When Summer's heat
gives way to
autumns bliss,
I will kiss this
world goodbye
and walk to
the woods
to save
the last sliver
of my humanity,
where the creek
meets the river of
my destiny.
Far away from
the ****** city of
sick Streets
and broken
dreams.

You slipped
away from me,
like the robins and
cherry blossoms when
spring ends,
and the fractured nights
of winter come.
I will search the
midnight alleys, and the
mountains of Chile.
I will listen for
your sweet laughter.
I long to taste your
honeysuckle lips, and
hear your heartbeat.
If I never find you,
I will be a lost leaf
on the lonesome
vagabond wind.

He had that
groaning soul
loneliness, like a
puffy white cloud,
floating aimless and
aching toward the
black abyss- that gray sky
sadness,
like he was
five years old, and just
watched his dog get
hit by a car.
You could smell
the pain- taste it
like potato chips on a
sore throat.
It smelled like a
basement or cobwebs.
I told him,
'Nothing will fix that
****- just time and dirt.'
He didn't blink,
and his soft walnut eyes
flashed
crossword confusion.

(Screaming)
You ******* witch, I want
my records back ahhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!
Here's a broomstick to
ride to work on!!!

I danced and, and ****** and sang
like some kind of a warped god,
like I owned the night,
pretending tomorrow was
a decade away.
And when the morning proved
too much to bare...
I danced and drank, ****** and
sang all over again.

I want to swim to heaven,
because this city has an infection.
No injection will **** this disease,
this treachery, this brutality;
So I'm going to swim to heaven,
back float--take my time, my rhyme,
will be the deep blue trip
to heaven.

I hate the saying, "Baby's Mama."
It's so ******. As I drifted off to
sleep last night, crocked on a plethora of
pills, and the remnants of *****, I thought
to myself, She's a little bluebird that
burrowed in my heart.
I laughed and slobbered, and drifted
into the warm fuzzy black.

She's intuitive, she asked me to let
the nurse know that her and the kids were
coming so that there would be a smooth
transition with staff. Hospitals can be
peculiar when it comes to visitation with children.

So she asked me how I wanted to refer to her.
She's the Mother of my 2-year old
daughter, and she has a 10-year old boy
that I have been around for 6 years.
He's like my own son, but 'technically,  he's not.
I don't want to offend anyone. It's all so
******* complicated. I could say, "This is Bonnie,
I'm Clyde, and this is our gang." They probably
wouldn't laugh. I feel very comfortable saying,
"These are our kids, and this is their Mom"

If the kids weren't in ear-shot and I felt
like a rapscallion, I might say,"This is a woman
that I used to love and **** a lot! Finally we had
our daughter- WOW- AMAZING! ! !
The boy came along before I met her, but I love him
like my own son- always and forever."

Anyway, this is my daughter, and my son, and a woman that I used to
love and **** a lot, also, a fantastic Mother, and when
I'm twacked out d-toxing- drifting off to sleep, and
laughing about what to call her, I might just call her
my little bluebird, that burrows in my heart.

Down I go into the gray and brown.
I hit the sides, like being in a cradle that is
rocked too fast.  It's an abrupt catastrophe.
I didn't see this one coming; but I felt it, like
the slight rumble of an earthquake, or like the
false dawn, before the real light yawns, and
opens the sickly day.
It's just another ending, dapple and down.

If not for you where would I be today?
Most likely dead or on some distant shore.
Your love does not drift like the ocean waves.
It stays close to my heart, I can't ask for more.
Your skin, so soft, like velvet on my tongue.
Your orchid, sublime, responds to every kiss.
To my ears, your heart beats like a song.
If I never met you my life would be amiss.
But now we build the future bold and brave.
There is no fear when I am in your arms.
The ***** is gone and I'm no longer a slave.
My soul is not in a state of alarm.
Your breath is like the wind on a barren land.
I swear to you I'll always be your man.

