Monday, March 14, 2016

The Next Morning Not a Cloud In Sight

My love you walk like wind sighs...
slippers, slide slowly;
flashing my eyes, heartbeat chase.

Wood floors weep lamentations,
light from down the hall
casts you divine and longing.

Thinking lightly on a lark
outside the window;
it sings for us, then the Sun.

Wednesday, March 9, 2016

Walking Into Mordor With GPS

Poetry to ward off Great Evil,
warming the inner darkness
staunching time's hemorraghe
intricate love and pain...

That's all part of the process.

Searching the insertion of HTML
walking into Mordor with GPS
boldly illuminating my own face,
the black tower of Barad-Dur
glowers down at my shadow
and my trusty invisible friend.

Standing tall, striking runes
on keys in quiet hope that it's all
honest work for Erù Ilùvatar,
kicking out streams of rhythm
coded shots of elder verse,
Tùna upon Tirion ~
before Golem bites off
my extended middle finger.

Tuesday, March 8, 2016

The Past Is The Past Is The

A time almost forgotten:
pinup ladies with hair
long in meticulous

Sailors discharged
from Hawaii or NY
drinking Jack in
the streets.

Suited men minding
all businesses safely
until the boys came
home to stay.

FDR was on the radio.

Truman danced at Yalta.

with a plan.

I look back and am thankful that we've survived this long
eating apple pie from mom, thinking about the bomb
hydrogen accelerated to terminal velocity
releasing neutrons, neutrinos, tachyons
nightmares, threats, mass-murder,
negative image shadows
burned onto the

Burned into our minds
every night as the newcasters
prognosticate imminent attacks
from those other people across the sea
who are more afraid of the cowboys with bombs
and guns and apple pies and mothers and butter sallaries
and bombs and cars and television and Hollywood and Elvis

and bombs

across the sea.

We almost forgot.

But we're the only ones,
this time.

Sunday, February 28, 2016

Poetry Rides Again

Expression's freedom
to roam on the backs
of silver shadowed

one, and again,
and another...

Until we reach a 
much-storied crossing 
on the margins of this
deserted wilderness,
veiled in fog of war 
and doubt;
cursed to wander 

since ancient times; 
yet willing.

Monday, February 15, 2016

New and Used Poem

Bad poems are to be
found by the dozens;
nickles and pennies
and pocket lint
and sucker sticks.

Old phone numbers
adorn your wallet
for strippers long
since moved on to
other states and
other shacks
outside LaGrange.

Bad poems talk to
you like old drunks
with barking ashtray
four days out of
a shave and shower.

You, Mr. Poet,
used to be good at
used to be a meat
used to be
glorified face-sitting


And now you write
Bad Poems
like the Kardashians
make bad TV
look passable.

Here's another for
the pile.

It's nothing
it's poetry
it's not a living
but you make sense
without cents.

Keep trying
because there is
no more due
to pay.

Sunday, February 14, 2016

Winners and Losers Welcome

Sipping a tall glass of cold cranberry and poison,
watching a game of pool play out between a boy
and a girl on a date and neither wants to win,
hearing the noise of the latest election that will
change nothing except the names of those who
preside over events in our time, war and peace,
starvation and providence, the energy crisis and
the oil deluge, the warming globe and rising sea,
the soldiers of gods and lost messages of peace,
the blue eyes and the green eyes and the brown,
the tired workers and the well-rested idle rich.

And I'm glad it's not in my hands
a vote is a vote is a vote for something -
then we wake up to work again
with a new name and face,
crown and same agenda
and everything else
under yellow sun
is the same,
is the same,

Sipping a tall glass of cold cranberry poison,
watching a game that no one wants to win.


Wednesday, February 10, 2016

Skyscraping (Dreams in Flight III)

It is cold up here, in the heights
increasing as I rise and move out
over the countryside, away from
the city.  Farmland quilting the
country, forests padding the ground,
flying, flying, flying ever west
toward Osiris and Anubis and Thoth
flying toward the sun, to catch it
and keep it in pocket before it dies...

I awake, but the feeling of flight
leaves me only when the light fades
to dusk again.  I try to summon this
dream again, but another one comes
instead; kisses, caressing flesh, eyes
and pale skin and warmth...

But to fly is denied tonight. Grounded,
they say.

I'll make due with pleasure of flesh

I'll make due with earthly dreams
but I'll awake wishing only to
see the buildings of man recede
until they are dust on dust on dirt
and bedrock and dreams, far bellow.

The works of men are a pedastel
for me to leap from, and to dream.


Monday, February 8, 2016

The Stalker

Her love was never there;
it was always a noose.

Her feelings weren't real;
clothing for dark motive.

Her self-hate never died;
she shared it with strangers.

Her laughter was not great;
it hid her base essence.

Her eyes could not see you;
they saw only her gain.

Her hand never touched yours;
it clutched selfish for love.

Her poison couldn't kill;
it paralyzed your soul.


Sunday, February 7, 2016

Luna, I Call To You

Stars exist beyond our reach
yet they touch us all the same
without strain or sweat.

Their conundrum remains such:
silent, visible but so remote.

Your heart knows of this secret,
my heart feels it out, too -
both ache and convulse with it.

Dogs bay at the moon all night;
it only feeds a chorused lament.

Thursday, February 4, 2016

You Are Not Mine And I'm Not Mad

You are too free to be owned,
you keep telling me,
pushing as though unsure
you actually own it.

You are not mine
and I won't ever find
another smile just alike,
no matter how far I drive tonight
in the cold and the tears and snow
or how many eyes stare
deep into my soul
because that facet you saw
was just for you.

You are not mine and I'm not mad
and you are too free to be owned.

You are not mine and I'm not mad
and no one is forever alone.