Recently I wandered about on the farmland of my childhood. Once thriving with a variety of vegetables my family grew that would eventually make their way to our dinner table. Now the land has fallen to the inevitable cold winds of time; grown up with scrub oaks and longleaf pines. Purple Top Thistles and Devil’s Thorn now line the old crooked fence that runs its boundaries. Many years had past since a plow point touched this once open pasture; since my father worked this ground; geared up mules to chase-chains for braking the soil, or bounced behind the spinning blades of a front tine tiller to provide food for his seven kids… Many years indeed…
As I walked, memories of my childhood played over in my mind like those silent films in the 1920’s. Glimpses of endless days of play us kids had running about without a care in the world.
As I made my way to the back of the property, I came upon a scrap metal pile that had accumulated over the last 30 years… Growing up, my family lived so far out from town we didn’t have garbage pick up. So in the back of everyone’s farm was a burn pit or what we called a garbage hole. Everything made its way there from household trash to couches, even busted bikes that were too worn-out to ride. It was common in the afternoons to catch a whiff of burning plastic in the wind or see ash floating in the air. And if you were real lucky, you would get to see the garbage pile go up in flames with its melting milk jugs dripping blue and green colors; zinging through the air as it sucked oxygen from it like a flaming toxic vampire falling to the ground. Rats, rabbits, and snakes would crawl from the pile or scurry about…
But all of this changed once we became civilized enough for the garbage truck to pay us a weekly visit. So now that we had become a little more upper-class with our very own garbage can, something had to be done with the scrap metal twisted and rusting where the burn pit once was. The burn pit was out in the open and was a real eyesore now that we were moving up in the world.
My father was a master of using his surroundings to his advantage. He pulled all of the scrap iron out and threw it into a trench my friend and I had dug when were where into building forts as kids. This trench was in the back part of the farm out of sight. It ran at least 30 feet long and 4 feet deep. So in the scrap went. Year after year it piled up and rusted. Over time trees grew up from the bottom and sides like leafy long fingers from the earth pushing their way into the sky desperately looking for light.
Standing, gazing into the tangled mess, I saw one of the childhood bikes my brothers, sisters, and I road growing up. Then I spotted another. I started to reminisce about the days that had long since sailed away from me; only to be relived in my mind occasionally when looked back on across the vast ocean of day-ins and day-outs I had traveled.
Suddenly I found myself pulling at one of the old bike frames. In some strange way it felt like I was tugging at least part of a forgotten time back to the present. I didn’t know what I was going to do with it, I just knew my creative mind had suddenly kicked into overdrive.
Getting it out, I noticed that most of the frame had rusted away. The only real solid piece left was the cast-iron crank. So I set off on a journey of trying to salvage as many sprockets and cranks as I could. I thought a clock collage was where this was all going. Pulling, prying, hammering and hack-sawing, I slowly started to add one piece at a time to my collection. As the afternoon’s sun fell in the skyline I started my way back to my truck with a handful of bike parts. My father was waiting for me outside of his home. He asked what I was up to and I shared my idea. I told him I was taking a little bit of my childhood back. He smiled in a way that told me he understood completely why I was now covered in rust.
Putting the collage together, I thought this sprocket was probably stamped out in some Detroit assembly line from some American steel worker bringing home a paycheck back when America actually made stuff. Then the sprocket was united with a shiny new bike and shipped across country to a Western Auto on Main Street in Gainesville, Florida. Then It sat patiently waiting until it was put on a layaway plan for the Christmas of 1965. After months of paying and working overtime my father and mother picked the bike up for my brothers and sisters and I to ride till the wheels fell off. To get lost in thought… To ride in a time when it was safe to dream till you couldn’t dream no more…
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Living Your Life
Living your life the way you truly want to live it is one of the hardest things to do in this world of ours. Being true to yourself seems to be unattainable when others around you are factored in. But once you get the hang of it, it is the only way to live.
A friend of mine use to say, he saw no correlation between drinking all night and waking up the next day with a splitting headache. It was two different days or time periods in his mind. He clamed that because he thought this way, most of the time he did not wake up with a hangover. I would smile and say, “You just didn’t drink enough that night.”
Drinking massive amounts of coffee seems to go with the description of being a writer. At least this is true for me, and most of the writers I’ve run across in my lifetime. I think because the only time I find I can think clearly enough to write is in the middle of the night when most of the non-writers are sound asleep. It truly is the best time to write. No phone ringing, no bill collectors, and certainly no knocks on the door. Well most of the time no knocks on the door.
I do believe coffee will be my downfall one day. I drink cup after cup with a boyish grin all while typing wildly on my keyboard. When my mother was pregnant with me she use to drink 3 pots of coffee a day… When she told me this, I thought, I had to be floating in coffee when I was in utero instead of amniotic fluid… I’ve wondered from time to time if my obsession with caffeine had anything to do with her drinking so much coffee. Then my friends voice pops into my head, “I see no correlation between the two…” Correlations or not, we all do things in life or make choices that effect us and others. But coffee is a choice I’m not giving up anytime soon.
I was lucky enough to grow up with a colorful cast of characters known to the rest of the world as my uncles. My Uncle Randolph was never short on words or ideas for that matter. He told things like they where, and you knew without a doubt where you stood with him. I remember going to visit him and my Aunt Jo some summers and always being in awe of their lifestyle. They had goats that roamed their home freely. Not those cute miniature ones you see on TV that fall over every time someone’s cell phone rings. They were full grown poor people’s goats. Big ass Billie’s with thick 12 inch horns and scruffy beards. The animal’s hooves thudded loudly on the wooden stairs as they went up and down… Their hides were also tanning outside in the hot Florida sun. Nailed and stretched on boards leaned against my uncle’s old cut-pine home. My aunt and uncle’s lifestyle of living I’m sure sounds barbaric to some. But they lived the way they wanted to live and that’s what so many people are afraid to do.
One winter Uncle Randolph was given a load of collard greens. Enough that he soon realized he did not want to go through the work of hand washing them to get the soft sugar sand off the thick vein filled leaves. So, as many of the folks in my family often do, he used what was at his disposal. He loaded them into his washing machine and hit the start button with a smile… At least he was smiling when he told me what he had done. His wife, my aunt wore a displeased down-stare as me and my uncle began to chuckle. So now looking back on that time I think, correlations, greens, wife’s washing machine, and wife not being so happy. Hmmmmmm.