What happened to your heart?
It used to be so strong.
When did these **** nights
get so ****** long

You're my Lady of ashes,
and I'm all burnt up.
You threw me in the fire;
And my soul has had enough.
I've had enough...
I've had enough,

I've had enough
Yeah.

amor tardius occidit
We should have
been so much
more.
Now we're just a torn
page
in a finished book.
The memories are
fading,
but the pain still lingers.
I still smell you on
my fingers.
I still taste you on
my tongue.
Love kills slowly;
a backward glance from
an invisible god.
I'm a bird that sings,
but cannot fly.
I'm the ticking of a
clock.
A rocking chair.

tick

tock...

I watch life float
by like a dragon-fly
riding the breeze.

When Summer's heat
gives way to
autumns bliss,
I will kiss this
world goodbye
and walk to
the woods
to save
the last sliver
of my humanity,
where the creek
meets the river of
my destiny.
Far away from
the ****** city of
sick Streets
and broken
dreams.

All the hard
times prepared me
for this.
The hopeless
times, black sun
sadness.
The long seasons of
madness.
Starving, like a
winter tomcat.

The hospital stays.
Jails and psych wards.
The fist fights under
bridges.
Midnight swims, drunk in
the Iowa River,
not drowned, only out
of spite.
All of this, and
much more got
me ready for this.

I’m sitting up in bed.
It’s 5:00 AM.
My three cats chase
each other, like
lovers in spring.
I’ve been sober
for almost two years.
I even quit smoking
cigarettes.
I’m writing regularly,
and publishing much
of it.
It’s mostly well received
worldwide.
I’m sipping a hot cup
of coffee.
It’s from Sumatra and has
notes of herbs and earth.

I look at the pictures of
Van Gogh and
Hemingway above my
antique maple desk,
as I listen to Mozart.
A writer needs four walls.
I have so much more,
children
wisdom
cats
and gratitude, the most
important thing I
found.

Like Bonnie and Clyde,
we rode the
night like thieves.
We hit most of
the stores in town.
I’d get the wine and
she’d get her
beauty products and
cleaning supplies.
She acted as if the
cameras didn’t apply to
her.
I was all about
the *****.
Often I wouldn’t even know
what I was
getting.  When we got  
home
it would be a
surprise to both of us.
“Oh look honey,
merlot, what goes  
good with that?”
Or,
“Have you ever had
pinot noir?”
Stealing with her was
such a rush
like that first line of  
really good *******.
We felt untouchable,
invincible,
until one night
we found out we weren’t.

Smell the
newborn puppies;
placenta from heaven,
like candy canes and
burning leaves.
Stay green as long as
you can.
Drink up the sunrise like
a chocolate malt;
because tomorrow comes
with a sigh...

There goes Vincent with
his jagged sky, and
ragged beard.
His cobalt blue are
stained with the glue that should
hold us all together,
but it doesn't.
His sunflowers are lost
on humanity.
When we can't hold
on to what we pretend to love,
we **** it...
Usually in small
treacherous ways,
like apathy or
arrogance.

I wish I had
a vein.
the highways are
under reconstruction.
It ***** like a
***** on 3-inch skids.
I did my time,
I'm part of the rhyme.
I'll stay lonely only
because of you..

It's heartbreaking and
raining in my soul.
Love isn't enough.
It's a swamp in
her heart,
mold, mildew, decay.
She wants my ***** in
a jar.
A gelded pony to pet.
I'll always be
a stallion.
The fields are
my home,
not her fenced in façade.
I'm galloping for
good
into the wild.

Cleanse me from
the dust of
the night, and
the apocalyptic
visions of my
slumber.
Fish guts, ****, or
insomnia may have
conjured these rotting
skin nightmares,
these mosquitoes from
hell.
I struggled to wake up,
but couldn't, and finally,
while I was flying in
a gray land of desolation,
and killers,
of nighthawks and harpies.
I soared through a
hazy wasteland, and arrived
safely back home
in my serene, August Sabbath.

