I'd like to see you
In the quiet hours of the morning
When even the birds have gone to sleep.
In those moments, the few,
When silence settles like a soft blanket
Over all the world.
When mist hangs,
Billowy and light,
Over the wet grass .
And among the tree trunks,
So dark and so moss covered
That they look like velvet smudges against the hazy blues and greys.
When the silvery drops of a midnight rain have clung,
Diamonds,
To the screen doors
And slid pure and clear
Down the windowpanes
And stuck, ripe and full,
In all the splendor of the tiny spiderwebs
That always suddenly drape the grass
Just before dawn
And disintegrate at the first real embrace of the sun's radiant fingers.
I want to see you then,
With your eyelashes casting long shadows on your cheeks,
In the slanted ray of moonlight that might
Gently pull aside the curtains to kiss your forehead.
I want to see you smile in your dreams.
I think if I were to see you that vulnerable,
I would never recover from how I'd feel
Just then,
In the quiet hours of the morning.

FIREWORKS


A summer night and fireworks
break dark’s quiet whisper,
drowning fragile moonlight.

First a flickering, then
a blossoming of color--
wild and illicit –and
the air’s askew with booms,
delirious with fiery chaos
as a million man-made stars
tumble across sky.

A veil of smoke creates
a glorious illusion --
the art of pyrotechnics.

A stolen moment’s exaltation
without the wariness of danger.
As fire jewels dwindle to obscurity,
there is a strong spell of reversal.
What seemed like revelation fades.

Universe returns to mystery
and mind to world’s reality.

I saw you in my reflection today, Your
hands reached out to me and I touched you but, It
was just my hands and I was quite
surprised at the fact of how old and
pruned they had become with
time ticking the clock beats
down on me like the chime of a death march
drum sentencing me to a fiery death on a wood
pole dancing in the moonlight, my *** glowing brighter than the
moon reflecting on the lake, almost giving ripples on the water from its sheer
power hungry CEO's telling me, the measly mail clerk, to give them the ******* morning
paper scattered around my room, crumpled in corners of each letter I never
sent screaming down hallways that day, my teacher didn't
understand how the moon works love? Look at the spell it
casts on her arm, I feel guilt but cannot put my tongue around the cause of
it could have been you holding me tonight, but instead I will **** a
stranger in the mirror, who could it be? If it isn't me and it isn't
you thought you could get away with this, didn't you? Well look at me
now: I am the one that is
sane and you are the one that is all
****** and trapped in a mirror with a knife in your hand.
YES you are the
killer.

We were once black furred wolves
fleeing through pines
towards winter's dark mouth.

We mocked the wooden ravens
who trod one-by-one to temple
to hide from constellations.

Danger haunted each nook,
but we were drunk on moonlight,
taunting the eyes that stalked us.

In a pale clearing
you asked, Wouldn't it be romantic
to die beneath the stars?

But morning came before death.
I looked at my watch
and vaguely remembered who I was.

Bundled up, and stomping through
arctic white snow, listening
to the Love Below. I look
out on the Maid of the Mist,
the air surrounds my cold cheeks,
numbs them like an icy kiss.

Who could truly be so dumb,
brave those falls in a barrel
run? Ripley’s has me unnerved
believe it or not, the same
nervous rush I feel, before
the ***** from a booster shot.

Then after awhile, we are off
to dine in neon towers, where
we spend hours, soaking
in the bath of a night-time
sky. The glint of flush colors
reflecting against buildings.

The sounds of water raging
amidst mouthfuls of moonlight,
it looks like the world’s been staged.
But back to rest in a spiral
hotel, it’s been a lively day;
Where we pull up the covers,
and that’s where we will remain.