There’s always outcomes, good or bad that come from the choices we make. My Uncle Ralph was an old-timer, ( Born 1914 ) that lived by his own rules. One example of his rugged way of life was him going to the barber shop and getting his tonsils removed. He had been sick for weeks. The barber convinced him he could pull what was left of his decayed tonsils out. No anesthesia but plenty of mind over matter they began. Piece by agonizing piece the barber plucked away at the inflamed tissue with long steel tweezers. Some how my uncle managed to sit through them being removed. He went home and was soon sick with infection. He would end up staying a few weeks in the hospital extremely sick. He, by far was one of the toughest man I’ve ever run across, and I’m proud to call him my uncle. He met an untimely death when I was about 18 years old. He and a friend had gone fishing on a river not far from his home. My father and I had fished that same river with him before. It was a major waterway with a fast current. But this time when my uncle went out, the river was even faster, swollen from a storm that had blown through the night before. Uncle Ralph and his friend drowned that day in the muddy Georgia water they had fished on all of their lives. Correlation, choices, consequence, or achievements they're all just merely words describing someone else’s adventures; good outcome or bad, if you are not alive and living your life it will always be someone else who will know what it’s like to fail or succeed…
A friend of mine use to say, he saw no correlation between drinking all night and waking up the next day with a splitting headache. It was two different days or time periods in his mind. He clamed that because he thought this way, most of the time he did not wake up with a hangover. I would smile and say, “You just didn’t drink enough that night.”
Drinking massive amounts of coffee seems to go with the description of being a writer. At least this is true for me, and most of the writers I’ve run across in my lifetime. I think because the only time I find I can think clearly enough to write is in the middle of the night when most of the non-writers are sound asleep. It truly is the best time to write. No phone ringing, no bill collectors, and certainly no knocks on the door. Well most of the time no knocks on the door.
I do believe coffee will be my downfall one day. I drink cup after cup with a boyish grin all while typing wildly on my keyboard. When my mother was pregnant with me she use to drink 3 pots of coffee a day… When she told me this, I thought, I had to be floating in coffee when I was in utero instead of amniotic fluid… I’ve wondered from time to time if my obsession with caffeine had anything to do with her drinking so much coffee. Then my friends voice pops into my head, “I see no correlation between the two…” Correlations or not, we all do things in life or make choices that effect us and others. But coffee is a choice I’m not giving up anytime soon.
I was lucky enough to grow up with a colorful cast of characters known to the rest of the world as my uncles. My Uncle Randolph was never short on words or ideas for that matter. He told things like they where, and you knew without a doubt where you stood with him. I remember going to visit him and my Aunt Jo some summers and always being in awe of their lifestyle. They had goats that roamed their home freely. Not those cute miniature ones you see on TV that fall over every time someone’s cell phone rings. They were full grown poor people’s goats. Big ass Billie’s with thick 12 inch horns and scruffy beards. The animal’s hooves thudded loudly on the wooden stairs as they went up and down… Their hides were also tanning outside in the hot Florida sun. Nailed and stretched on boards leaned against my uncle’s old cut-pine home. My aunt and uncle’s lifestyle of living I’m sure sounds barbaric to some. But they lived the way they wanted to live and that’s what so many people are afraid to do.
One winter Uncle Randolph was given a load of collard greens. Enough that he soon realized he did not want to go through the work of hand washing them to get the soft sugar sand off the thick vein filled leaves. So, as many of the folks in my family often do, he used what was at his disposal. He loaded them into his washing machine and hit the start button with a smile… At least he was smiling when he told me what he had done. His wife, my aunt wore a displeased down-stare as me and my uncle began to chuckle. So now looking back on that time I think, correlations, greens, wife’s washing machine, and wife not being so happy. Hmmmmmm.
There’s always outcomes, good or bad that come from the choices we make. My Uncle Ralph was an old-timer, ( Born 1914 ) that lived by his own rules. One example of his rugged way of life was him going to the barber shop and getting his tonsils removed. He had been sick for weeks. The barber convinced him he could pull what was left of his decayed tonsils out. No anesthesia but plenty of mind over matter they began. Piece by agonizing piece the barber plucked away at the inflamed tissue with long steel tweezers. Some how my uncle managed to sit through them being removed. He went home and was soon sick with infection. He would end up staying a few weeks in the hospital extremely sick. He, by far was one of the toughest man I’ve ever run across, and I’m proud to call him my uncle. He met an untimely death when I was about 18 years old. He and a friend had gone fishing on a river not far from his home. My father and I had fished that same river with him before. It was a major waterway with a fast current. But this time when my uncle went out, the river was even faster, swollen from a storm that had blown through the night before. Uncle Ralph and his friend drowned that day in the muddy Georgia water they had fished on all of their lives. Correlation, choices, consequence, or achievements they're all just merely words describing someone else’s adventures; good outcome or bad, if you are not alive and living your life it will always be someone else who will know what it’s like to fail or succeed…
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Poem : The Journal
Bound by leather
Worn by age
My journal truly understands me
It’s tattered pages creak when I turn them
Too many rides of backpack adventures
Of day to day travel
For it’s the tool that allows me to drift
Drift farther, and farther, from reality
For reality is much to mundane
Much too hypocritical
And I think, are my thoughts what others call hearing voices
Do their thoughts sound so foreign
So beyond what they think is obtainable
That they believe it’s not their own thinking at all
So programmed by the world all around them
That any differing must be a sickness
It’s way to easy to become labeled with an illness
If you speak what others are afraid to say
Yet praised if your writing becomes viable
But Journal, you're safe
I wont let them read you
I’ll keep you locked away
Far from their sight
Until you are needed to awaken the minds of the sleeping
Sleepwalking their way right through life
Oh Journal, maybe it’s time to display you
Set you free from my holding
Or maybe I'll keep you hidden a little while longer
Far from their reach, far from their sight
Published at The Rainbow Rose 12-26-2011
Worn by age
My journal truly understands me
It’s tattered pages creak when I turn them
Too many rides of backpack adventures
Of day to day travel
For it’s the tool that allows me to drift
Drift farther, and farther, from reality
For reality is much to mundane
Much too hypocritical
