"sharers" poems
i sit on the edge of the bench
accidentally bump knees, hear a grunt.
i want this hollow to be quenched
waiting silently for my turn with the blunt.
most of them use it as a social crutch
but i'm just here to fill my lungs.
not here for the hope of souls to touch
just desperate for the taste of ash on my tongue.
there's the stereotype of the stoner
cares about nothing, apt to start stealing.
but this self destruction comes from being a loner
and often the feeler of too many feelings.
so i'll sit on this bench surrounded by friends
who laugh like it can cure their sadness.
to me they're just the means to the end
sharers of smoke which allows me to vanish.
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 2:55 PM UTC
Creativity
&
Madness
I've walked the razor's edge.
Playing it straight
In public places
No one knew
The thoughts and voices
Running around my head.
Fortune dictated
I never made it
To the walking dead.
Secret sharers
Come to me
At the beginning
And at the end
Of their plunge
Into that madness
Falling off the ledge.
No sleep came to them
Electronic insomnia
Ran them.
Cars became creatures
Screaming at them
As real as the table
Between us.
Imagination run wild
A chariot
The horses sweating
And running full speed
The reins either
Flapping untamed
Or
Imagination chained
Directed into these lines.
Creativity
&
Madness
At the razor's edge.
Disorganization
Voices screaming
When the wind is silent.
Miming up against the walls
No one can see them at all.
And in space as they said
"No one can hear you scream"
And space surrounds me.
Creativity
&
Madness
Pros & cons
Cost benefit ratios
*** makes it worse
The roots ungrounded
Crystal gears it up
Alcohol numbs the
Mind with depression's
Blanket of dread.
While ****** leaves
You strung out and lead.
The drugs they give you
Leaves you walking dead
But calm and able
To
Play it straight in public places
Far from the
Razor's edge
Of creativity & madness.
What's a poor boy to do?
Wind up sleeping in the park?
Cold wet encampment bound
Lost in the landscape
Of madness
Sights
Shadows,
A mind full
Of old echoes
Blinding.
How do we walk
This line?
A few fall over
A few are left behind.
Some never know what they could find
And some find that it all resides
At the intersection
At the razor's edge...
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC
***perhaps if you are
one of the few
multiyear variates,
still here, still seeking
solutions
to the
equations of
human formulation,
one of the veterans of the
early word wars,
when the line between fellow poet
and human being was full of
invitational openings,
tween those dots and dashes,
we all eagerly entered those places,
crossing over into
those human openings,
making poets into friends***^
yes,
we were social for the humanity
patented in the very word
social
we encouraged,
we critiqued wearing a flag
made from the fine fabric of fellowship,
crossing global borders and time zones,
even planets,
with only a hand-made
poetry passport
constructed from the
tissues of our hearts
each one of us,
A Little Prince,
lost
from other worlds,
but all
found
ourselves together in a
hospitable desert
so strange,
we found companionship,
genuine in ways that
make me weep when I recall it,
so many aviators,
flying low, neath the radar screen,
speaking one language of a thousand dialects
the networking was spontaneous,
friendships formulated,
real hugs exchanged,
no ulterior purpose, no quantity of glory sought,
no favors traded,
there were friends,
not followers,
just sharers
we valued the first amendment of our lives,
the right to speak freely in poetry
***I wish you had been there,
here,
back then***
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 8:21 AM UTC
Three visible stars
Glass of tempranillo
The final pages of
For Whom the Bell Tolls
Clear calm skies
Breaths settle senses
Like calm leaves after wind
Quiet spreads through trees
And the house
Returning to roots, foundations
Sharers of the evening moon
Heaven and earth - drowsing
The dormant volcanoes
We are, occasionally able
To release hints
Of the indescribable thing
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 8:41 AM UTC
In your name, my country, I write today
For all the voices that cannot speak
For all the voices that are silenced
For all the wailing children unheard
For the mullahs and the pandits and the priests
For the politicians and the newsmakers
For the consumers and sharers of “news”
For all the women who bleed onto to the dry earth
For all the animals who are tortured
For the weak who toil in the burning sun
For the strong who drive their air-conditioned SUVs
For the singers, poets and artists
For the farmers, masons and carpenters
For the babies who will know only this way
For the old who remember how things were
For the ones caught in between
For the children and women *****
For the rapists drunk on power
For the believers and the non-believers
For all of us and all of them
In your name, my country, I weep
In your name, my country, I hope
In your name, my country, I believe
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 2:49 AM UTC
Yes, I still feel her breath against
My ear, as asleep as my
Arm that I
Will not need to move until she
Turns in a dream,
And I sink into my own.