Death, the most brutal enemy I have known. It was never easy to speak to you but now the words flow out of me like the Flat Stone river during spring time. I keep writing. The pen moves although it does not feel like my doing. the words seem vacant and dull next to the vast space you left behind in my life. It is a lie to say a man does not cry but I fight letting the emotions grab me. I blow out the candle and lie alone on our bed. Sleep is a distant memory now. A lesser man would drown himself in liquor. A lesser man would turn to ***** but I am not a lesser man. Tears came to me last night for the first time since I was a boy. I was lying alone in the shadows when I turned my head towards your pillow. Your scent washed over me, my soul and body ached as one and each muscle tensed as if a vice held me. I sobbed like a child fighting it at first with all my strength until I gave in. I slipped into that place between dreams and life. I floated then out of our window, out into the pouring rain and moonlight my spirit spread across the forest I hunted as a boy. I ran my fingers down each rabbit trail searching for you among the bristles and the thorns. I stretched my legs feeling the bark of each oak as if it were my own flesh. Into the soil. My lungs filled with fog and my eyes became stones. My forehead like marble against the mountainside.  My hair tangled and became clouds at the peak. I was no more, yet I breathed and my thoughts echoed inside me as a shout in the canyon. Each word sounding out as a bird's whistle and the cry of a hound, as the wind rushing through the leaves. It was there that I found you. Your scent like fresh strawberries and cut pine boughs. You were each blade of grass and I was each blade of grass. You were the mountain stream and I the stone made flat by your current. I communed with you as an old buck with a silver patch of hair adorning my chest and you the timid red fox watching me from the fallen log.
I awoke my face wet with tears and my body hot like a fever.
I am alone in this old house and the walls creak and my bones creak in lament to use.
I took my old service pistol in my hand felling it's cold weight against my palm.
I stand as if by some other man's command and walk out into the pouring rain.
Out past the barn and the silo. Into the fields with the weight of the pistol in my pocket.
Each heartbeat is one too many as I stand in the fields only half-harvested.
I laugh in the rain. The fields are seem as surprised as I am at your loss.
The cold barrel pressed against my temple.

My ears befriended the jackals of the streets,
And winsome naive angels made of sweets.

The debris of the broken buildings told much,
These places where no moonlight nor sunlight meets.

Look my dear friend, at the cheek of the night sky,
For eyes delights, by the homeless used as sheets.

Last night she blew the cherry-blossoms at me,
Who flew through the labels of race, tones and creeds.

Mahi, everyone seeks for the beloved,
But who is willing to get off golden-seats?

I walked down a silver path
silver was the moon, he told me
‘silver is money, I’ve got that’
‘silver is your eyes,’ I told him

I smelled a daffodil
I thought,
but the bright yellow mess was just a ****
nicely dressed

there were shrubs, planted firmly
I thought
until the harsh spring rain
uprooted them in a quick fit

I walked through the night,
dancing
watching the stars, I thought
they danced with me

he watched me,
watching the sky
‘kiss the stars for me,’ he told me
and I did

colours, lights, feeling
and sight
indistinguishable
in the silver moonlight

I was led, then
to an inevitable dawn
and cast into
the golden sun

as an infant born of a silver womb
I thank him for keeping me
warm at night
and I thank him for letting me go

Sing in love to the world!
That mystery is from the shadows hurled!
Into darkness and into light!
May in harmony we unite!
Sing a song of woe and gloom
that ever emphasizes our painful doom!
Let joyous ponds with lilies fair
entwine with nature and Nature's hair!
Let silver streams of moonlight clear
enlighten us on our unending fears!
May together the night and the sky
bring love and joy that cannot die!
May tunes high strung and beeches far
bring joy to us!
From Gaia the Fair!

For Dr. Harry Braeuer

The day is mercifully warm when we come to visit you on Christmas.
All is calm o’er the city by the gulf; the salt in the air is sweetly gleaming.
All is bright with glowing hearts by his cradle we stand.

I play with a kitten that looks like Lily because I cower from the realities of your dying mind:
Of silent and holy nights;
Of sins and errors pining;
Of falling on your knees;
Of demanding to know what you’ve done to deserve the larghissimo dying from a disease that makes you forget the intricacies of Chopin’s Nocturnes or your daughters’ names.

You hold your face in your hand and study the eggshell white tile while Michael plays Clair De Lune.
Oh, hear the angel voices!
As if every flowing wave of moonlight of Debussy would cease the decrescendo of life or bring the lucid dawn of redeeming grace.

And after the final note pianissimo, you try so hard to rise from your wheelchair to give your grandson a loving ovation.
You clap your wrinkled and meticulous hands that cannot forget what it is like to cut open the mortal
—to bury the dead.

But please don’t get up, Dr. Braeuer.
A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices.
Stay warm in your bed.
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.
Bravo, my sweet grandfather!
Oh, night divine!
Lay down your sweet head.
Oh, night! Oh, holy night!*
Enjoy the tender music instead.

Not the moon itself, but the light that fell from it*
reflected off the papery wings of moths
I almost mistook for shooting stars.

