My death will be liberating.

And I do not say that in the sense
that I am going to find a cliff
and take a good jump off.

No.

I am just trying to find a
clever way to tell you

that I do not know what is going
to happen next.

You see,

there is a
fine line
between
dreaming and
mortality

and

I am finding out for myself
that being in love
does not always
involve

being awake.

And for my sake
I fall in love with daydreams,
nightmares,
hazy realities
and

the hung-over idea

of not being enough.

It is all out of my hands.
                 It is all out of time.

And the only thing I have left to do,
now,


is decide.

there are so many who don't even have to try
born to be social butterflies
they've got friday night hearts
and party light eyes
crafted from pure sunshine
their words are glitter laced
and their smiles warm and inviting
born with swift tongues
and dancing feet

then there are those
born to the world of nature and art
they've got sunday morning hearts
and stars in their eyes
crafted from pure moonlight
their words laced with daisies and moonflowers
crooked smiles and rosy cheeks
born with clumsy tongues
and two left feet

- so, which are you? a soul crafted by the sun or the moon?

Sure, I am just a passenger
in this story of your life
but each ride exhilarates me;
it rocks me to my core
and leaves me wanting more.
I always leave with a smile,
like we drove to the top of the world;
the perfect stop to drop me off
and let loose the butterflies
I collected along the way.

You are the poem
I will never stop trying
to write.

Hello everyone,

  I'm so very sorry … I feel horrible doing this, but I have no choice. You see, I have published my first book on Amazon/Kindle! This piece (and many others) had to be taken down because they do not allow published material to be available online for free. (Go figure) I wanted to leave the shell of the posts because I felt compelled to leave all your helpful and loving comments. (Silly sentimental, I know), but I also didn't want to just have the pieces disappear without an explanation. I feel bad enough as it is!

  I owe ALL of you so, SO much for all of your reads, love, and support. It was YOU that gave me the gumption to FINALLY get off my **** and publish! Thank you all for the warm comments, camaraderie, and encouragement! I will still be here, reading, uploading and just being the Rascal that I am. How could I EVER leave you guys?

  The book is called “The Way I See It – FictionPhilosophySoul Food” and it will be FREE for the first few days on Kindle Select, so watch for it, if you are interested. I hope that you go and grab it. If you do, I would also hope that you find it worthy, you would leave me a good review. That will help me get in the public eye! Soon afterward (2-3 days or so), it will be available in paperback. I will be building my Author page tonight (12/21/2018) and my website finished first thing Monday!

Find the book(s) here: www.amazon.com/author/jeff.gaines

Or find the book(s), and all about me, here: www.JeffGaines.world

  Soon after, I also hope to have my first novel (a supernatural thriller), called “Wanderer” available as well!

  Wish me luck!
Big, Biggest Love,
        Jeff Gaines

she gave me her nudes
she was bare
and naked
and so out
and open
and i willingly
accepted it
because it wasnt the nudes
that showed her body
the physical aspects
that made her beautiful
it was the words
she didnt choose
and the spontaneity
that left her
either from her lips
or her fingers
or ink

she was as bare
as her nudes
and i accepted
her for her.

An oblique path cutting in two a blue hill,  
bathed in a cobalt ocean of morning glories.
On the blue hill there were also a red mill,
Crickets, ants, bees, and many-hued damselflies.

A haven was the fresh upside-down coquille
For long stories untold and movements still
Of difference and dragonflies, of fluttering
Over a bluesky ground of mute uttering.

On a dry log pitched not too far from the mill,
Rose an artless sign in the hushed sound of the hill;
Each of whose letters was written in blueberry -
Surely placed there by a traveler in a hurry:
“No matter how often a road is traveled by,
It never tells twice the selfsame story.”

(c) LazharBouazzi

I lived poor and died poor.
no obituary written
nowhere a black flag fluttered
no one grieved
no bells tolled
no prayers recited,
to still my departed soul!

My body was wheeled in a hearse
with a few following
with hesitant steps
more as a custom than a gesture true
the open gates of the walled cemetery
allowed a glimpse of the newly dug grave
in a remote corner it stood
close to an overgrown hedge
among many a mound
that bore no name on it

Oh, the indigent and the lonely
are destined to huddle together
in death under the sod
with their identities merged
into a single clan!

My body when swiftly lowered to the pit
and as everyone left to join the rage of life,
I pondered, how on this Earth
the distinctions of rank
extend down unto dust
and follow one like a faithful mongrel