I can't fit
in your
pocket,
that kind
of love
is too
much.
Such a
dreamy
coffin,
when all
I wanted
was
your
touch.

She's in a
self imposed cage.
I can see it in
her eyes;
a demon's hell-fire.
She loathes humanity,
especially men.
Anyone can blame
past circumstances for
how they are currently,
but ultimately,
love unlocks the
door to the
prison of hate.

Blue-eyed delusion;
living in the past.
I guess sanity doesn't
last forever.
Maybe she never
had it at all
I need a woman that
treats me right,
and knows how to love,
not a monster that rages
in the night.
The railroad tracks
know the truth;
so do those harsh Iowa winters.
And talking about a god
doesn't change it.

It’s hot in
Missouri.
The summer  
sun looks down  
jealous of
youth playing in
the fields,
carefree and
careless.
Kids drown
muskrats with
rocks in the
stream, and have
funerals for flies.
Death watches, and
waits for
winter to come.

She had that
******* lust,
bent and broke;
taking life hard
and fast from behind.
She had the eyes of
a serial killer,
with a splash of
rainy afternoon sadness.
I met her at the
homeless shelter, and her
soul was a
vagabond with a vengeance.
Her heart was an abyss.
Life had ****** her up
beyond repair.
No way was love gonna'
fix that train wreck,
that calculated mess.
In the end,
the best I
could do
was not
slip away with her.

I make love to you;
exploring your body like
a garden.
I walk in the
lovely shade of your eyes;
that safe sky that I
long to fly in.
I dream of swimming in
the blue, and diving
hard into your wet pink soul.
I want to sink to the
bottom of your orchid, and
lick the nectar from
your swollen petals, like a
hummingbird--all beating heart and
pounding wings, as I let
the juice run down my bearded face.
I taste your sweetness in
the new morning sun.
I feel immortal,
and I wink at death.

My mind is a
scrapbook of
tattered
memories and
ghosts that waltz to
sullen Cohen
songs in my heart.

Sometimes
it hurts
like a
rotten tooth.
I have a foul and
electric
taste in my mouth.
A metallic bitterness.
There’s a febrile and
pale stranger in the
mirror that cowers
back at me.
Tears, like candle wax.

I used to
try and drink the
pain away.
Chase worldly
pursuits, like a
dog at the track
after that mechanical
rabbit.

As I get older,
I try to practice
wisdom.
I got off that
dirt road to
damnation Island.
We are in this
carnival of ****
together.
I seek a higher love
and try to ease another's
aching,
a pursuit worthwhile.

The honey on the
wet orchid glistens in
the sweet afternoon light.
I softly lick the
petals and the bud.
Her sigh is like a
symphony.
The emotions pound through
me like an Ocean of love;
like a river of madness.
The juice sticks to my soul,
and I want nothing less than
to give her breath and life.

She dressed up like a
***** just to go to the
bank.
And she ****** like
one too—drunk on
cheap wine—mascara smeared all
over her face.
I took her in every
****** position there is—we even
invented a few.
She had the most beautiful
mahogany eyes—they said
so much. Her smile made
my **** salute.
From dusk till dawn
we ****** until we
collapsed into each others arms;
warm and safe and spent like
the sun.
**** tomorrow,
may it never come.

Life is a series of tiring verbs
as I wade through the
ashes of orchids.
I'm a vagabond with
a ragged soul
coming for you *******
a lonesome road.
I float aimless,
like an acorn in
a mountain stream.
The death of dreams smells
like autumn leaves,
lonely as driftwood.

Home is not going to be
a white door at the
end of a sidewalk.
It's bigger and broader,
and can't fit behind a
fence and walls.
It will always be the
sum of my
memories and longings.

Home is walking the streets,
hand in hand,
with our son on my shoulders.
Home is lying in
the grass with your
fingers in my beard, and hope
oozing from your blue eyes.
It's eating sushi and laughing at
our accidental touch of hands,
reaching together for
the last California roll;
avocado safe at
a sun dappled table.