And I think, are my thoughts what others call hearing voices
Do their thoughts sound so foreign
So beyond what they think is obtainable
That they believe it’s not their own thinking at all
So programmed by the world all around them
That any differing must be a sickness
It’s way to easy to become labeled with an illness
If you speak what others are afraid to say
Yet praised if your writing becomes viable
But Journal, you're safe
I wont let them read you
I’ll keep you locked away
Far from their sight
Until you are needed to awaken the minds of the sleeping
Sleepwalking their way right through life
Oh Journal, maybe it’s time to display you
Set you free from my holding
Or maybe I'll keep you hidden a little while longer
Far from their reach, far from their sight
Published at The Rainbow Rose 12-26-2011
Poem : Technicolor Eyes
Out on the sidewalks
The sidewalks of this dirt covered town
I found myself fortunate
To find who the good book calls Christ
At least this is who her mind said she was at that moment
And her pills when she took them were as sweet as sugar-stick-candy
Their bright colors made them slide down with ease
They covered her world in bright Technicolor
Tunnel vision she said would allow me to see her
In the lower atmosphere
For now she was an astronaut
She was floating with her little box-doll and could see St. Frances
Along with St. Mary who was standing beside her
I smiled so kindly as she began to explain
I told you I’m on a different atmosphere
I feel fine in this place
Where my hair looks like Rose-Colored-Platinum
You can laugh and play with the stars up here
I tell you, I can sit in the curve of the moon
If you had tunnel vision you could see me up here
You have to have Technicolor Eyes
But you have to watch out for the devil
He’ll shoot you in the back
He did that to me
Then he stole my silver dollar
But now I’m okay because I am Moses
I’m not hungry at all
I’m in a different atmosphere with Technicolor Eyes
Published at Dead Snakes 12-30-2011
The sidewalks of this dirt covered town
I found myself fortunate
To find who the good book calls Christ
At least this is who her mind said she was at that moment
And her pills when she took them were as sweet as sugar-stick-candy
Their bright colors made them slide down with ease
They covered her world in bright Technicolor
Tunnel vision she said would allow me to see her
In the lower atmosphere
For now she was an astronaut
She was floating with her little box-doll and could see St. Frances
Along with St. Mary who was standing beside her
I smiled so kindly as she began to explain
I told you I’m on a different atmosphere
I feel fine in this place
Where my hair looks like Rose-Colored-Platinum
You can laugh and play with the stars up here
I tell you, I can sit in the curve of the moon
If you had tunnel vision you could see me up here
You have to have Technicolor Eyes
But you have to watch out for the devil
He’ll shoot you in the back
He did that to me
Then he stole my silver dollar
But now I’m okay because I am Moses
I’m not hungry at all
I’m in a different atmosphere with Technicolor Eyes
Published at Dead Snakes 12-30-2011
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Poem : Mermaids And Curses
Walking where water once stood
Where waves once crashed with power on the shoreline
All, now sea land, as far as my eye can see
Littered with twisted bits of coral and shell
For the tides have pulled out to the dark depths of the ocean
The Shoals, spotted smears of soft salty sand cushion my feet
As I walk out on what was once called bottom
I see, sea creatures swirling and trapped in puddles
In this place that’s only here for an hour
Suddenly, I hear a faint cry in the distance
My steps move toward what’s now turned to hypnotic singing
Then I see her, in all of her beauty, trapped in a small pool of holding
Half woman, half fish
Her eyes blue as sky-crystal-cloud-burst
Her lips red and full with temptation
Golden hair draped softly over her breast
Her singing seemed to hold me in place
Her words begged me to stay
Then the tides water starts to flow in around me
Faster, and faster
I struggled to walk with all of its rising
I thought, I’m never going to leave here alive
Now I’m swimming in panic for the safety of the shoreline
Trying to break free of her incredible grasp
The undertone of her begging and pulling will surely drown me before this is over
The curse of the Mermaid has a hold of me now
Suddenly, I awake to the sun climbing midway in the sky
Sitting up I see a lifeguard frowning and writing a ticket
The next time you drink and pass out in the water, I might not be here to save you
Published at The Camel Saloon 12-18-2011
Where waves once crashed with power on the shoreline
All, now sea land, as far as my eye can see
Littered with twisted bits of coral and shell
For the tides have pulled out to the dark depths of the ocean
The Shoals, spotted smears of soft salty sand cushion my feet
As I walk out on what was once called bottom
I see, sea creatures swirling and trapped in puddles
In this place that’s only here for an hour
Suddenly, I hear a faint cry in the distance
My steps move toward what’s now turned to hypnotic singing
Then I see her, in all of her beauty, trapped in a small pool of holding
Half woman, half fish
Her eyes blue as sky-crystal-cloud-burst
Her lips red and full with temptation
Golden hair draped softly over her breast
Her singing seemed to hold me in place
Her words begged me to stay
Then the tides water starts to flow in around me
Faster, and faster
I struggled to walk with all of its rising
I thought, I’m never going to leave here alive
Now I’m swimming in panic for the safety of the shoreline
Trying to break free of her incredible grasp
The undertone of her begging and pulling will surely drown me before this is over
The curse of the Mermaid has a hold of me now
Suddenly, I awake to the sun climbing midway in the sky
Sitting up I see a lifeguard frowning and writing a ticket
The next time you drink and pass out in the water, I might not be here to save you
Published at The Camel Saloon 12-18-2011
Poem : The Hyena
In this world, this world of ours
The Hyena stands with a sharpened grin
Gnashes his teeth, and digs in his claws
All while preaching his words and making his profit
Mother Mary, do they read your son’s words at all?
Or do they speak to the flocks with prewritten text of what better words might be?
Promising plenty the Hyena will do and using all that he can
Then dropping from his followers heavy and full
Like a tick stretched to the limit by his consumption
How strange it all is to me
For I’m not one of these beasts, nor do I follow their way
So I naturally struggle when I encounter their masses
Constantly choking on all that they feed me
What they show me
For a Paper Rose looks like the best smelling flower
Perception is seeing what they want you to see
Like stained-glass telling its story with all of its bright and wonderful colors
Yet dull when the sun doesn’t shine its way
And the cast shadows of candles wash over beloved Mother Mary
But still we pray to her
Beg of her
Hoping she will reach out and touch us
Come to life in some miraculous way
Hold us
Reassure us
Make our world feel better than what our eyes see day after day
In this world
This world of ours
Where the hyena gnashes his teeth and the weak follow his way
Published at Dead Snakes 12-13-2011
The Hyena stands with a sharpened grin
Gnashes his teeth, and digs in his claws
All while preaching his words and making his profit
Mother Mary, do they read your son’s words at all?
Or do they speak to the flocks with prewritten text of what better words might be?