Never again will that passing
Train throw
Blue light shadows on the
Ceiling above
My head where her smoke
Detector
Blinks its little, red light of
Reassurance.
Whiffs of lilac as I cross the
Street to her place
Where she is waiting.
All yesterdays, now.
The right songs still summon
Recap videos of our year-and-a-
Half in
Love behind my eyes.
Not choosing suffering,
I curl up underneath a warm
Blanket of what
Was; what can never
Truly be taken
Away.
And rest.
Sometimes something flowers
With such
Grace that its passing away
Simply cannot unfold as
Any less graceful.
Ghandi shot in the chest, meeting
The Void whispering:
Ram, Ram, God's
Name, as if saying: "I'm coming,
Look, ma': No hands!"
No attachments.
Lovers no more, friends for life,
Once sharers of
Intimacy and
Laughter, tears and everyday
Moments; little
Grains of gold.
Our own buried treasure
Where ex marks the spot, and the
Map is riding on
Kisses blowing with the
Scent of lilac and the sound of
Magpies chattering against
Trains as if saying: "Just try, I'll
Take ya!"
Our attitude
In the nutshell they
Peck at with hungry
Beaks, leaving little traces like
Runes in powder snow.
To be nothing but grateful, even
For the days that could have been
Better. To miss her with a
Warm heart, content.
Wish her more happiness and
Security than I did even on
The days of
Our most intense affections.
Parting is part of Life, and
I'll remain at peace with
The parts both
Before and
After, until
My arm is
Forever asleep with the
Rest of me, resting.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 2:34 PM UTC
Hast thou found honey?
Eat so much as is good for thee,
thinking moderation then, success.
Ah, the analyst's probe, is it satisfying?
Child mind alerts, perks up its ear,
single minds have single ears, child mind
focus state, un monitored you, recall, child
minding your own business walking in the road.
Accepting having RSVP'd, we'ld wonder at first,
did we actually ask for this, or is this all made up?
Child mind cocked sure, I know.
We are all an alien probe learning the questions.
Each letter holds an American English phonic response…
and we… the elite sharers of knowns gleaned from scripture.
--selah, also means let it rest
The precedent for a post temple social order arose,
and the minds required for that task arose as well, but
as you know, knowledge was closely held, sacred codes,
cost of being called and chosen, male alone, bred to the bull.
Bred to the king of beasts, wed to the dragon whose bones
we have found in the gullet of beached Leviathans…
tribe of Bill Levy, sudden psy-psi dead guy makes a suggestion,
remember the yen to yank reality aright, and think it funny?
Jes' yankin' y'chaim, only be having like
a child's mind, pedo-meter counting steps away, flee
the birthing trauma, do the dying well.
Earnest Becker, take a chair, I think I felt you linger there,
death divined most fine state, just wait, settling, you feel.
Oct 19, 2023
Oct 19, 2023 at 1:09 PM UTC
~~~~
just google it plain,
see it in Wikipedia,
just that number
613
every number an association.
this one magical, mysterious,
and born to this,
my tradition.
