There, in the
tide pool, dappled by
the sun, is birth and death,
and the spark that continues.
It leaves mankind in a wake of regret.
What have I to do with the albatross
Or sea lion?
I can but write, while they fly and roar.
I gaze upon the Pacific from this rock,
all its mysteries and grandeur.
I am inferior, while it forever reigns with
every wave and break of light.

Our love is ******.
It swims the muddy rivers,
and creeps on the rocky
shores, slithering
through the dark
corners of our world.
It bites into
the dew soaked dawn of all
our tomorrows.
It breaks the tethers
that try to bind.
It's wet and it smells of
heat and fire.
It tastes like sweet pea
and pomegranate.
It's eyes are full of
desire and untamed lust.
It's the stain on the sunset,
and the paint on the pallet.
Our hearts beating together,
like a metronome, is the only
thing that calms this
****** beast called love.

I know the wind
cries for me.
The birds sing of
my loneliness from
the sky.
I don't even see
you in my dreams
anymore.
Your red dress
hangs from the mahogany
coat rack, and the
storm clouds in my mind
never go away.
Baby, these miles
and miles are making
me soul sick, and this
trumpet will be the
death of me yet.

My alter ego,
Thomas, seems to have the same problem I do.
He's in the hospital withdrawing from alcohol, and also has politicians
taking refuge under his bed.
The lice in Donald's Trump's hair
have demanded rice for breakfast
and it's 4:00 in the afternoon.
Bernie Sanders is under their clamoring free medical care for everybody, but every time I put the nurses light on and tell them what's going on they say no one's under the bed. I think they're in on it.  If this doesn't stop the doctors will think I'm crazy, but we know who the crazy ones are. Right?

I've been so lonely
as of late.
I set out to
create a mate.
Oh, who am I
kidding, I'm not
a poet, I'm a doctor,
truth be told,
more of an alchemist.
Going to graveyards
for body parts, all
in the name of
science, I swear....
to create life....boy did
I **** this one up
royally.

I was helping my
son with his homework
the other day.
For one of his assignments,
he had to write a
public service announcement.
He has been visited
by the muse
at an early age.
His goal is to publish
his first book by the
time he's 18.

It got me thinking about
my life as a writer,
and the young formative
years.
As a boy, I had a
broad imagination,
and much time alone.
I remember coming
up with plot lines in
my head, and then
writng little adventure stories.
My dad was a drama
teacher.
He directed four or
five plays a year.
I grew up watching
the classic plays,
and developing a love
for literature.

In Junior high,
I saw the power
of my gift.
I wasn't a popular
kid; somewhat of a
loner.
But one day in
English class, I wrote
a story about a
***** headed hamster,
with an underbite like
a French bulldog.
The other kids loved it.
They listened and laughed,
and applauded.
Words became my
new best friend.

I grew, and leaned on
writing through the
good times and the bad.
They were my warmth
In the long winters,
and my rain in
springtime.
Through the alcoholic
haze of much of
my adulthood,
writing kept me sane,
and it gave me
the will to keep
living when the
pain grew into
a beast of its own...

My son hands me
his paper, and it's
brilliant--it warns people
about the dangers
of cyber hackers, by
portraying the average
person surfing the net
as a lamb walking along
in the grass,
thinking life is grand just being
a sheep, when along
comes the wolf that pounces and
devours.
He finishes with,
"Don't let this happen to you.
Protect your computer and files
with such and such software."

He asked me if I thought
he could be a good writer.
I laughed, and and told him
that he already was.

You rolled across
my body and
soul,
working the
aches out of my
tired back.
This poem won't
behave.
The writing streak
is over.
I know that
all good things
must come to
an end.
The sidewalk
cracks,
the glasses break,
both bull and
matador die.
And when I lie down
at night
on the living
room couch,
the ten steps
to your bed and
to your heart
seem like
a thousand miles away.