Promising plenty the Hyena will do and using all that he can
Then dropping from his followers heavy and full
Like a tick stretched to the limit by his consumption
How strange it all is to me
For I’m not one of these beasts, nor do I follow their way
So I naturally struggle when I encounter their masses
Constantly choking on all that they feed me
What they show me
For a Paper Rose looks like the best smelling flower
Perception is seeing what they want you to see
Like stained-glass telling its story with all of its bright and wonderful colors
Yet dull when the sun doesn’t shine its way
And the cast shadows of candles wash over beloved Mother Mary
But still we pray to her
Beg of her
Hoping she will reach out and touch us
Come to life in some miraculous way
Hold us
Reassure us
Make our world feel better than what our eyes see day after day
In this world
This world of ours
Where the hyena gnashes his teeth and the weak follow his way
Published at Dead Snakes 12-13-2011
Poem : Grandfather
My grandfather
The mild-mannered mechanic
Was the only grandfather I knew
He was my mother’s stepfather
And a good father was he
For even through the hard times he never stepped away
Blood relations mean nothing if they’re not willing to love
To listen
To understand
Enthralled as a child
I waited for the telling of stories
Stories from long ago
Of him helping men fly and soar through the air
One by one he put planes together
For the war fronts of a world at war
To be painted like tigers or perhaps Betty Grable
Anything to help the fighting men of the sky
With hands of skill my grandfather pushed cold metal wrenches
Spinning bolts down to an unmovable tightness
Years of this work left his hands scarred and rough
Easily felt
As he stretched out his hand to guide me through life
Teaching me right from wrong with his words of wisdom
His advice was always of the best kind
They say patience is a virtue
But the real virtue is giving more than you’ve taken
Guiding the ones that need to be guided
Setting examples by living for more than yourself
My grandfather, the mild mannered mechanic
Fixed all that was broken before him
Published at The Rainbow Rose 11-22-2011
The mild-mannered mechanic
Was the only grandfather I knew
He was my mother’s stepfather
And a good father was he
For even through the hard times he never stepped away
Blood relations mean nothing if they’re not willing to love
To listen
To understand
Enthralled as a child
I waited for the telling of stories
Stories from long ago
Of him helping men fly and soar through the air
One by one he put planes together
For the war fronts of a world at war
To be painted like tigers or perhaps Betty Grable
Anything to help the fighting men of the sky
With hands of skill my grandfather pushed cold metal wrenches
Spinning bolts down to an unmovable tightness
Years of this work left his hands scarred and rough
Easily felt
As he stretched out his hand to guide me through life
Teaching me right from wrong with his words of wisdom
His advice was always of the best kind
They say patience is a virtue
But the real virtue is giving more than you’ve taken
Guiding the ones that need to be guided
Setting examples by living for more than yourself
My grandfather, the mild mannered mechanic
Fixed all that was broken before him
Published at The Rainbow Rose 11-22-2011
Poem : Hero
Vietnam was a bitch
That war slipped home in the spirits of our fathers
Our brothers
Our uncles
Stepping off that plane your shadow seemed to be a little darker
For darkness was consuming your shadow turning it a different shade of black
Your smile had all but faded
Your eyes constantly combing the tree tops afraid a shot would ring out
Yet we kept loving you unconditionally
Even when the madness danced in your eyes
Long wooded walks with you were almost an impossible feat
For even as a child I could see the shadows call out to you
You did what you had to do
At least this is what you told yourself to make it seem right
But there’s nothing right about war
Then came the drinking
Trying to wash it all away
Drown out the voices you heard in the night
Stop the snakes from coming out of the walls of our home
A home that was supposed to protect you, could protect you no longer
For the beast at the bottom of the bottle only fueled the nightmares
Then came the outburst of tears at dinner
If it tasted too much like rations
But hell, beans were all you could afford after the war
The war that never stopped in your thinking
Like a road without any end and no stop sign in sight
Like a sea without land the flashbacks kept coming
Relentless in the depths of your mind
Until the flag was folded into the triangle of honor
Given to our family to sooth the teardrops of sadness
One more hero gone from the fight
Published at Poetic Medicine 10-18-2011
That war slipped home in the spirits of our fathers
Our brothers
Our uncles
Stepping off that plane your shadow seemed to be a little darker
For darkness was consuming your shadow turning it a different shade of black
Your smile had all but faded
Your eyes constantly combing the tree tops afraid a shot would ring out
Yet we kept loving you unconditionally
Even when the madness danced in your eyes
Long wooded walks with you were almost an impossible feat
For even as a child I could see the shadows call out to you
You did what you had to do
At least this is what you told yourself to make it seem right
But there’s nothing right about war
Then came the drinking
Trying to wash it all away
Drown out the voices you heard in the night
Stop the snakes from coming out of the walls of our home
A home that was supposed to protect you, could protect you no longer
For the beast at the bottom of the bottle only fueled the nightmares
Then came the outburst of tears at dinner
If it tasted too much like rations
But hell, beans were all you could afford after the war
The war that never stopped in your thinking
Like a road without any end and no stop sign in sight
Like a sea without land the flashbacks kept coming
Relentless in the depths of your mind
Until the flag was folded into the triangle of honor
Given to our family to sooth the teardrops of sadness
One more hero gone from the fight
Published at Poetic Medicine 10-18-2011
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Poem : Stepping From Photos
The day before yesterday’s yesterday
I gazed upon photos of you
In a place I wished I could have gone
Climbed into a shot captured by the click of a button through the eye of a lens
Your image frozen in the happiest of times
Oh how I yearned for a better tomorrow, a better today
One without the turmoil that has wrapped itself around me
Stepping into your photos was my only escape
Escape from the hospitals with their dim gray lighting and square tiled floors
With hallways of never ending paces from people wondering if they’ll ever go home
Escape from the watching of shadows spider web slowly over buildings
As the sun falls on the backside of the city
Escape from the lights of the night coming alive in the in the skyline
Through the pane glass I stared at another day passed
Another bill stacked
Oh how I wished for something to change
For an angel to fall from the sky or leap from the photos I clung to
But nothing falls to the needing or jumps to the wanting
At least this is what we are thought to believe
Until the inconceivable happens
You stepped from the photos with my last bit of hope
An angel from the snapshots of time
It was like I reached up in a star filled sky and pulled down the dream I was dreaming
The need I was needing
For sometimes hope keeps itself hidden till just the right moment
Unseen to the unfocused, like the sky-colors bending after the storm
Hidden till all of the badness is gone the rainbow will always emerge
Like a jazz player blowing his horn through the smoke filled bar
Seeing waves of music move just in front of him for the first time
For the smoke was the canvas he needed to see what he had felt for years
Whispers of whishes coming true in the pages of my life
Published at The Rainbow Rose 10-11-11
I gazed upon photos of you
In a place I wished I could have gone
Climbed into a shot captured by the click of a button through the eye of a lens
Your image frozen in the happiest of times
Oh how I yearned for a better tomorrow, a better today