“Surely that’s not the ending”
Lauren slurped her soda noisily
as the credits began to roll.
“Shirley doesn’t live here”
was my only reply.

Cars began moving backwards
in my window, while pebbles
hurled themselves toward my windshield
as if to say
“Don’t. You’re not ready for this”.

My heart that had jumped during
the movie explosions not 5 minutes
earlier, was now oddly still.
Quietly shouting its disapproval.

Lauren didn’t make a sound
when we passed the street to her house
nor when my tires left gravel
and began rolling on sand.

Nor did she make a sound
when my tires hit the water
coming in from the lake ahead
as the car plunged into
the black black depths
and I could no longer control
our descent.

A moth fluttered against my window
trapped, as the moonlight disappeared.
It looked nothing like a shooting star now.

“Surely this is unfair to the moth”
my heart tried.
“Surely doesn’t live here”.

O Dear Heart...or pancreas...or some vital *****...

When I gaze into your ear canals
And cuddle you in my comforting feet
Oh, yeah, I wanna hold your earlobe
You make my sella turcica skip a beat

Your nostrils are so very soft to the touch
Your toenails are like silver-pale moonlight
Your elbows smell like roses in the spring
Your hair follicles are so sunrise bright

And when I meditate upon your liver
Cupid shoots every arrow from his quiver!

Veins of sheets,
entangle us.
She tells me,
without sound.

Without pause,
she speaks,
in the backseat,
under frosty moonlight.

She feels me,
in blurry crowds
and through
crisp empty roads.

Follow her voice,
through mornings
painted gray.
She tells me.

Smiles with her eyes,
it's audible,
almost divine,
she glows.

She lets her hair down,
a breath of gold,
sweet and comforting.
You’re safe.

She is there,
solid as stone.
She is here,
for me.

The cold darkness around him does not scare him,
The wafting moonlight does.
As his pen touches the parchment,
Memories rise up, like the blood which spills from his wounds,
Dear dad,
It's been a while.
I don't know what to say,
I don't know what to write.
You were my father, once.
Do you remember the walks we took?
Do you remember that elephant ride?
We were a family once.
You, me, mum and sis.
What happened then?
Who was it who killed my father?
Was it the stress of modern day?
Was it the stereotypical past making its way,
Spilling its hatred into our future,
Poisoning our now?
I remember watching you drink.
I always wanted to swat that glass away.
What was in it that made you so evil?
Was it really the alcohol, or was it you all along?
Who are you?
Are you the man who was my father?
Or are you the man who cracks his belt at me for my own good?
I remember the day you died for me.
The day our brittle family broke under the bludgeoning of your abuse.
Do you remember?
Do you recall how you tried to hurt the ones I loved?
Do you remember how I shoved you aside?
For a moment the boy pauses,
His grief welling inside.
But he does not allow himself the luxury of tears,
He doubts if he can.
Dear dad.
Where the hell is my father?
Why did you have to walk that path?
Did you not remember the days we laid back and talked about everything?
And now as I sweep away the broken shards,
Trying to forget you forever,
Swearing not to be your heir,
This question haunts me.
Who the hell were you?
No matter what happens though,
I know you'll always be there.
The embodiment of human rage,
The capacity to fall as low as I can.
No matter how hard I run away,
You'll always be there.
Striking out with your belt,
Destroying everything I care,
For my own good perhaps.
Why are you always there?

Time ticks on, stealing the moonlight...
But the delinquentcy is of no surprise...

To the miserly and old.
Those bannished to the cold...
And ****** to the flame...
Have earned their name...
As the keepers of time in the great hall of fame.

These creatures are kind and really quite tame...
They worship the water...
And all that's embodied in the belly of truth.

Faithfully.
Rightously.

The keepers of the night...
When the moon rises whole and shines its bright light.

That’s the way the light echoes
The moonlight stretching out in a lounging shawl
Like waves whose cusps fold and foam to kiss the sea,
As they roll away and the way to shore,
In the broad arms of the breeze
And their faint disturbance of surface romance.

The men at the front of the boat, cruising along.
The women singing a song that was famous long ago.
The sound of the song growing.
The sound filling with wind and interwoven ocean strings.
Telling tales which were living long ago.

One man thought.
‘Of my life tell only a few stories
Burning brightly with my virtues and vice
For lights are only passionate flurries
Those last lights before the eyes
Of he who sinks beneath the ice.
Telling tales which were living long ago.
That’s the way the light echoes.’

deep poetry is the only ****** this poet needs
a touch of moonlight & my whole body will ache.

