure, most writers dream of the cheers,
but a writer who will be a writer tomorrow
is one who writes even when the fans don’t show up.  
A writer writes when everything looks hopeless
and when everything is falling into place.  
A writer writes as a baby coohs.  
A writer writes as a child plays.  
A writer writes as a teenager dreams.  
And a writer writes as a grownup worries.  
A writer isn't a writer because he was chosen.  
A writer writes because it is what he has chosen.  
What does a writer write when the words are scarce?  
Many scarce words.  
What does a writer write when the words are abundant?  
Words in abundance.  
A writer doesn't wait for inspiration to hit,
he writes until inspiration catches up with him.  
A writer doesn't write only when the muse is on duty,
he writes until the muse feels shamed and shows up.  
A writer does not seek fame,
though fame often seeks writers.  
A writer does not seek fortune,
though fortune too often seeks writers.  
A writer doesn't seek anything but the satisfaction of writing,
for fame and fortune are fickle and writing only for them leads to many a blank page.  
If I write something meaningful and it is not accepted,
is it no longer meaningful?  
If I write words never before combined,
will people rave over my originality,
or complain about my lack of skill?  
I am a writer and so it doesn't really matter.

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

My babblings, my babblings
I cry out in terror
The thoughts of my soul
I burp out in error
My wisdom, pure wisdom
is hidden behind
the insipid, uninspired
notions of my mind

Oh cutie, you looker, you breaker of hearts.
Why is it I must go right back to the start?
Why must I again go looking around,
To find someone special who'll vanquish my frown?

I thought I had found, the day I met you,
My lover -- my soul mate, but it was not true.
I guess it was all just a dream of my head
An unrealistic indulgence I fed.

The truth, just our heads, not our eyes could see,
Was that romance for us was not meant to be.
I'm hurt, but I'm grounded, my faith is not lost,
Because when I met you, I counted the cost.

The gamble I took was a worthwhile risk,
To test for the chance that love might exist.
I am glad that I met you, I have no regrets,
If you want to stay friends, my answer is "Lets".

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.

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

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

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.

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

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

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

I wash the dishes.
You rewash them.
"You're worthless!"
Said without words.

Beautiful bouquet of
Bright, fall flowers.
Sent just because.
"Who the HELL arranged them?"

"I love you honey!"
Scribbled on a note,
Hidden to surprise you.
Your hurtful words surprise ME.

The lawn's mowed.
The kitchen's clean.
The clothes are put away,
Yet your anger remains.

Focused but maudlin,
I rummage through
My meager belongings,
As I pack them to leave.

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.

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.

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.

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

Searing torrents of molten asphalt
swelter inside my chest.
The catalyst that sparked
this raging inferno,
your words
still pound inside my head.
Blank-faced, devoid of emotion,
you offer an embrace.

Hands off!

Desire for reconciliation
mocks my pain.
Dreams of a white picket fence,
grandkids gathered around,
a collection of priceless, dime-store baubles,
dissipate in smoke.
Adorned in ignorance,
you reach to touch my face.

Hands off!

Comfort and pleasure,
desire and fulfillment,
memories of contact,
enjoyed,
burrow into my mind.
Herculean temptation,
overpowers my will.
~ Almost ~

Hands off!

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.

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.

There’s no such thing as writer’s block.
Muses don’t exist.
Water boils when you watch the clock.
Nothing lost is missed.

It’s better not to love or lose.
Time’s not medicine.
Saxophones don’t cure the blues.
Beauty’s not just skin.

I don’t believe in any myth.
Legends are not true.
But if you want to know my pith,
I believe in you.

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

I have the sickness it is true,
The one all of us writers do.
It causes us to lose much sleep,
As words and rhymes we ponder deep.
Although my eyes I want to close,
And let the stress of today go,
Before too long I start to rise,
To look for words without my eyes.
For it is with my heart I see,
The words I find in front of me.
No matter what method I try,
I can not make the words subside.
And so I find before too long,
My night of sleep has simply gone.

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.

Morons miss the forest,
Obsessing with a tree.
Players send their soul mate,
Packing down the street.

Irony's not cruel.
Fate does not take sides.
Both of them, however,
Know what a person hides.

Although I’ve struck another “END,”
I do not feel amiss.
What happened was what’s meant to be,
A truth I can’t dismiss.

The first night that I slept alone,
My slumber was remiss.
But when I woke up safe and sound,
I knew I had fate’s kiss.

It hurt to see our common friends;
It ached to reminisce.
But seeing they were still my friends,
Showed me their love exists.

So now each day that I endure
This trip through the abyss.
I realize that by facing fear,
I’ve found a kind of bliss.

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

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.

Impossibilities.
Distilled reality.
Idiosyncrasies.
Eventuality.
Living life with terminal frailties,
Searching for my lost tranquility.

Is it worth it?
Some days.

Little, tiny face slaps dominate my world,
Ever since the moment you became my girl.
The swats are mostly painless – so I just turn my cheek.
I guess I’m way too timid – I guess I’m way too meek.

I take you to the movies – you always choose the show.
I’d rather watch what you like, and see your face aglow.
Oops, I spilled the popcorn – it’s all across the floor.
So now here comes the eye roll that cuts me to the core.

We pass another milestone – I send you a bouquet,
Of lovely, bright, Fall flowers – perhaps a bit cliché.
In eager expectation I sit down by the phone.
Instead of adulation you call just to bemoan.

I’m not quite sure you notice. I’m not quite sure you see,
How much your little gestures have emasculated me.
I beg you to examine, implore you to observe.
The pain your actions cause me if our love we’re to preserve.

Introspection
  dejection
    living without action
Faux devotion
  commotion
    moving without traction
Mental trips
  acid drips
    falling from infected eyes
Turbulence
  opulence
    living life in disguise

Soft and silky on my lips.
So warm and smooth my heart does flips.
Only one thing can bring such bliss:
The sensual touch of my baby’s kiss.

Her eyes are pure and deep and bright.
Her arms a cocoon that holds me tight.
Between the two, nothing’s amiss.
But they can’t compare to her hungry kiss.

I have seen Paris by day –
Walked the Champses Elysee
I travel there when I reminisce.
But I fast return to my baby’s kiss.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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?

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

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?

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.

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.

The time it took to write this line,
I could have cooked a meal to dine.
But here I sit with pen in hand,
Trying to impress the man.

For this is what we writers do;
We live for words and not for food.
For food just gives us sustenance;
Words can give us eminence.