One without the turmoil that has wrapped itself around me
Stepping into your photos was my only escape
Escape from the hospitals with their dim gray lighting and square tiled floors
With hallways of never ending paces from people wondering if they’ll ever go home
Escape from the watching of shadows spider web slowly over buildings
As the sun falls on the backside of the city
Escape from the lights of the night coming alive in the in the skyline
Through the pane glass I stared at another day passed
Another bill stacked
Oh how I wished for something to change
For an angel to fall from the sky or leap from the photos I clung to
But nothing falls to the needing or jumps to the wanting
At least this is what we are thought to believe
Until the inconceivable happens
You stepped from the photos with my last bit of hope
An angel from the snapshots of time
It was like I reached up in a star filled sky and pulled down the dream I was dreaming
The need I was needing
For sometimes hope keeps itself hidden till just the right moment
Unseen to the unfocused, like the sky-colors bending after the storm
Hidden till all of the badness is gone the rainbow will always emerge
Like a jazz player blowing his horn through the smoke filled bar
Seeing waves of music move just in front of him for the first time
For the smoke was the canvas he needed to see what he had felt for years
Whispers of whishes coming true in the pages of my life
Published at The Rainbow Rose 10-11-11
Poem : The Ring Cross Of Ireland
The Irish Ring Cross
Stands
Stands in stone
For the mighty memories of old
The old ones that first roamed her countryside
Trough the rocky drop-fall terrain
Over this rolling green island of Ireland
This Cross of the ancients stands in pure sunlight
Shades the graves of Lads and Lassies long since laid to rest
These people of mystery
The forefathers to all of her children
And her children’s children who call her home
A people of strength who looked to the sky for hope of a better tomorrow
A better existence
In a time of harshness and death
Long ago when castles stood in the many
When hot steel was folded
Over and over
Hammered and sharpened into long swords of fight
Made to defend from Ireland’s invaders
These defenders of old lived off the land and what it provided
Are now legend and verses of folklorist songs
Of a time that once was
And the shrill sound of bagpipes now carry their spirits
In the wind that blows softly over these Ring Crosses
The ancient Stone Crosses Of Ireland still standing with pride
Scrolled with the utmost perfection
Telling a tale from so long ago
Of a world far different than our own
Published at The Camel Saloon 10-27-11
Stands
Stands in stone
For the mighty memories of old
The old ones that first roamed her countryside
Trough the rocky drop-fall terrain
Over this rolling green island of Ireland
This Cross of the ancients stands in pure sunlight
Shades the graves of Lads and Lassies long since laid to rest
These people of mystery
The forefathers to all of her children
And her children’s children who call her home
A people of strength who looked to the sky for hope of a better tomorrow
A better existence
In a time of harshness and death
Long ago when castles stood in the many
When hot steel was folded
Over and over
Hammered and sharpened into long swords of fight
Made to defend from Ireland’s invaders
These defenders of old lived off the land and what it provided
Are now legend and verses of folklorist songs
Of a time that once was
And the shrill sound of bagpipes now carry their spirits
In the wind that blows softly over these Ring Crosses
The ancient Stone Crosses Of Ireland still standing with pride
Scrolled with the utmost perfection
Telling a tale from so long ago
Of a world far different than our own
Published at The Camel Saloon 10-27-11
Poem : Fleeing The Line
Crossing state lines
First takes crossing the line drawn in your mind
For they are as real as lines drawn in the sand
Crossing over for what you knew was right
For it was time get away
Get away from the lies
Get away so you could have time to think
Get away from all the broken promises of change
From the begging and pleading that came so easily
When a comfortable home and wife was drifting from sight
From the tears that dried up so quickly once you said all was alright
You left all this deception behind
To sit on the blacktop hills covered in clover
To sit on the hills of your childhood home
For sometimes you have to take control of your life
Before losing control of it all
It takes courage to say you’ve had enough
It takes strength to do the unthinkable
To not only stand up for what you believe in
But to stand up and walk out the door
Out with your child in hand
Your little girl you had to protect
For a little girl being raised looks to her mother’s example
She’s learning how to become a woman
And a mother not walked over
Will raise a fine young lady
A lady that will look back on the memory
Of her mother finding enough courage to cross state lines
Published at The Camel Saloon 11-17-2011
First takes crossing the line drawn in your mind
For they are as real as lines drawn in the sand
Crossing over for what you knew was right
For it was time get away
Get away from the lies
Get away so you could have time to think
Get away from all the broken promises of change
From the begging and pleading that came so easily
When a comfortable home and wife was drifting from sight
From the tears that dried up so quickly once you said all was alright
You left all this deception behind
To sit on the blacktop hills covered in clover
To sit on the hills of your childhood home
For sometimes you have to take control of your life
Before losing control of it all
It takes courage to say you’ve had enough
It takes strength to do the unthinkable
To not only stand up for what you believe in
But to stand up and walk out the door
Out with your child in hand
Your little girl you had to protect
For a little girl being raised looks to her mother’s example
She’s learning how to become a woman
And a mother not walked over
Will raise a fine young lady
A lady that will look back on the memory
Of her mother finding enough courage to cross state lines
Published at The Camel Saloon 11-17-2011
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Poem : Windows
Drips of rain slid down my window
The hospital’s window in the room of my waiting
Waiting in my room
Waiting and watching for what is to come
Looking out this pane of glass high in the skyline
It holds my refection all too well
Showing me off without any shyness
My life as real as reality gets
Stranded stares from nights of unrest
Lines of time now show in my face
Wavy from the water and rain
Running down the window’s outside
But not nearly wavy enough
Distorted but far from disillusioned
Of the task ahead of me now
For the rain keeps falling outside and in
Storming on both sides of the window
Once again storms have blown into my life
Breached the levees that have held in my mind
Moaned and creaked from the stress I’m under
But sometimes it’s good for the dam to finally give way
Spill into the spillway of new beginnings
Holding no more hidden secrets of hiding
For one day it has to stop raining
And the sunsets of hope will set in the sky
Published at Dead Snakes 10-7-2011
The hospital’s window in the room of my waiting
Waiting in my room
Waiting and watching for what is to come
Looking out this pane of glass high in the skyline
It holds my refection all too well
Showing me off without any shyness
My life as real as reality gets
Stranded stares from nights of unrest
Lines of time now show in my face
Wavy from the water and rain
Running down the window’s outside
But not nearly wavy enough
Distorted but far from disillusioned
Of the task ahead of me now
For the rain keeps falling outside and in
Storming on both sides of the window
Once again storms have blown into my life
Breached the levees that have held in my mind
Moaned and creaked from the stress I’m under
But sometimes it’s good for the dam to finally give way
Spill into the spillway of new beginnings
Holding no more hidden secrets of hiding
For one day it has to stop raining
And the sunsets of hope will set in the sky
Published at Dead Snakes 10-7-2011
Poem : The Poem, The Poet
What is a poem?
