Tuesday, May 15, 2018



My heart weeps for you in the daytime,
As well as at night.
I thought I could get over it by talking to someone
But it hasn’t helped me yet.
My heart is yearning for the turning of the tides,
When things will go my way and I will be happy.
But sometimes the hunger gnaws at my stomach
And I have to go away and make little green paper.
The little green paper helps me buy food.
It is a treat to my stomach.
I wish it wasn’t so, but it is in the minds of the government
To make it so and I cannot stand up to the masses.
I’m sorry, my love, but my love for you is not so great
That I am willing to risk the goodness of food in my
My heart yearns for the yeast bread, the doughnuts,
The veggies and greens.  I am aching, my love,
To hold you in my heart and in my heart you will
Remain, because I am too scared to give up this
Thing called food.  I must go.


The Night

The calm is like the night.
My eyes are bitter as a storm.
This dream seems to be neverending.
Nothing is caught in the web.
I have not heard or seen it in a dream,
This web I have made myself.
I am caught in it, help!  I have made
Myself appear bitter in the eyes of others.
I do not see bliss as a mode of myself.
I do not see time as a way to heal things.
Once something is broken it is broken.
You cannot heal it now or then.
When you miss something you miss it forever.
Sometimes hearts and minds cannot be shaped
To be what you wish.
I hear the echo in the wind.  Sometimes it makes me
Think of you.
There’s a void in my heart that you left,
A long time ago when I had dreams,
But now I have none and I don’t care.
The lesson is not in the dreaming.
I don’t care what others perceive of me.
Sometimes you just have to let things go.
I have not awakened to the time of things.
Dreams are broken now, they are like yesterday.

Wednesday, May 09, 2018



The robin was throwing leaves
Out of the water
As if he were picking up trash
On the side of a highway
Some people like to pick up
Trash and I hail those kinds
Of people
As if they were the only
People living on this faithless
This planet that throws animals
And people away like they
Are nothing and
I can see why most people
Act like they are nothing
And will be nothing
Until the day they
Are buried in a cemetery
With its hard tombstones
And flowers strewn
About like radishes
Animals making nests
In bushes put in by
The caretaker
And family members leaving
Flowers by their graves
When I die I want someone
To pick up trash in my memory
As if I hadn’t done it at all
During my lifetime
Maybe I should start doing it now.
Just like the robin.

Saturday, May 05, 2018



He is thirsty in a way that other people
Are not thirsty and have no desire for thirst

Once he was on an island in the middle
Of a vast ocean that had no name

But someone had named it a long time ago
And someone else thought that was pretty special

Do you know what I think is pretty special?
Finding out something is better than you expected,

Like folding laundry.
He is thirsty.  His nerves are shattered.

He takes things and holds them in his arms
Maybe a puppy or some kind of pillow

That holds his head at night.
But I wouldn’t wonder at self-sacrifice.

That seems almost like a sacrifice.


As We Know It

Life as we know it is strangely misshapen into a pair
Of oxymorons that cannot be escaped or obtained.
Destruction has a mind of its own and creates craters
Where there are none.
Everything is simply solidified into broken parts,
Strewn onto the highways of doubt.
It’s something I don’t know the answer to.
I don’t know the answer to anything,
About the green grass growing or the time of day.
I don’t know who created the sundial or why it
Was created.
I don’t understand the simplicity of anything.
In the dreams of our kind, we strive to be better
Than yesterday, but some people are already there
And I envy them the way a crocodile envies an ice
Cream cone on a long hot day at work.
Strewn about the highway of self-doubt.
Strewn about the occurrences of yesterday.
I am beginning to think about the tides of things
And how light bends and waves.
Destruction is self-annihilation. 
Learn to better yourself in the process.

Saturday, April 28, 2018



Thursday, April 26, 2018


My Heart.

My heart is broken on the tides that bend
And fade like the Sixtieth Chapel.
I found the name on the back of a package
Of cigars late one evening after work,
After my boss yelled at me and told me I
Should quit.
I wanted to quit before I began.
I wanted to work till time could end. 
Things are situated at home.  I didn’t know
I could make it this far,
That I could last this long,
Working day and night without a hope
In the world.
My boss said I should quit.
I didn’t want to quit when I’ve come this far,
But I wanted to stay at home.
So I stay at home at night and work all day
Like a tired old man who never gets any sleep,
Who never gets to play,
Who never gets drunk.
Then I became a drunken sailor and
Everything changed.


Shadows of the Night

Shadows fade and bend like stones.
I am here and I am gone.
I am withered like a vine.
The day and night wind down.
Tomorrow is just a wicked curse.
I have wanted and withered in wear.

Everything is burdened by my harpoon.
Shadows move again against the tide.
Night and day are my friends.
The moon is a silver tray above me.
I am adhering to the special tails of blue.
A coon walks over my patio furniture,
Looking for its meal.
Tender is the night.

Tender is the night that’s mine.
I have faded to none so fast as yesterday.
I wasn’t quite so harsh as the sky.
You are gone.  The night is not.
Some things are better left unsaid.
Some books are better left on the shelf.
I am gone and I am not.

The night is bitter as it is real.

A Poem For a Contest (but it was rejected).

Writing a verse is such a curse,
I don’t think that anything could be worse,
I try to rhyme and take my time,
But all it ends up is slime. 

Don’t tell me to try and try again,
When rhyming has not been my friend,
I especially forget to spell two, too, or to,
This is making me feel blue.

So reading my work is up to you,
I don’t know how I’m going to get through,
This day or the next or the next again,
When trying to rhyme seems never to end.

Wednesday, April 18, 2018



The ocean is a sea of blue
Stars that sits and waits
For someone to swim
In it
Then when they do
The water rolls
And thunders
And the sky seems
To melt into it
Like molten lava
The ocean is whatever
You want it to be
But only when the
Waves recede. 

Monday, April 16, 2018

A link and a contest........