I'm drifting lost on
a southern wind.
When I'm with you again,
wherever that is,
I'll be home.

This is not a poem, however, it is an invitation to everyone.  Many years ago in a galaxy far away.  No, that's not it. lol.  Blt and I came up with the idea to write poetry from the viewpoint of a historical figure or a fictional character's viewpoint.  I wrote one from Humpty Dumpty's point of view.  Jesse James and Bill had some great ones too.  The ideas are endless.  Anyone is welcome.  Join the fun.

https://hellopoetry.com/collection/132874/lost-poetry-from-history-challenge/

There she is:
naked and fickle on
the floor, *******
marrow out of
soup bones; her
*******
busy with
living things.

The muse plays
hide
and seek
like a spoiled
little child, as I s
sit with
sterile white
paper.
I think I see
her from the
corner
of my
eye, but when
I look,
she is gone, like
the last Dodo bird.
I yell, "Are you dead? "
NOTHING.
And then she
appears
dimly through
the glass and
gives
me a hard one,
fierce, right behind
the eyes,
in that still small
place where sullen
shadows
dance to Wagner, while
sparrows burn and
smell of
Spider Mums, and
funerals.

Then, she's gone like
the Cheshire cat.
(the grin remains.)
I get another
drink, hoping to
swallow and consume
her- to become one.
It doesn't work.
I get
frustrated, pace the
worn out
carpet, like a
caged tiger

Writer's block is
hell.
It's worse than
celibacy and
bologna.
Far worse than
constipation, or not
being able to ***.
It's like missing
the vein, or
dying of thirst in the desert.
It's like being
dead, but alive.

And
finally at
last
it's over (she consummates the deal)
and the words and
lines flow like
rain in Seattle in
the springtime.
I can
see the ***** in
the rose.
Taste
the sweet potato sky,
plant flowers in concrete, and
beat Mr. Death in
a game of go fish.
And
strangely,
it all smells like
home,
eternity,
and two-week old
puppies dreaming of
Mother's milk.

Why is it that this ****** up
world labels all the creative people
crazy?
They do it all the time.
John Nash
Vincent Van Gogh
Poe
Sylvia Plath
Michelangelo
Edvard Munch
Fransisco Goya
Hemingway
Kerouac
H.P. Lovecraft
Virginia Woolf
This isn't an exhaustive list.
I think it is complete
*******.
I think Artists see the world
differently, so it's easier
to call them crazy, then to try
and understand why they
see the world differently.
As long as the world keeps
doing this...they can go
**** themselves with a
copy of On the Road,
and a tube of Cerulean blue
paint.

The poor thing got
lost in the escape.
And she was still hungover
from the childhood terror.
Her personality was
ruined--redolent with
the first flowers of
madness.

She made a pretend
world, full of delusions.
A house of cards that
was laden with
lunacy, her insanity
became safe and dependent
on her never taking
responsibility for her
actions--she was a
pawn for the adage,
Hurt people Hurt people,
like Blanche from
A Streetcar Named Desire,
and
Don Quixote,
Her world crumbled and she climbed
into the abyss,
when she looked
deeply into the
mirror of reality.

Deliciously loving you,
yet, I'm the
one that got ate up
and spit out.
So I lie on
an empty beach
like a broken sea shell,
while the lonely rain
pounds the sand.

I like
my shoes; they are
the only pair
I have.
I've walked miles in
them.
They have
got me around for years.
My shoes are
falling apart.
They should have
quit on me a long
time ago.
Strangely enough,
people compliment
me on them.
They don't see
that the soles are
worn thin, or that they
smell like cat **** and
rotting flesh.
They don't see the
blood stains on
the canvas and the
piece of broken glass stuck
in the heel.
Nope,
they just say,
'Nice kicks;
they look good on you.'
I can't afford
another pair right now,
and even if I could,
I wouldn't spend
the money on them.
No, I like my
shoes, even with
all their imperfections.
They have seen
a thousand sunsets and
carried me away
from many heartbreaks.
My shoes have
run
walked
and sauntered through
snow
rain
and all kinds of ****.
My shoes have
saved me and
betrayed me.
And they have
tasted every type
of ***** known
to man.
When I'm dead and
gone
I hope someone
burns
my shoes and throws
the ashes in
that long lonesome
river, under the bridge,
where men
live and fight
and dream.