It’s a highway into the soul
A freeway of twisting and turning emotion
Twisting inside oneself
Right down to the core of what’s really important
A poet is born when one finally turns away
Away from a world that says how you should feel on the inside
And how you should act on the out
Yes a poem is as much there for the living as it is for the writing
As much for the feeling, as it is for the reading
It’s there for the expressing when tears no longer satisfy
For the scratch of a pen connecting words in rhythm last longer than drops from the eye
Sharing your innermost thoughts with others with a soft whisper to their hearts
Awaking their minds with lines from your soul
Unconditionally giving more than you’ve taken is a poem all in itself
Poets are seen by so few, yet life saving for many at just the right time
Like the lighthouse seen by the mariner navigating desperately in a rain swept night
A lost man at sea on the verge of drowning is saved by the act of another
The poet, the light keeper, speaking through a shining bright beacon
Yes poems are more than the textbooks will ever tell you
Or the teacher will teach you
For they are alive and living all around us
Good, bad, or unwanted
Stories and story tellers
Poems and poets
Life clicking through the minutes of time for all us to see
Published at Catapult To Mars 10-10-2011
It’s a highway into the soul
A freeway of twisting and turning emotion
Twisting inside oneself
Right down to the core of what’s really important
A poet is born when one finally turns away
Away from a world that says how you should feel on the inside
And how you should act on the out
Yes a poem is as much there for the living as it is for the writing
As much for the feeling, as it is for the reading
It’s there for the expressing when tears no longer satisfy
For the scratch of a pen connecting words in rhythm last longer than drops from the eye
Sharing your innermost thoughts with others with a soft whisper to their hearts
Awaking their minds with lines from your soul
Unconditionally giving more than you’ve taken is a poem all in itself
Poets are seen by so few, yet life saving for many at just the right time
Like the lighthouse seen by the mariner navigating desperately in a rain swept night
A lost man at sea on the verge of drowning is saved by the act of another
The poet, the light keeper, speaking through a shining bright beacon
Yes poems are more than the textbooks will ever tell you
Or the teacher will teach you
For they are alive and living all around us
Good, bad, or unwanted
Stories and story tellers
Poems and poets
Life clicking through the minutes of time for all us to see
Published at Catapult To Mars 10-10-2011
Poem : Seeing The Unseen
Seeing the unseen is sometimes difficult
What matters most to the writer
Should be
The art of the unspoken word
The only thing that matters at all
Speaking and thinking the new idea
The dream that lives in your head
If written on a napkin
For only a waitress to find at the end of her shift
When her legs want to give out
Write it
Uplift her
Move her
Or the busboy scraping unwanted food for minimum wage
Wondering how he will pay rent and tuition
Wondering how he will eat as he throws good food away
Write it
Express it
Give him hope tomorrow will be better
Your audience will find you
This is the life I’ve chosen to live
Writing for the world of the blue-collar
The world of the scarred not of the scarring
Scratching the earth with my poet’s plow point of words
For living your life on a path not of your choosing
Is not living your life at all
Ruled by the ruler
From the kingdom of timecards
The land of quotas and cubicles
Is a land not really alive
Published at Dead Snakes 10-7-2011
What matters most to the writer
Should be
The art of the unspoken word
The only thing that matters at all
Speaking and thinking the new idea
The dream that lives in your head
If written on a napkin
For only a waitress to find at the end of her shift
When her legs want to give out
Write it
Uplift her
Move her
Or the busboy scraping unwanted food for minimum wage
Wondering how he will pay rent and tuition
Wondering how he will eat as he throws good food away
Write it
Express it
Give him hope tomorrow will be better
Your audience will find you
This is the life I’ve chosen to live
Writing for the world of the blue-collar
The world of the scarred not of the scarring
Scratching the earth with my poet’s plow point of words
For living your life on a path not of your choosing
Is not living your life at all
Ruled by the ruler
From the kingdom of timecards
The land of quotas and cubicles
Is a land not really alive
Published at Dead Snakes 10-7-2011
Poem : The Bar Of Words
United at the speakeasy of words
Words spoke softly in the mind of the poet
On their way to work
Around the coffee table
Silently combed over and over
Rearranged and tossed about
Notes of thoughts that surround our everyday life
Are gathered up and pushed out of a pen
Scratched franticly out
For desperation to express for an artist should be the same as to breath to a drowning man
Punched keys convey these feelings onto the screen
Then sent with the click of a mouse
Zooming with speed through the wires of the web
Underground
Along street-ways, highways, and byways
Across oceans of deep water blue
Sent up to bounce off the floating metal dish in the stars
All words on their way to the emporium of thoughts
To the speakeasy of poets
Warm words of substance and meaning
Flow as smooth as brown liquor
The saloon of desert ships in the city of The South
The bartender of poets picking the words of the day for display
To be looked upon by the eyes of the world
To wonder what someone else has wondered
To take in
To undo the puzzle
To see how it is put together
Expressions from lives lived near and far
Far and near to the bar of words they go
Published at The Camel Saloon 10, 1, 2011
Words spoke softly in the mind of the poet
On their way to work
Around the coffee table
Silently combed over and over
Rearranged and tossed about
Notes of thoughts that surround our everyday life
Are gathered up and pushed out of a pen
Scratched franticly out
For desperation to express for an artist should be the same as to breath to a drowning man
Punched keys convey these feelings onto the screen
Then sent with the click of a mouse
Zooming with speed through the wires of the web
Underground
Along street-ways, highways, and byways
Across oceans of deep water blue
Sent up to bounce off the floating metal dish in the stars
All words on their way to the emporium of thoughts
To the speakeasy of poets
Warm words of substance and meaning
Flow as smooth as brown liquor
The saloon of desert ships in the city of The South
The bartender of poets picking the words of the day for display
To be looked upon by the eyes of the world
To wonder what someone else has wondered
To take in
To undo the puzzle
To see how it is put together
Expressions from lives lived near and far
Far and near to the bar of words they go
Published at The Camel Saloon 10, 1, 2011
Poem : The Thief
The Thief who steals a moment from your day
Leaves behind something wonderful
Your innermost feelings in a fluttering bliss
Emotions once held so tightly
Bound in your heart for safekeeping
But this Thief needs no key
For he swings in on your heartstrings
Pulls them in a way you adore
No fingerprints to be found at the scene
Just memories of happiness left in return
He pries with love lasting leverage
Stirring you into a spiritual awakening
Self-aware of the self longing inside you
To be wanted completely is what you were needing
So the Thief steals all of you
Holds in his hands the jewels of your soul
For the thief has not picked your pocket along a crowed street-way
He’s merely stolen a moment from your everyday life
Because it was necessary
Necessary for his very survival
A moment so precious to him
A moment never taken for granted
Like the ones that turn a deaf ear to your days voice of frustration
The ones that look at you blindly, simply unable to see
See the weight of the world bearing down on your shoulders
But the Thief sees the treasures of need that are there for the taking
He sneaks past all of the bars put up by the barring
Creeps over the walls that surround you
Into the depths of your soul locked away for far to long
Published at Dead Snakes 9, 19, 2011
Leaves behind something wonderful
Your innermost feelings in a fluttering bliss
Emotions once held so tightly
Bound in your heart for safekeeping
But this Thief needs no key
For he swings in on your heartstrings
Pulls them in a way you adore
No fingerprints to be found at the scene
Just memories of happiness left in return
He pries with love lasting leverage
Stirring you into a spiritual awakening
