We all have a gift
Called life
That we seldom use,
We let our insecurities,
Our self-doubt, stop us
From living it to its fullest.
While we are all sadly
Somewhat scared of change, it is
Good for the mind and soul.
So much you cannot set right
yesterday a dark space
you were weeping in the rain
but no one noticed
how the little things can destroy you
make you uneven
steadier hands
holding the sail
towards land
turned to water
dark bruise
who named you
gave me to you
as if I were a traded property
this nervous laugh
learned it early
if you seem like a happy child
no one will see the flame under your bed
home a story
of hospital gowns
and empty talking talking talking
blue in the face of strangers
who shout to be convinced of their bodies’
weight against the window pane
star blanket upstream
prayer flags riding pollution
through fall
and the only courage you can muster
is a rooftop poem
scratched in the side wall
we were here
we were real
we did the best we could.
He worked in a sweat shop
way back when
a wordless widowed man
with a quiet hypnotic expression
coming home on a bus one day
fell to the floor
and passed away,
my beloved uncle
I missed his mystical silence
I knew he could
see inside me
They prepared to sell his house
sifting through junk
about to discover a surprise
in his dust,
a wooden chest
hammered brass trim
with magic writing paper
and a thousand poems
His silence bled out
the tip of a pen
drawing out the words
inside him
questions and answers
awakened by his light
curiosity opened a chest
of expressive treasure
I picture him unraveling
the mystery of self discovery
delighting in his invention
did anyone know the poem
in his heart
or did they only see
an assumption
His secret poems
were not folding money
ink on paper
thrown away
dying with him
on the bus that day
thought experiment
uncertainty principle
the cat said meow
many possibilities
happening at the same time
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Tossed ashore like driftwood on a beach
Unable to steer a course, your humanity they beseech
Stripped bare, they crawl forth naked, newly born
Will you draw them to your breast, or will leave them forlorn?
The old familiar fears creep in as you clutch your pockets
And turn away from imploring faces and sunken sockets
This is a time for casting judgments aside
For moving forward with arms open wide
But instead the gates are locked and the entrance barred
While the castaways desperation grows, their psyches scarred
No short memory deprivation, your conscience laid clear,
Never will it be forgotten, the events that transpired here
I went out for a stroll one sunny afternoon and
I happened to hear a sound. As my mind wondered
What it could be, I came across a little pub
As narrow as a crowded street with people shuffling
Here and there while having a pint or three.
The barman shouted, what will it be,
I noticed a friendly smile in his eyes, as if I hadn’t seen him in years, as I stood enjoying a beer with my lady by my side.
As the music rang out, that little narrow pub became a big wide world where everyone wanted to be, full of people all trying to get a pint and see some smiling eyes.
As the singer sang with all his might, the requests came in as fast as the pints where pulled; with a failing voice he persevered and kept us entertained, singing songs we knew. As the night wore out it came to the last song; as it was sung, the little crowded narrow pub slowly became quiet as people loudly shuffled out the door shaking hands, saying, you’re a great singer, and, thanks for those smiling eyes, which had become tired eyes. We’ll see ya next week, as they ramble down the road ever thankful for a night they’ll never forget until the next.
There is a half stutter
mutter
when bees drone
you are alone
only the dogs whine,
you think they are mine
and the cats are as ever sullen, ambling across
and you see the rainfall
as windows glisten
here in a country
where no one can listen…
She wraps herself all in one rough piece
Away from the universe filled with cruel voices
Beautiful demons and charming dark angels
Smiling their deadly fangs
Her heart is plagued
With endless slaps and stabs
Scorched by the sun
Soaked in the rain
But she is safe in her tattered refuge
The gutter is safer than the estates
The dumpster cooks better meals
Her tattered rags fit better than shimmering apparel
Once beaten, twice shy
She is safe in others’ danger
She has nothing to worry about
Let her worries worry over her
She is not schizophrenic
Because she can still remember
That she is one of those widows
Abused, beaten and deprived of her life.
Life is like a game
Of cards, sometimes
You just have to play the
Hand you’re dealt,
But no one said anything
About breaking the rules.
The quintessence,
of that starry midnight,
lasted longer then the very last second,
therein incarnation of our embodiment.
The epitome of love’s madness,
from life to death, we have craved
the cycle’s tender intermission.
While we spiral out
unto the dark matter,
we find our only struggle is fear,
carrying burdens around,
as if they exist.
We mustn’t let dread prevail.