How many pages
Did you flip through
Of mine?
That I was written
With the embodiment
Of everything you deify?
Trying to picture me
Gliding
Through your mind
A kaleidoscope
Of innocence
In a dress
Where I share poems
Written about you
At 2am
And I am
Weaved together in your arms
Like the blanket your mom made me
Kissing my cheek
Until
I laugh
And our last kiss
For the night
Leaves the taste of you behind
Months old
Cherry chapstick
That lives in your favorite pair of jeans
My written word
Depicted me
perfectly
The soft
Smile on your face
Said it all
But the contradiction
From
Your tongue
The sweet
Sensitive love letters
You gave me
Was harder
For me
To swallow
Than the adrenaline
You could not control
When you felt my touch
I am inured
Whole heartedly
To the men
Patching up
Voids in their lives
With being lascivious
Their books
Always
Know how to catch your eye
Yet
They are always
Missing the last few pages
But I keep
Rereading them
As if the ending will change
An empty closet and cliffhanger
A gift to little George,
A member of Windsor Castle.
Mood, over mindfulness ,
They are riverine songs
Moody, churned up
Uncertain and floral
Rejoicing whence
The turbid and morbid
Glum and glee
And a morn and
A corn
These all are
Cosmos and a cosmic
Emotions are changing textures
Where these all are
Changing surface
On an eggplant
The purple surface
Soothes
Where the goosebump
Of the green begins
A goosebump and a texture
An empty closet are lonely wool, woolen warmth
Yesterday and a bobbling
Runs along, unsung
Over boards the present,
Tense and I
All infuses and surges
To surmise
Greetings again
Hungover a softer sky
And a luminous, chandelier
Even though an uneven sky.
to bolt for the door, the simplicity, to jolt at the knob, with such energy, a radiant Paris sunset like one never quite seen before, the mystery, but he's more than metaphor, and if he is, then why is she on the next flight out of London?
In the midst of conclusion,
this breathtaking, last sight.
Fitting the peace of final sigh,
the picture perfect landscape
spread out beneath a sky clear as Heaven’s light.
The vastness of nature’s reach and the danger of death
combined in dance creates an epic last note
in which one edge of balance will topple onto the other.
In a flash, my past performs a scene
to the rhythm of panic
as I’m held on edge by the arms of a murderous heart,
refusing to let me fall to forgotten love,
telling me to hold on…
Beyond the threshold of the rugged horizon
Heaven's gates beckon.
Should I let go?
To die inside myself or to live in slavery?
I look up to the now brilliant, crystalline sunset.
Time is running out for choice
as bloodied hands lose their foothold.
I look back to see the shadows multiplying,
encompassing the hope of life.
As night chokes the permeating beams,
I shut my eyes
and give up the fight that was never mine…
This place is my serenity.
This place is my sanctuary.
I dare you to take it away,
before I leave it myself.
It's not so far down,
It's not so bad they are only stones-
beneath the kidnapping waves-
before you hit the sharp granite-
which barely touches the waters surface.
It's not so bad you know,
relying on fate,
testing your faith,
because before you lose it all,
before you're merely a memory-
and loved ones cry before your tombstone-
you have ultimate freedom,
testifying the laws of gravity,
living in the breeze,
living the dream you can never complete.
Before you lose it all
In Dire Straits we now find Rosie,
Sitting with Hammond in her kitchen, cozy.
If only she'd taken her pain medicine
Gone with friends to the UFO convention,
Then she wouldn't be doing the wine and dine,
Scared of this vacuum salesmans intention.
He says he wears spandex boxer shorts
His cologne smells like nuclear waste of some sort,
And his complexion looks like lunar craters,
While his smile reminds her of an alligator's.
The conversation keeps drifting, from wormholes to insomnia,
With tidbits of insanity to help her diagnose schizophrenia.
Hitchcock would really have enjoyed this gig.
Will Rosie survive? Is Hammond "The Ripper"? Tune in tomorrow,
For the next exciting episode "The Issue of the Listerine Soaked Tissue".
I am a poet
And I dont even know it
Or do I.....
Teetering on the edge
staring into the darkness below
the swirling emptiness
reminds me of my soul
a bottomless pit
filled with hopes and dreams
never to be reached
and yet I dangle
day after day
I should have lept by now
to discover new depths
or to end old disappointments
but like the punch drunk boxer
whose pride refuses to quit
and never intelligent enough
to realize it is time
I shall battle on
yet it would be so easy
to throw in the towel
submit to uselessness
to martyr myself
but it is not my pain
nor my suffering
that approaches the edge
it is yours
and my desire to take it
into the depths of my very soul........
I wish that I could sacrifice myself
for the pain of the world, especially the children,
but then I realized I am amongst the multitude.
Oceanward sail the yachts and liners,
a match stick flotilla in a green whirlpool bath
seen from the dizzying height of the cliff top.
Beside the lighthouse, ghostly echoes
of crashing waves and wheeling gulls
reverberate upwards from sand and rock.
Scents of seaweed, bottle green surf,
bracing, intoxicating, sailing on the stropped edge
of a rainy needlepoint breeze.
All the while black storm heads gather
far and away on the distant horizon,
whilst here stands I, sensory overload
sparking in the fissures and cracks of my brain.
The drop to the glassy black rocks beneath
where white booming breakers smash and erode,
little by little the coastline is eaten
an inch or so each passing year.
Fixed gazing at the raging cauldron
as if answers to the unanswerable will rise to greet me,
I lean and sway in magnetic salt winds
held there in suspense...
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