So i drew a pile of words onto the page
and in a rage i covered them in black lines and criss crosses until a
small sad scribbly sailing ship appeared upon my page;
mooring, sinking, drinking in the brine
and choking on weeds that drift
aimlessly atop a deep engulfing sea.
Dying boat submerging to be free
Lonesome boat singing a fading melody,
Water cleans.
Moonlight streams.
Seafolk dream
and the ocean breathes in a calm that swells
into a seething, heaving storm within a sea of scribbled words
lines blurred
bone dry
sun starched
my mouth is parched
and words form salted pearls upon my lip.

You are carlights through white window shades,
You’re moonlight on the shore.
You are sun before rain had a chance to fade,
You’re bare feet at ocean’s floor.

Your voice echos atop the hollow waves
that we sleep to every night.
Your laugh is your heavy heart being saved,
all silver shadows fighting golden candles’ light.

I am grays and blues and evergreens,
I’m early sunlight reflected in clear eyes.
I am ever changing and ever seen,
I am pastels trapped inside thick black smoky ties.

We are a single whispered chord, retuned and redefined,
We are coastal byways and yellow dotted swerving lines.
We are deep navy skies inhaled by wintry crystal night,
We are watercolors cooled by the sea then cast in firelight.

Upon bracken soaked hills tears did flow
As memories glide away
The moors they hold a deep silent love
Of hearts now lost to above

How the winds and rain carry on through
The ghosts of yesterday now roam
Betwixt the hollow ground
And shadows of fate now gone

Tis here that silence did fall
And the hand of death slain them all
For the devil he did roam the moors
Beneath the moonlight's shadow

Oh lost spirits cry and wail
Bring us to the resting gate
So we can say our goodbyes
Amongst the wind swept
Fears and lies

The moonlight magic is working its ways
All my perspectives work through a haze
Don't know who I am and not sure what's right
My pack is behind me, I'm not alone in this fight
While I look for guidance and see none before me
I realize then that I'm writing the story
At times I would wish to only be the reader
Then I accept my role as the leader
Whenever I feel lost, I howl it in a song
My ignorance runs dry, the bliss doesn't last long
Often I am sought out, to provide a guiding wind
I ease them away to sail, hoping that their hearts mend
Though I may seem alone, I have all my support
I find all my comfort, when my followers have a fort
So I leave you with this message, and I hope you understand
I've been there myself, and will lend a helping hand

One foot in front of the NOT so other...why bother with me
I'm just a throwaway...his whispers won't allow me to be free...
This time around I lost my footing, my pudding, my busy little bee...
All around this mulberry bush the dragon chases his shadow.
And I know that you know what happens when the shadow is caught...
That night under the bright moonlight you stood war and fought...
That dragon whispered, reminded me of my captivity and I am you and you are me...Nothing but the still charred smell of the all American dream.

I lay in the center of a meadow,
My eyes trail the drifting clouds above,
tracing their paths and drawing sketches on the blue canvas.

Towering evergreen trees surround the meadow,
their leaves creating a ornamental border,
A frame for the flowing sky.

The clouds drift past, into and out of the frame,
a slow parade of shapes
shifting and changing, coming and passing.

This slide show of white swirls dances for me,
in drawn out motions like molasses ebbing from a tree.
They envelope my sight, roots spread from the
back of my head into the meadow floor,
connecting and expanding,
melding me to the ground.

I lay for hours, the clouds morphing to the clear
nights sky, bathing me in moonlight.
Shining stars vibrate, shake in their molds,
and I listen closely to their hushed advice.

Miss Pinkie
and her son
at a bar

and I was
near to them
sitting down

in a chair
and he said
things to her

as he looked
back at me
she told me

he was in
the police force
and married

and said things
back to him
looking back

towards me
and smiling
I think he's

probably
saying to her
he's too young

young enough
to be your
oldest son

and he's right
I am young
enough to

be her son
but what he
doesn't know

or maybe
doesn't want
to know is

I've shafted
his mother
to the music

of Mahler
both of us
well sauced on

Scotch whiskey
sometimes on
her blue couch

other times
on her bed
with moonlight

coming through
her bedroom
wide window

and moon glow
playing on
my naked

rising ***
Miss Pinkie
and her son

return with
all our drinks
and sit down

I watch him
wondering
what he thinks.

