Wednesday, July 26, 2017

The World.

All this time I was wondering,
what promises will fade
on the forgotten shores of time.
In the early dawn, light twinkles close to shore.
My heartache is steady.  I am moving towards the west.
Where do I begin to explain the simplicity of this promise?
I am bequiled, like a forgotten land.  However few,
these words are broken.  Why is there a knot in the back of my
head?  Some people don't seem to understand the time it takes
to reflect on my burdens.  I have to survive in the wild,
alone, desolate, broken, in the mood of being nothing more
than a being surviving without anyone, anything.  Words are
nothing more than a broken promise, etched in time.  The pigeon
flies on sole wings, in the midst of despair, I am here, reaching
far out into oblivion, reaching far out in the midst of things.
Don't tell me you are jealous.  I am beyond reason.  Your reason
should be your god, not your menace.  I feel like a ghost is following
me, from room to room, down the road, etched in dew.
The dew falls on the grass, and the rain pitter-patters on the roof,
and I am long-forgotten, wondering about the world.

Tuesday, July 11, 2017

A Forgotten Land, A Forgotten Place.

This is a forgotten land, a forgotten place.
That has befallen us to temptation.
Everything we see is bitter-the car in the driveway,
the hungry maid.  She sees what she sees.
Sometimes, we do not know where our loyalty lies,
in everything or nothing, and sometimes things are never
okay.  The loneliness is in a shred of doubt.
The master is in the deceit.  Everything is farther than it was.
Sometimes, we see things that are at death's door.
I wish I could be a butterfly.  I wish I could be a tugboat.
Everything I wish, and nothing seems fewer.  The lies are
in our deceit.  Everything is beguiled.  Take us not to temptation,
or fate us with what is fewer than the forgotten eye.
There are prophets.  There is death.  There is the life in after death,
and the next afternoon.  The car gets stuck in the driveway.
I see my life going before my eyes.  I feel a twinge of guilt.
Everything is less than certain.  Everything is death,
or the certainty of death.  These emotions lack certainty.
They are a part of the path of destruction.  How you help,
and why it helps, I cannot say.  What is there to say, anyway?
I feel like a dumb horse looking into a dumb horse's mouth.
Nothing is the same as it was yesterday.  Everything is new.
The grief is new.  I am a new man who sees the future,
and in it, the grass is brown.

Sunday, July 02, 2017

Nothing Further.

All alone, this path is mine, I became interested
in the monarch butterfly.  Fluttering in its wake,
it cries, and mourns the fallen star.  Everything we see-

what's left is right, what's right is left.  The light is
dimmer than the ear.  I fear, we fear, the heart is near-
and the shark swims, and swims together.

The star shines brightly.  Everything is bright.
The man in the room, the heart that is full of doom.
Tomorrow is blessed by the man.

I am tired.  I want to sleep, but the fireflies keep
me going.  Awake, and up, and awake, am I,
and I am despairing.  My last kin has died.

You think you know the temptation is dim,
and our eyes are vast as we can swim,
but nothing has gotten farther from the truth.

We are gone, and I am gone.  Gone.  Just gone.

Saturday, July 01, 2017


I am a poet who lives alone.
My mother comes to visit me, sometimes.
I go out during the week, to do the grocery shopping,
and come home, alone, again.  I am perpetually alone.
Alone, I feel, with the bitterness, and the tides that spew
forth tornadoes of hate-hatred that is the flesh, hatred

that is the mother.  Sometimes, a mother hen will lay eggs;
sometimes, a flock of ducks will fly across a highway.
The train comes by, chugging slowly.  Everything is slow
this day.  I am alone.  You say you are with me, but where
are you?

Your spirit does not dwell in my house.  I have been as
forgotten as these yesterdays.  The cellar door swings open,
revealing dust and bats.  I know you do not think I notice,
but I know you are gone.  You are not dead.  Just, gone.

It is my birthday, and I am alone-alone with my thoughts,
alone in everything, alone by myself on this day.
Perhaps someone will understand.

Saturday, June 17, 2017


When in doubt, my heart will bleed,
in times without, I will succeed.
All my sorrow, perhaps has proclaimed,
the stars will listen, as I cry in vain.
The night is listening, to my soiled tears-
and as I cry, I release my (perpetual) fears.
To dream, I will, and dream of rain,
my fears are burdened by my constant pain.
The piano plays constantly in the living room,
I cannot live without, for fear of doom.
To dream, I do, and dream of I,
my soiled tears are withered cries.
The crow caws constantly, outside my window,
and I see the rain in sheets in the street below.
How vain, it is, to think that I,

am hurt all not, and cannot cry.

Tuesday, June 13, 2017

A Time Of Snakes.

Time flies over everything.  The sun is the moon and the stars.
I force myself to awaken to the song of everything.  I have been
moved by things that come before me.  There is a snake,
crying in the grass.  Her babies have been smothered by

the land.  She is crying for revenge, and the Indian hears her cry.
She slithers across the land, trying to find hope in the wilderness.
The tall grass, the bumpy mounds, the fat old groundhog
chittering away before wintertime comes.

The sun rises over the sky like a big goldfish bowl.
Temptation begins where hope ends.  The Indians travel by foot,
even though they have cars-Rolls Royce, Volkswagen, Honda.
Those are the cars of future's past.  In the end, time changes,

everything changes.  Nothing remains the same.

Monday, May 22, 2017

Moving Back to the Sawdust.

Moving Back To the Sawdust

The sawdust was left on the dusty floor.
She couldn’t see the side of his face-
It was scarred, just as it used to be.
The room was dusty.  Her mother wanted
To clean it-she was desperate, then.  She still was.
Everything cost too much money-they never seemed
To have any.

They lived on a ranch in the middle of nowhere.
Their father was dead.  A horse had fallen on him.
She was a waitress at a diner in town.  Her boy
Was a college student trying desperately to get out
Of small town life, his major was biology.

He didn’t like to dissect the animals-he was a vegan
By nature, since he was six.  His favorite was cottage

Once, he met a girl and fell in love-and they decided
To move out of small town life.  They left the mother,
They left the ranch, they left the sawdust that seemed
To be eternal.  

Everything seemed to be eternal but their love,

And one day they had a baby and had to move back.

A Love That's Ours.

 The night is gone, and I am cold,
This tender love is blank and old.
I am burdened by these lovely flowers,
And waste away these tender hours.

Words are burdened by the man,
As tender lovely voices stand,
Everything is full of rain,
But my love, is just too vain.

Take my heart, but do not part,
These lovely words are full of heart-
My eyes are bright and full of sight,
Let’s go out and dance tonight.

Dance among the swirling stars,
Dance among the world that’s ours.
Dream of times that sleep with thee,
As we hold each other tenderly.