To be forsaken,
to be alone,
to be alive,
yea . . . that’s the rub!
17 Sep 2011 Leave a comment
To be forsaken,
03 Sep 2011 Leave a comment
The dawn was cold.
The sun looked old.
The breeze was brisk,
putting tender shoots at risk.
Puffs of clouds fleeted by;
as if on a mission across the sky.
Crystalized dew sequined the ground,
as like fragments of stars—
And as the sun rose on high
it bid those earthbound stars
to say good bye:
to become gleaming pearls,
melding with air or ground—
to quietly depart without a sound.
02 Sep 2011 Leave a comment
but only transmitted—
off the waves into your eyes—
so to be seen by you.
Perceived and received at a moment in sight—
each with a life of its own for your delight.
How fortunate you are, by night or day,
to see those flickers and flashes
kindled spontaneously by moon or sun
as if on a frolicking strafing run.
But then; are the moon and sun doing this all in fun?
Or instead; as a heaven sent revelation
intended to put you on the lookout for flickers and flashes
throughout your day—meant just for you—
to help to inspire you along your way?
27 Aug 2011 Leave a comment
I am a coward.
My destiny doomed.
My soul pledged to the devil.
My body racked and gone to Hell.
Unable to cope.
To run away, then to return.
So to continue enslaved as before.
Fantasy upon fantasy.
Piled higher and higher.
Star bursts and brightness,
dungeons and darkness.
21 Aug 2011 1 Comment
Looking up is nice to do,
but falling in a manhole
might happen too.
So keep in mind the under footing
for it is the place where you are,
and not off on some star.
If you will, where you want to be,
take each step, one at a time,
as though composing a rhyme.
Looking within yourself is a must,
for to get to where you want to be
is likely to be a matter of trust.
19 Aug 2011 Leave a comment
It is raining here—but not over there.
It is raining on me—but not on them.
Here and me seem to be getting the worst;
while there and them get none of the burst.
It is the same with the sun—
or so it seems:
when it is shady here, but sunny there.
And bugs that bite seem to plague me sore.
What? Oh, what?
Oh what is next in store—
for poor me?
18 Aug 2011 1 Comment
When you become old and blue
feeling there is nothing left to do,
then you must fantasize with the very young,
for they alone are the pure hearted.
You will then become friends tried and true
and the friendship will invigorate you,
and leave them with memories out of the blue
when they become as old as you.
17 Aug 2011 2 Comments
I once had a friend inside my head.
We played and talked and pretended.
Illusions and fancies were our way.
Proceeding through life day by day.
But now, when grown up and grey,
my friend no longer is carefree and gay,
much too busy holding death at bay.
09 Aug 2011 Leave a comment
Once majestically it stood
reaching toward the heavens.
But along came man to end its time . . .
felling it for firewood.
And, as it had crashed in an anguished roar
with branches slashing as whips on the earth,
any compassion felt for it was too late
to resurrect that oak from its deadly fate.
No longer would it be a roost for birds,
nor the harvest of squirrels,
nor instrument for the wind to strum,
nor the glory of seasons yet to come.
Instead; left, was just a stump—
leaving to imagination what had been before.
And then, as nature repossess her own,
that stump too, will become no more.
04 Aug 2011 Leave a comment
There are seven rooms in my house.
Two are for wives who have gone away:
the first of which died during child birth—
so I gave the child away;
the second one I divorced,
and she married some hombre.
The keys to both of their rooms
I have since thrown away.
The third room is for my current wife,
whom I met in another life
when we were both adrift that day.
Now I rarely see her—
since we like it that way.
The fourth room is for my mother,
now old and grey.
She runs a junkyard business
with father’s ashes on display.
Then there are the fifth and sixth rooms:
each for my two sisters;
who, until their dying day,
will pick and peck, at all I do and say.
And finally there is the seventh room:
stark and bare, with door slightly agar,
with only a ceiling light bulb on display,
gyrated about by a frenzied moth,
never more than an inch away.
As for me, I stay in the shed so as not to be misled
by the going ons in those rooms in my house,
but often wonder if that seventh room is a facade,
and the moth in gyration is God—
impatiently waiting for me.