If it is written, so be it,
but who'll admit
to writing what was writ
when the fan is hit?
And, if, having inscribed,
the finger does proceed,
whose digit was it
when the words were decreed?
Yet, carved in stone,
or etched on glass,
who'll confess to pouring such concrete
when it comes to pass?
staring into the abyss, i heard some voices gentle
so i wandered into the forest, to follow those voices
followed the stairs that led
deeper
and
deeper
but my investigation brought me to a halt
the voices turned into screams and screams into howls
and suddenly the dark clouds obscured my eyes
saw a mammoth wall painted in murals
in red, with memories and faces of people
a sudden pour of rain brought them to life
and they began to chase me to tear me
piece
by
piece
in the disbelief i closed my eyes
to make sense of what i had just seen
the light was ahead but far from the reach
suddenly all echoes disappeared in the haze
stuck in a maze,
a cycle of repetitive events
wish it was just a flicker
but this feeling is chained around my neck
I have so many secrets locked up,
behind yet a phantom wall,
never listened as I crawled
over to the vines hanging tall,
and an artist forever draws
the singular and not a changing
as I toss and itch & sigh
notes illustrating withdrawals
The sketching of a doomed artist
sitting up & was once creative,
cracked eggs spills the flaws
sickness hesitating dying claws
to fill the rumble of hunger pangs
becoming like a chorus sang....
Deathly needs an over-haul.
Drenched in tears, I wrench in response to the pain I sense.
Caused by wrong desirers, walls, guards, and the electric fence.
Put here to stop free choice by man,
To keep him from becoming all that he can.
To hold imprisoned, crushing hopes and dreams.
To in flick hurt and pain, I can hear the screams.
Today, though they’ve been torn to their foundation,
They, once again, become a free people nation.
They now have hopes and dreams, both the young and old.
Thanks to many that died and many that were bold.
The challenges will be hard, but their hearts are filled,
With a burning desire, their lives to rebuild.
A declaration of love etches
itself deep into a bed of soft sandstone.
The kind that's hastily scratched on
with nothing more than a stone
found on the nearby ground.
The letters are shaky, imperfect
but the heart that binds them is true.
Some initials are old, some much younger
yet all possess the flair of emotion that their carvers had.
Inevitably, they will be washed away
by wind or by water, nothing lasts,
not even the wall which they are etched onto
but in the moment, there was love.
Am I to grab this nasty neighbour
by the scruff of his scruffy neck,
shove his head against
that lovely hard wall between our apartments,
and hear a delightful crack?
He is not as gracious as
my friend the bishop.
And so I laugh so much
when I think about it,
loving the nasty neighbour as much as I do not.
Is it not more fitting to think
of my friend the bishop?
So should these lurking shadows,
whispers that seem venomous,
become light that is a pure beacon,
instead of crushing hope?
Hmm, this is something that
I try not to talk about
as I sit and sip tea
with forbearance and patience.
I face with feeling that calm card sent to me
by my friend the bishop.
(24 Jul 2025)
Mysterious
My entire being tells me
You are my one and only
Soul mate, though your
True self is hidden from me.
Every time I’m with you, I want to
Reach
Into your soul and become
One with you but I
Usually encounter a wall that
Stops me from knowing you more
Writer’s write
Speaker’s speak
(and never)
— the twain shall meet
(Ketchum Idaho: August, 1983)
I don't have questions
Nor the answers to them
I don't ask
Because I don't know
I don't have love
Nor the definition to it
I don't ask it
Because I know fear
And it gets in the way
Brick Wall
Have you ever talked to a brick wall?
Someone’s always headed for the fall.
They never listen to advice.
They argue with the old all the time.
They're always in denial standing in quicksand.
Never open minded but sad.
Always going in circles.
Arrogant and not humble.
The young vs the old.
There is so much they don’t even know.
I’m exhausted today and tomorrow.
Just get your head out of your ass because I said so.
Life is too short to face a hard road.
You can’t go back after the deed is done.
Sink into disbelief.
Kids can call the cops on their own parents you see.
They never pay attention.
Countless times they don’t even listen.
All the words I've said were a waste of time.
Honesty is brutal, so don’t cry.
Focus on what is right.
Don’t be misled by a stranger in the night.
Stand up and trust no one.
Being a grown up is not all that fun.
You don’t have to apologize.
One day you’ll come back and say the old man was right.
Blissful I am
Blissful am I!
Lord, you lift me up when I fall
Blissful am I!
Lord, you who resides in the sky
I know you`ll ever see me tall
But never stuck against the wall
Blissful am I!
I draw the heart alone
on a wall,
I draw the heart on the night.
Wanted to draw my heart
on a heart,
but it always kept itself
out of sight,
never appeared
like the endless common tales
under the sun,
rain or the moonlight.
(23.04.2025)
Portraits on the wall,
some grand, some small,
staring at the people,
sat around the table,
portraits on the wall,
ego show for all
in silence they stare,
look back if you care,
at disjointed thoughts,
from bygone hearts,
faces deadpan bare,
each behind every chair.
the walls sweep around,
from top floor to ground,
chandeliers and fireplace,
speaker phones, flower vase,
those portraits in the hall,
don't say much at all!
every few years a new one,
of the president just done,
adding to stares one more,
extending history and lore,
the friendly, the grim,
mix with bright, wise, and dim.
faded memories from past,
wonder how long they last,
Portraits grow each year,
their number cause for fear,
will stay or will they fall?
one day bring down the wall?
Written about a 100 year old establishment
that puts a painted portrait of the last president
on their walls.
I drive past the building that used to be Kmart
The side wall I once met with my car making a dart
I was 17 and at the lowest part of my life
On medication that sadly furthered my strife
I survived that wall over 20 years ago
Never again letting myself ever go that low
That wall is a terrifying reminder of mortality
And a source of gratitude with highest gravity
Just like one day my life will pass
So too will that wall turn to grass
Until we meet again mister wall
I stand tall loving the long haul
Between us, there's a wall.
On my side, there's an empty hall,
Where I scream and cry.
Then I die, and die, and die.
I'm pleading on my knees,
Fighting the frosty breeze,
Begging for your aid,
Like a poor maid.
The wall seems so reasonably thin,
But you can't hear: "Let me in, let me in."
You just simply don't care,
Which is so awfully unfair.
Related Poems