Cocoa butter -  cold saltwater
On her lips - her fingertips

Her mouth on mine
I could taste a fine white wine

In the moonlight - on the beach
I loved her long
On her colorful Sarong
There was no place I couldn't reach

On the sand - I loved her deep
We both made promises we wouldn't keep

You keep canvases in your ribcage.
I know you do, I’ve seen them.
They might be dusty and a little bit torn,
but you’ve still kept them all this time.
You’ve still kept them in hopes that someday
someone would come paint some beautiful
masterpiece with every last one of them.
You’ve kept them hoping that they would
one day burst with cherry reds and
sapphire blues so that you might hang
them in the empty spaces inside you.
But I’m here to tell you there are no empty spaces.
Believe me, I’ve looked everywhere.
There is nowhere to hang those future paintings
because the pine green bursts from your eyes
and the whole spectrum of living color
flows through your skin.
You fill the growing cracks inside of me
with carefully selected tones from your palette,
and you keep stars held in their place
with glowing moonlight from your fingers.
So I’ll remove each canvas from inside you
and plaster them with pieces of what you’ve given me,
only hoping they can turn out as beautiful as you.
I am no painter,
but I will try.
No work of art comes close to the expanse you
hold in just one finger,
but I will try.
My God I will try.
And you will keep these finished frames
as reminders that there is nothing
as beautiful as you.

Sizzling my bones,
My flesh
           Cracks,
                                 Dry and medium rare.

         Yet I am cold.

Blood runs down, heating me,
                    Velvet blanket.

     Vision blurs
                                      and I f
                                                   a
                                                       l
                                                          l.
           Ribbons fly,
                                    Loquacious birds ring in my head,

     "Fall and die, demons."

Burn like I do.

                                                  Blisters in the moonlight
                    Burst and flood, drown me.

       Soothe my wounds
                                      And cause deafening silence.

there was once a leprecaun who lived in donegal
he lived in a cave beneath a waterfall
always very friendly with manners so polite
he just loved to stroll beneath the pale moonlight.

while he was on his travels through the valley green
he saw a big bright light the that he had never seen
walking in the beam to see what it could be
he saw a great big lighthouse shining out to sea.

inside he saw his friend a funny little mouse
he had crawled inside and made himself a house
mouse had put the lights on. so  he get around
to brighten up his home that the mouse had found.

leprecaun he laughed at what the mouse had done
giggled with delight he found it so much fun.
mouse he settled down as happy as can be
in his home with lights that  shone across the sea.

"I feel sorry for you."
His voice was never one to mock.
It was always gentle, non-judgemental. (where's the catch?)
It didn't stop me from laughing anyway.
"Why?"

"It must **** to go through life too scared to really give a **** about anything."
(no really where's the catch?)

I admit, I lost my wit, there was nothing I could think of to say.
My tongue rolled around in my mouth looking for lost words
Checking behind every tooth to see if they were hidden there.
I managed to cough once to see if any were lodged in my throat.
But all I could think of was how
beautiful
he looked in the moonlight
the only thing giving light to his eyes, half a cigarette
I wondered then If the burning stump gave his eyes that red tint
or maybe
he was born with it.
******* on his cancer stick.
Maybe that's were he got his words from
I should start smoking too.
Maybe
"The world isn't so black and white, you know?"
He had a way of making the truth sound poetic
Like it did on that hill, by that creek, under that moon
By the burning cigarette
all I could think to say was
"The truth is only pretty in certain light"

You and I we live for the endless road under our tires and the sound of crickets in the moonlight. For the smell of wet asphalt after a long rain mixed with the smell of smoke from our breath. And when I'm high my mind escapes but I can't express these beautiful thoughts in a way you'll understand. So we sit there, you driving and me stealing glances at your peaceful face, and we don't speak, but your hand in mine says a million things in it's own. You say nothing but I hear every word. I love you, you say.  And with my wide eyes staring so longingly at yours you know I mean it too. Our midnight drive takes us into another world. It's somewhere in this world, beyond the infinity of stars across an Indigo sky, that I fell in love with you. The funny thing is, falling in love really does feel like falling. I don't exactly know where we're going to land, but with reckless abandon, we jumped anyways. Our midnight drive has only just begun, but I thank you for taking the wheel when I couldn't. We're already home, but let's keep driving.