On those 2:00 a.m. February mornings, when I get up to ****, death is in my
creeking bones.
As I thumb through memories in the old family photographs, death smiles back, in black and white.
He hides in the shadows of the lined up pill bottles, like toy soldiers on the nightstand.

But when I lie in bed and look for pictures in the smoky stucco ceiling, I see coffins and funeral pyres and I close my eyes and grin, because my friend conquered death and took the
fear out of
the grave.

I will not be
subdued.
Cages don't suit me.
I have to be free.
Fly
run
sing
dance in the
open fields, swim
in the river with
the fish and water snakes.
My soul can't be
taken without my permission.
The access is denied.
My heart isn't yours to
mock and ****.
I will rise like
the phoenix from
the ashes and sail on against
the azure sky, free and
untethered.
Resurrected
I'm back from the dead.

At day's end, your love is like a
ditch full of weeds:
a rotting pumpkin, a returned letter,
a dead yellow cat in the grass.

At day's end, the *** drowns in the river
while trying to bathe.
The soul is deep in atrophy, and the
goldfish floats to the top of the bowl.

At day's end, your accusations attack like
cicada killers.
Your eyes are soulless, and the
clown is a killer.

At day's end, suicide is a viable option;
the light has been murdered.
Jack the ripper got away, and
the night goes mad with horrid dreams.

At day's end, the sailboat sinks,
the horse breaks its leg in the backstretch,
and neither your dog nor your hope will fetch anymore.

At day's end, there is a shadow behind the orchid.
Your ****** has teeth, and the bull becomes a steer.
At day's end, the planets fall to the sea,
noon is an illusion, and romantic love
is gored in the streets of Chili.
At day's end, my Alice won't leave Wonderland,
the dormouse drowns in his tea, and
the Dodo still can't fly.

At day's end, Don Quixote burns at the stake.
Robin hangs in his lonely closet.
Peter goes out upside down,
and old Ernie shotguns himself through breakfast.

Sometimes the laughter between  
us could heal a *****.
He would say, “Dear God, my nose is falling  
off, but these two ******* are funny.”
Jesus would say with a grin and a snicker,
“Go in peace my son, you are healed.”

I loved laughing with you Mare.
I felt like a kid that just watched
a five year old accidentally hit his dad in the
nuts with a plastic bat.

When you would get really hysterical,
you‘d make these strange snorting sounds
with your nose.  Our eyes watered like faucets.
I’m crying too now Mare—but not  
from sorrow.  My tears are from sheer joy at
our comedic silly days in the sun together.
I hope you’re laughing too.

My cat’s timing is
impeccable.
I’ve been slothful
with writing lately,
and the cats play
the antagonist.
I sit in my
favorite chair and
put some Vivaldi on.  
I’m determined to write.

As soon as I pick up
my notebook and pen,
the black one with
the white spot on
her neck jumps on  
my lap and bites at
the moving ink pen.

Her sister chases
imaginary bugs on
the coffee table, and
knocks over a slim
glass of water.
She runs away.

The newest edition to
my cat family is a
large tiger stripped
female that is
currently trying to
avoid the puddle, while
she bats at the
leaves of the fig tree.

I bet Bukowski
didn't have to
deal with this ****.
On second thought,
he probably did.

There she is:
naked and fickle on
the floor, *******
marrow out of
soup bones; her
*******
busy with
living things.