613 commandments in the law
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/613_commandments
but today I come to speak of but one commandment.
first among a peculiar
613
not listed amidst the
thou shalls,
thou shall not,
of which,
many have I transgressed,
many have I blessed.
today,
hard on the heels on my fast first
anniversary conclusional,
noticed that I had now
613
followers.
a young man,
from across the oceans,
from New Delhi,
honored me thus,
what a delight,
how easily these god and man-made
geographical boundaries crossed,
my spirits raised.
Follower,
how I detest that word.
I could no more lead than follow.
let us be neutral observers,
let us be recognized sharers,
let us be hand holders,
let us be mutual lovers,
let us be but friends.
root out this
servile attitudinal,
sacrilege word.
I do not celebrate this irony,
but oh yes, oh yes,
I do I understand this election
as a commandment,
a sacred obligation,
not of my asking,
but of my anointing.
The first and foremost poetic law.
write to
levitate and elevate
the human spirit
all the rest is naught.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 7:25 AM UTC
The mouth speaks what the heart feels
And hidden truths are now revealed
Our words can give life or bring death
The power of God is in our very breath
What is in our hearts comes out of our mouths
We have control over what is allowed
If we are what we consume
There shouldn’t be any room
For vileness and hatred to take residence
When we show the overwhelming evidence
Of love and truth gentleness and peace
Patience, faith and prayer that doesn’t cease
This is how they know us: they know us by our love
In this we show our kinship with the Father in Heaven above
And let us not dwell on other’s faults
But seek first to find our own
And bringing judgement to a halt
We find that we have grown
Love your sister and your brother
Though they may have a different mother
There are hundreds of languages in the world
But love is universal and a smile is unfurled
They know us by the fruit we bear of peace and unity
With eyes of love striving for a world in harmony
The outside is a manifestation of what is within
Do we reflect Christ or are we soiled by sin?
We are Christ bearers light bearers
Salt and light to the ends of the earth
We are truth sharers and Armor of God wearers
We are here to bring about a time of rebirth
So my friend guard your heart and guard your tongue
So you may stand victorious over the evil one
I pray your words would give life and your life would bless
And God provide what you need no more and no less
So Speaks the Heart
Feb 27, 2019
Feb 27, 2019 at 6:51 PM UTC
We are the tellers of our own story
The makers of our own destiny
We are the sharers of a cast
The cast of us
A stellar reservoir of superstars
We don't appear in magazines
We are the figurines that stand in life
Watch dreams get smashed to smithereens
We follow the theme of living, occasionally giving
Kissing,wishing,missing,loving,kicking,killing
Anatomically the same yet unwilling, fearing living
Whilst each of us unique we all are composed of stars
We all hold within us the chic mystique of being human.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:46 PM UTC
For 13 years I loved the books
They were my best sharers
Last two years I knew that
Those I have been knowing for 10 years
We're more than my friends
But it was too late that high school ended.
In a new haven
I started to love someone more..
I started to notice the blues of sky.
I began to love poetry
The hues of the world
Blush of the wind..
But now I'm back to books
This time I'm not reading
But I'm inscribing the pain of love
Into the torn pages
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 11:07 AM UTC
Suppose we were lunar,
ventriloquists and sisters and bed-sharers still:
your mouth would open so mine
did not possess that dry cement quality.
If my toenails were painted,
those fingers would be a shade as pastel.
You sophisticate. We would dangle
our limbs on each other like they hung over a
bridge and could not betray us,
the fall would be interrupted by delicate lace
or that photograph of us in twin hairdos.
And when you hurt me,
I had to scrub your stench from my bones.
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 5:43 PM UTC
DILLEMMA SOLVED
I have many a time wondered
Why do they ,
They the; bond sharers
Unknown to each
But well known to each
Shared by the core of love
THUS; the dilemma in me
My fingers pressurizes on these letterpads
Waving
The dilemma is cleanse cleared factually,
Falling in it
Jun 5, 2019
Jun 5, 2019 at 6:08 PM UTC
I managed to survive again.