Self-aware of the self longing inside you
To be wanted completely is what you were needing
So the Thief steals all of you
Holds in his hands the jewels of your soul
For the thief has not picked your pocket along a crowed street-way
He’s merely stolen a moment from your everyday life
Because it was necessary
Necessary for his very survival
A moment so precious to him
A moment never taken for granted
Like the ones that turn a deaf ear to your days voice of frustration
The ones that look at you blindly, simply unable to see
See the weight of the world bearing down on your shoulders
But the Thief sees the treasures of need that are there for the taking
He sneaks past all of the bars put up by the barring
Creeps over the walls that surround you
Into the depths of your soul locked away for far to long
Published at Dead Snakes 9, 19, 2011
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Poem : The Flake of Snow
Sometimes the good moments in life can be measured in seconds
Seconds, smearing into minutes
Minutes clicking through the clock wheels of time
Falling from the hour hand that moves quickly toward the mundane everyday
But these minutes lived far out weigh the everyday
Moments lived much like the life of a snow flurry
Weightless stars of ice floating in perfect beauty
Glistening crystals suspended
Drifting in a snowdrift
Unstressed by the hand of the dealing
Untouched by the world at that moment
A moment that can’t be taken away
But away the moment will fade
Or melt by time passing too quickly
By circumstances out of our control
But as one moment fades
The next is starting to build
Perfect conditions to float on nothing but feeling
Coast through the day
Waft wildly without restrictions that sometimes clutter our sight
One tiny moment
One tiny flake of possibility
One after another
Moments of happiness are built by the building
The goodness will eventually keep coming
Changing your life for the better one moment at a time
Published at Dead Snakes 9, 30, 2011
Seconds, smearing into minutes
Minutes clicking through the clock wheels of time
Falling from the hour hand that moves quickly toward the mundane everyday
But these minutes lived far out weigh the everyday
Moments lived much like the life of a snow flurry
Weightless stars of ice floating in perfect beauty
Glistening crystals suspended
Drifting in a snowdrift
Unstressed by the hand of the dealing
Untouched by the world at that moment
A moment that can’t be taken away
But away the moment will fade
Or melt by time passing too quickly
By circumstances out of our control
But as one moment fades
The next is starting to build
Perfect conditions to float on nothing but feeling
Coast through the day
Waft wildly without restrictions that sometimes clutter our sight
One tiny moment
One tiny flake of possibility
One after another
Moments of happiness are built by the building
The goodness will eventually keep coming
Changing your life for the better one moment at a time
Published at Dead Snakes 9, 30, 2011
Poem : A Woman’s Woman’s Woman
There’s a woman’s woman’s woman that feels all she is feeling
Over and over again
Again and again over and over
Honestly looking into her soul
With eyes that see into the depths of her existence
Seeing the raw power of heartbeats a beating
In the most wonderful way
Spinning in a world brought on by her need
Her need for the woman’s woman inside her to feel love
To be heard
For someone to walk quietly beside her and listen to all she has to say
To comfort her fears
Wash them away
Like the sea gently brushing footprints in the sand
Her need to be needed
Is the biggest need of all
And one that is long overdue
The touch of this woman’s woman is all but entrancing
Her skin turns warm in my hand
Her hair lays gently about her neckline
Patiently waiting for fingers to slowly slide through
The smell of her body is the most alluring sent of all
Intoxicating
Enthralling
Gripping me tightly
So much so I feel dizzy
Confused in the most clear minded way
Perfectly honed this woman’s woman is
With a touch as soft as a cool morning breeze
A touch that only one can feel
Waking me from a long sad slumber
Opening my heart like the flowers of spring
Bringing me to a state of short breaths a taking
Is this woman’s woman’s woman
Published at Books On Blog Sep 17, 2011 From the Book of poems called : Don’t Get It Twisted
Over and over again
Again and again over and over
Honestly looking into her soul
With eyes that see into the depths of her existence
Seeing the raw power of heartbeats a beating
In the most wonderful way
Spinning in a world brought on by her need
Her need for the woman’s woman inside her to feel love
To be heard
For someone to walk quietly beside her and listen to all she has to say
To comfort her fears
Wash them away
Like the sea gently brushing footprints in the sand
Her need to be needed
Is the biggest need of all
And one that is long overdue
The touch of this woman’s woman is all but entrancing
Her skin turns warm in my hand
Her hair lays gently about her neckline
Patiently waiting for fingers to slowly slide through
The smell of her body is the most alluring sent of all
Intoxicating
Enthralling
Gripping me tightly
So much so I feel dizzy
Confused in the most clear minded way
Perfectly honed this woman’s woman is
With a touch as soft as a cool morning breeze
A touch that only one can feel
Waking me from a long sad slumber
Opening my heart like the flowers of spring
Bringing me to a state of short breaths a taking
Is this woman’s woman’s woman
Published at Books On Blog Sep 17, 2011 From the Book of poems called : Don’t Get It Twisted
Poem : Came To Be
Making up stories from the pictures in a book
From the books I could not read
But being up against it early on wasn’t all that bad
My outlet became art, this was my purpose
My constant
Always with a smile folks would say, man you sure are creative
I replied, no, I just grew up poor
For imagination keeps your sprit alive
When your body has long since gave out
Sold and broken to pay for minimum wage housing
Where you don’t walk out the door at night
Where candied apples are made from government tickets for eating
Then sold for cash to buy liquor and cigarettes
Cigarettes that were flamed to ward off the worry of living
Exhaled smoke that drifts in the night
But you can climb out of what hell hole you’ve been given
For a shovel is a great motivational teacher
Making you think, how do I change my life
Change for the better
Change by reading every book in sight
Callused hands shuffling flash cards
Spelling was the unspoken viper coiled and ready to strike
Anything can come to the ones that will work for it
Obstacles only exist in your mind
Published at Books On Blog Sep 17, 2011 From the Book of poems called : Don’t Get It Twisted
From the books I could not read
But being up against it early on wasn’t all that bad
My outlet became art, this was my purpose
My constant
Always with a smile folks would say, man you sure are creative
I replied, no, I just grew up poor
For imagination keeps your sprit alive
When your body has long since gave out
Sold and broken to pay for minimum wage housing
Where you don’t walk out the door at night
Where candied apples are made from government tickets for eating
Then sold for cash to buy liquor and cigarettes
Cigarettes that were flamed to ward off the worry of living
Exhaled smoke that drifts in the night
But you can climb out of what hell hole you’ve been given
For a shovel is a great motivational teacher
Making you think, how do I change my life
Change for the better
Change by reading every book in sight
Callused hands shuffling flash cards
Spelling was the unspoken viper coiled and ready to strike
Anything can come to the ones that will work for it
Obstacles only exist in your mind
Published at Books On Blog Sep 17, 2011 From the Book of poems called : Don’t Get It Twisted
Poem : The Mighty Trees Of The City
The cold wind brings the last freeze of winter
The last frost of a bitter spring morning crunches under my feet
I watch as the sun reflects a thousand colors of light off an icy ground
Starting my day of work in what’s left of this ancient forest of trees
The forest that lives in the city that no one stops to see
Or what’s left of the forest after the city’s moved into where it once stood
Giant trees that survived the roads and bulldozers
Mans quest for bigger and better
Mans greed
Yet, just a few rings in their massive trunks of time
Growth rings that stretch through a century here, a century there
Rings from a time when their kind were many and man was few
From stone axe to chainsaw
From campsites and tribes of few
To suburbs and real estate signs of many
Somehow these giants still stand amongst us
The buildings and cars