The muse plays
hide
and seek
like a spoiled
little child, as I
sit with
sterile white
paper.
I think I see
her from the
corner
of my
eye, but when
I look,
she is gone, like
the last Dodo bird.
I yell, "Are you dead? "
NOTHING.
And then she
appears
dimly through
the glass and
gives
me a hard one,
fierce, right behind
the eyes,
in that still small
place where sullen
shadows
dance to Wagner, while
sparrows burn and there's
a smell of
Spider Mums, and
funerals.

Then, she's gone like
the Cheshire cat.
(the grin remains.)
I get another
drink, hoping to
swallow and consume
her- to become one.
It doesn't work.
I get
frustrated, pace the
worn out
carpet, like a
caged tiger

Writer's block is
hell.
It's worse than
celibacy and
bologna.
Far worse than
constipation, or not
being able to ***.
It's like missing
the vein, or
dying of thirst in the desert.
It's like being
dead, but alive.

And
finally at
last
it's over (she consummates the deal)
and the words and
lines flow like
rain in Seattle in
the springtime.
I can
see the ***** in
the rose.
Taste
the sweet potato sky,
plant flowers in concrete, and
beat Mr. Death in
a game of go fish.
And
strangely,
it all smells like
home,
eternity,
and two-week old
puppies dreaming of
Mother's milk.

She tastes like
a sunset, and
smells like peaches...
succulent,
soft.

Moonlight breaks fast on our
windowsill madness, while
passion kisses us in
the white-hot heat.
Her ****** is a
stranger strangling me.

Medusa turns men to stone.
And I'm rock hard
three floors up.

When I explode,
I'm
like a butterfly
floating into the sun.

Sometimes a poem is a
beast you create that
***** and ****** all over
the page.It doesn't need neutered
but it does need
house broken.

If her eyes were
a street,
they would be a
dead end.
There wouldn't be
a sign.
And if I drove
into them,
all the promising
landscape
and stunning scenery
would come to
an abrupt stop.
Such lies...
Those
dead-end eyes.

I'm in treatment again.
***** is wrecking my body.
This morning(pre-dawn) I took
my meds, drank coffee, and
did the breakfast setup.
My friend, (a brilliant saxophone player)
came through the line and said,
"What's up man?"
I said, "Oh you know...stuff.
How about you?"
He relied, "Oh yeah, Stuff...always lots of stuff,
...and things.  Always lots of things on my plate.

Our laughter broke through the
sound of Hell's Bells in the background.
There was a connection, a brotherhood of
the stuff and things society.
The little 8th notes and 16th notes,
and the verbs and nouns floated
in the kitchen air, mixing with the smell
of bleach and toast.
Creation was in the birthing process.
He asked,What's on the agenda for today?"
"oh crap, lots of crap...you?
"****...lots of ****, you know."
I chuckled,  "yes, I do know."
I stopped everything I was doing,
and frantically began
scribbling this poem.
He went to his room,
and grabbed his sax,
and began riffing on some
Miles Davis and John Coltrane.
Far from the sterile
smell of stuff,
things, crap, etc...

A black splash
washes over my mind.
A dark flow that
bursts into bloom, like
Oleander or Night Shade.
The four leaf clover in
my pocket broke into a
thousand green tears.
Lovers know *******.
And when she keeps me from
my daughter, she's the
executioner, and smiles.
But the sublime thing about
life and love is: I will
never give up.
If I fall 100 times,
I will rise 101.
And I'll see you
soon, my little Iris.

I was thinking about your
breath before you brush your teeth,
I love it.
It reminds me of simple, beautiful things,
like, streams flowing gently over
moss-covered rocks, and puppies at
about three weeks old, right before
they open their eyes, the way they
wiggle around with their ears pasted
to their heads, blind to the world.
Soft plump bellies full of
Mother's milk.  But I think most
of all, it reminds me of home,
a home with love and laughter,
and books and plants.
Classical music and sunlight-bending
through half-open windows.
It warms hearts and hands and
hours and days, that slip
away far too soon.
It reminds me of feathers and flight,
and babies--clocks ticking, pages turning,
and life--hard, fast, short, beautiful life.