Every time I wanted to scream but chuckled.
Every time I needed to cry but sighed.
Those moments I felt alone surrounded by people...
I did it. Once again. I made it to another level.
I am alive for another birthday.
I hope my fellow day-sharers can say the same.
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 10:04 AM UTC
a product of his instinct,
why use
ten when
two will do,
and the ratio is increasingly
progressive!
**"lovely intimacy between poet and muse here,
like an old friendship-made of fatigue and faith"^**
the only reason why my hair,
yet intact,
despite old age's creep
in every other elsewhere,
although
Gibson's, his sixteen,
a superior concision
of my endless, repetitive iterations,
his literatation
nonetheless
is an insufficient
to cures what ills me…
to calm my heart, soothe my dreams ,
would render 99 of mine 100 muses,
and all your voices
ungainly unemployable
worsen yet,
the disheartening palpitations
that shake n' bake my very core,
them those demons too,
the contrapuntal hidden forces
that rue my brain,
well hell!
poet complains!exclaims!
for when the muses sleep,
these devils roam, they creep,
never permitting an easy sleep,
and instead of poems,
they give me forth in
groans and moans,
the unintelligible reverse of
my ever~faithful muses's intimacy,
the un~cooing of our pleasure,
for
when rhymes dewdrop^^
from the insertions from heaven's eyes,
and then when,
you and I
together embrace,
the harmony of spirit
that a poem
makes writer and reader
sharers,
the calm shaking
of hearts well tickled,
laughingly ratified,
and even momentarily
satiated and satisfied
is our
now combinatorial
esprit de corps^^^
~'~'''~~
just a wee ditzy ditty that
fell onto a screen
when reviewing
my silly but
true and utter faithful muses's^^^^
utterances,
in being be tweening
the quickest ten minutes
of my ridiculous life
<nml>
10/6 no tricks 2025
3:10am ~3:20am
~~~
and
now let the real,
hard-work of handiwork ahead,
of writing
something akin
to a psalm, a prayer,
a train of quatrains,
a hiya to haikus,
a ballad to bellow,
you know,
that serious stuffing
that leaves us both
😢aweeping😪
with the unadulterated
purest of joy
Oct 6, 2025
Oct 6, 2025 at 3:50 AM UTC
We will always know that you know that we’re not just images stuck inside these frames.
We are your classmates,
Debate opponents,
Your team mates,
Dance partners,
Dream sharers,
Steadies,
Ex’s,
Captains and scrubs,
Actors and stage managers,
Cheerleaders and cheerleadees,
But most of all we and you were,
No,
Most of all we and you are part of that unique clan called Upper Moreland High School Class of ‘63,
And for those all too brief aquarian years we came together and created bonds and memories that
We will always know.
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 9:52 PM UTC
He is neither hue nor leucoplain.
No, not mean, just humane.
Hatch to good codes
And harsh to misconduct.
A delight to the grey; a connecting figure.
One of a kind, non-gossiper,
Door keeper to secrets kept.
Not proud of pride.
Cardiac chamber…mon ami:
succour for the low.
His every step is marked on slates
whispered around in shadowy sheds
The grandson of a devout
Who stood his ground
against the horseman and his sword.
Reviled by the sharers of same chalice.
His good, their acrimony;
His smile, their scowl.
“Why spread his hand thus?
We, too, are Abrahams”.
He feared not for his blood
‘cause the Lamb is on His post.
A slap to Prophet False
who creeps into innocent homes
And peeps through frail shrouds.
Dark apprentice called “daddy”
Drunk on mystical drinks: green-eyed monster
Whose sneeze is snuffed
By his knees that humble not.
Chained, yet darts at the dear.
But the lonely believer staggers on
Eyes gazed on the path.
His conscience is a witness.
A clean heart he offers
To whom his spirit answers.
Aug 3, 2020
Aug 3, 2020 at 6:54 AM UTC