The roads of hot oily asphalt poured all around them
Forcing their roots to dive deeper for life giving water
Or to push up the bump in the road
The crack in the walk
Fighting to survive surrounded by the city of concrete
The Mighty Trees I see
Published at Books On Blog Sep 17, 2011 From the Book of poems called: Don’t Get It Twisted
The last frost of a bitter spring morning crunches under my feet
I watch as the sun reflects a thousand colors of light off an icy ground
Starting my day of work in what’s left of this ancient forest of trees
The forest that lives in the city that no one stops to see
Or what’s left of the forest after the city’s moved into where it once stood
Giant trees that survived the roads and bulldozers
Mans quest for bigger and better
Mans greed
Yet, just a few rings in their massive trunks of time
Growth rings that stretch through a century here, a century there
Rings from a time when their kind were many and man was few
From stone axe to chainsaw
From campsites and tribes of few
To suburbs and real estate signs of many
Somehow these giants still stand amongst us
The buildings and cars
The roads of hot oily asphalt poured all around them
Forcing their roots to dive deeper for life giving water
Or to push up the bump in the road
The crack in the walk
Fighting to survive surrounded by the city of concrete
The Mighty Trees I see
Published at Books On Blog Sep 17, 2011 From the Book of poems called: Don’t Get It Twisted
Friday, March 2, 2012
Easels
Easels in the meadow
Van Gogh on the hill
Memories of madness swirl in the blood red sky
Razor in one hand, ear in the other
For the whisperers spoke too loudly at times
Adjustments had to be made
Tone down
Tune out the racing of the mind
Sunflowers wilting, withering without water, while the artist transferred them to canvas
Locked them forever in layers of paint
Smearing them back to life with his bristled stick brush
Blurry bright colors bursting with energy
Creativity dripping from each drop of the painting
Raining with life
Flooding out of his mind
The creative floodgates did open
For the artist understands time is just what it is
Time
It’s quickly running out with each second wasted
But slowing to a craw with each second lived
Moving way before man started counting it
Moving, just moving
Is all it’s ever done
Whether we’re here or not
But the artist is a master at feeling the moment
Feeling all the intensity of the world that’s around him
A second lived was more than others live in a lifetime
Van Gogh the painter of the people
Lived one brushstroke at a time
Published at The Camel Saloon 10, 16, 2011
Van Gogh on the hill
Memories of madness swirl in the blood red sky
Razor in one hand, ear in the other
For the whisperers spoke too loudly at times
Adjustments had to be made
Tone down
Tune out the racing of the mind
Sunflowers wilting, withering without water, while the artist transferred them to canvas
Locked them forever in layers of paint
Smearing them back to life with his bristled stick brush
Blurry bright colors bursting with energy
Creativity dripping from each drop of the painting
Raining with life
Flooding out of his mind
The creative floodgates did open
For the artist understands time is just what it is
Time
It’s quickly running out with each second wasted
But slowing to a craw with each second lived
Moving way before man started counting it
Moving, just moving
Is all it’s ever done
Whether we’re here or not
But the artist is a master at feeling the moment
Feeling all the intensity of the world that’s around him
A second lived was more than others live in a lifetime
Van Gogh the painter of the people
Lived one brushstroke at a time
Published at The Camel Saloon 10, 16, 2011
 |
| Painting by Vincent van Gogh |
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Poem : Teardrops Of The Soul
Teardrops of the soul fall in the most honest of ways
Plummet from your eyes with joy filled emotion
For, nothing that is true could ever be hidden
Hidden by a smile saying, all is what it must seem
Seem to the watching
The watching gaze that caged you for much too long
Locked you away from the happiness of having
For bars of stress are far worse than bars steel
But one day your lock was finally broken
Your tears cut through the strongest words from the chaining
Binding your spirit no more
For, teardrops of happiness drop with such beauty
Such strength
Falling diamonds from your eye screaming with whispers of joy
Whispers of freedom shouting from your insides laying softly on your out
Like a shawl of the shoulders holding you warmly
Shaking your world with the slightest of ease
At last you see freedom in the new eyes that behold you
Dripping from the eye, yet streaming from your heart
Dripping to the pool of consciousness
Smashing the pools surface with the softest of weeps
For weeps of happiness have the power to pierce the hardest surface
Creating waves in your mirrored refection
Distorting the face looking back up at you
The waves will finally fall into ripples
Settled are these waters of change
Gentle is the reflection from the pool right below you
As your face comes into focus and your teardrops stop falling
You see the new you looking up from the water
A new life for the having has finally come
Published at Dead Snakes 11-18-2011
Plummet from your eyes with joy filled emotion
For, nothing that is true could ever be hidden
Hidden by a smile saying, all is what it must seem
Seem to the watching
The watching gaze that caged you for much too long
Locked you away from the happiness of having
For bars of stress are far worse than bars steel
But one day your lock was finally broken
Your tears cut through the strongest words from the chaining
Binding your spirit no more
For, teardrops of happiness drop with such beauty
Such strength
Falling diamonds from your eye screaming with whispers of joy
Whispers of freedom shouting from your insides laying softly on your out
Like a shawl of the shoulders holding you warmly
Shaking your world with the slightest of ease
At last you see freedom in the new eyes that behold you
Dripping from the eye, yet streaming from your heart
Dripping to the pool of consciousness
Smashing the pools surface with the softest of weeps
For weeps of happiness have the power to pierce the hardest surface
Creating waves in your mirrored refection
Distorting the face looking back up at you
The waves will finally fall into ripples
Settled are these waters of change
Gentle is the reflection from the pool right below you
As your face comes into focus and your teardrops stop falling
You see the new you looking up from the water
A new life for the having has finally come
Published at Dead Snakes 11-18-2011
Poem : Love
Like a whirl wind a whirling
Love gently turns your world upside down
Shakes you a bit
Yourself is a shaking in the kindest of ways
Tossed about by the hormones a tossing
Love
In the darkness two heartbeats are beating
Pounding with speed from their embrace in the night
So lightly a drag from fingernails a dragging
Makes shivers shiver ever so softly
Gently right down my spine
Like a tattoo on the skin of stinging hot flesh
The endorphins rush is almost to much to bear
Love
Like a thousand love lines of a thousand love letters
As much passion drips from the last word of the last line
As the first word of the first line
For the power of love is as blind as the blinded
For it sees no boundaries
No marks scratched in sand
Love
It follows no rules made by the making
For the making seldom feel love at all
So if love sneaks up with tiptoes of quiet
Take it for all that it is
For it might not come back for a long, long time
So hold it tight
Never let it go
Published at The Rainbow Rose 9-13-2011
Love gently turns your world upside down
Shakes you a bit
Yourself is a shaking in the kindest of ways
Tossed about by the hormones a tossing
Love
In the darkness two heartbeats are beating
Pounding with speed from their embrace in the night
So lightly a drag from fingernails a dragging
Makes shivers shiver ever so softly
Gently right down my spine
Like a tattoo on the skin of stinging hot flesh
The endorphins rush is almost to much to bear
Love
Like a thousand love lines of a thousand love letters
As much passion drips from the last word of the last line
As the first word of the first line
For the power of love is as blind as the blinded
For it sees no boundaries
No marks scratched in sand
Love
It follows no rules made by the making
For the making seldom feel love at all
So if love sneaks up with tiptoes of quiet
Take it for all that it is
For it might not come back for a long, long time
So hold it tight
Never let it go
Published at The Rainbow Rose 9-13-2011
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