I am not sure why some poems
manage to find air and live
whilst others barely catch a breath
and wither a few short words
from the pen.
Others almost force
their way out as if there was
an inner pressure built up
in the plumbing of the mind
to say something, to speak
a thought into existence.
There are those poems
that are almost involuntary,
a reaction to an irritant lodged
somewhere deep in the psyche,
a hurt, wound or wrong held
for a lifetime before being
coughed up.
Some poems act like nets
and try to gather in
the strands of dreams
and knit them into form.
These are the poems of whispers,
soft shadows and mists
that clothe the intangible.
There are poems born out
of love, the sublime that resides
in the human heart, speak
of joy and suffering, emotions,
what it is to feel in the vocabulary
of being alive.
Then there are poems
that become wayside temples,
hollows cut into the masonry
of the mind where the soul
stops for a moment and takes in
the universe reciting its own
infinite poem and authorship
is beyond name, measure
and circumference.
Red lips are not ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ kissed by the ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ dead.
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ their love pure.
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ eyes ¦¦¦¦ lure
When I behold eyes blinded in ¦¦¦ stead!
Your ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ exquisite ¦¦¦¦ limbs knife-skewed,
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ rolling there
Where God seems ¦¦¦ to care;
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ Love they bear
¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ in death's extreme decrepitude.
Your voice sings ¦¦¦ so soft, --
Though ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ murmuring through raftered loft, --
Your ¦¦¦¦ voice is ¦¦¦ dear,
Gentle, and ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ clear,
As theirs whom none ¦¦¦ hear
¦¦¦ earth ¦¦¦ stopped ¦¦¦¦¦ piteous mouths that coughed.
Heart, ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
Nor large, nor full ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ made great with shot;
¦¦¦ though your hand be pale,
Paler are all which trail
Your cross through flame and hail:
¦¦¦¦¦ you may weep, ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ touch them not.
(Blackout of Greater Love by Wilfred Owen)
All the lives I built and then tore down
I always thought you’d be around
to see me win, to lose, to fail
but then came storms of the harshest hail
that segregated your touch from mine
and now I pace, just wasting time
thinking of the hands I knew
thinking of how I’d feel brand new
every time I had reached you
Have you forgotten the promise you made?
Or do you think of me as your prettiest mistake?
You placed your bets, under influence of lust
then woke up one day, coughed from the dust
Have you had time to reassess?
Is this really for the best?
If you exist, but only in my chest
So, send me a letter
a few words is fine
spell out for me why you can’t be mine
don’t keep me guessing
don’t have me fretting
you’re not yet a memory
not worth forgetting
Horrible condition
Often lead to a visit
Somewhere we all have been
Perhaps when you jumped
Into a shallow pool from a hight
That was much to high or maybe
After a cold when you coughed your
Lungs up without stop
Regardless of the reason
Out of all that live we all have been sent
Off to the hospital where the staff present
Mastery of health to hopefully
Save your life
I'm Not When
I'm Skin Bare
Because I
Have No Feathers.
No Flight No
Ruffled Glistening;
***Light Loves Love!***
But Now:
All Molted, All Shear...
Pride's Vanity All
Coughed Up.
***Ahhh... That's Better.***
Not Defenseless:
Thread-bare.
Un-Offensive
And...
Un-Offendable.
Abnormal And New...
*******
Feathers Sprouting!
(Phantom Wish.)
-Gray Squirrel
04-18-2026
This was where the yellow coneflower bloomed,
The vast, dry lands of the dusty, empty dunes.
This was where the wielders burned,
Beneath the brass mesh ball they spurned.
The torches coughed up blazing flames,
Boiling up the cooling waves.
No more fish left in the sea.
Those sharks now grains of satin weave.
Blackened bits of gritty bean
exploded on cell phone screen.
WTH? Brain's demise, cries!
Not to mention barbarize!
Pods become inconvenient,
imprecise and lenient.
Appliance not so new –
coughed, then gagged, and hella spew!
Murky, grungy, mucky cup
not a welcome wake-me-up!
Coffee shop not far away
provides a much brighter day!
's not what you'd think,
altho' no saint nor sinner,
for, quick as a wink,
what occurred to her during dinner,
turned from a tiny tickle in the throat,
when his Daughter coughed and wheezed,
into a dribbling trickle from her nose,
then, 'Atishoo!', smilingly she teased,
“I really couldn't help myself,”
yet, seemingly feeling somewhat pleased,
but, with a helpful handy tissue,
the discomfort it was eased,
as, politely and penitently, she observed,
“Bless me, Father, for I have sneezed.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A squirrel named Pip, a nutty soul,
Had dreams beyond his acorn bowl.
He yearned to leap through time and space,
To visit other eras, to find his place.
He read a book (a discarded tome),
Of wormholes leading back to Rome!
He gathered nuts, a hefty stash,
For bartering, he made a dash.
He built a contraption, twigs and wire,
Fueled by berries, setting it higher.
A clockwork spring, a rusty gear,
To yesterday! he cried with cheer.
The machine sputtered, coughed, and swayed,
Then promptly in the garden stayed.
He hadn't accounted, alas, for the fact,
That physics is harder than cracking a nut.
Anxious as a tunnel, or ditch, or lost homework.
As a plate of burnt lemon, chewed up.
I have enough brain waves with electricity soundlessly moving.
And they have enough rambling, tumbling, grumbling.
Anxious as a grocery bag filled with,
Endless grapefruit turned into spite,
It’s all flaky and musty,
Like an insect who has dark, groaning eyes.
Anxious as underground.
Who knows what happens in the core?
Never eat old wires from a kind neighbor.
How tasty.
Anxious.
Ate all my insects from my plate and coughed a bit.
Head first as any other day.
You know where anxiety comes from?
The cookies that tasted so good, almost like cookies.
It’s been around for decades.
That old pond and all.
Photo albums with no time to cool down.
You know why I’m anxious?
Ask the electrician.
He knows where all those wires went.
And why my insides flicker.
When I became a passenger bound.
With you in this way,
My engine coughed a mournful sound,
With a dim warning on the array
A check light soon blazed; your orange warning sign,
My future is futile and stark,
I feared the road, the desire to journey was no longer mine,
You could have just left me, alone in the dark
But you, you shone, a guiding grace,
beacons dispelling doom,
Your high beams lit my weary face,
And chased away this mind's lowly gloom
You showed me paths I couldn't see,
Beyond doubt and fear,
Destiny belongs to me,
A reason to be here
The road stretched out,
a silver thread,
Unfurling in the light,
Purpose had been gently led,
Burned ever clear; exemplary bright
You changed my sparkless perspective
Becoming a repair so effective
My soul now lives by directive
As your happiness became our collective
Feeling loved, now we drive on,
The engine hums like new,
I'm a passenger, where hope's our bond,
Because I traveled with you
have you ever coughed so badly that you wet your pants?
Why not pull them down and water your garden plants?
Trixie threw this out onto the page, her little trick.
Sometimes my muse is incredibly slick and sick.
O parachute, thy rider.
How to keep one aloft?
Spread thy edges to defer!
He who squatted coughed!
Unity, sing in unison.
Each louder than the last?
Vittle, side with venison?
Legs in traction plast!
Thus refuted, O my rock?
Lines around in chalk.
Broken is the bowl, O block.
Corn, thy tattered stalk.
So you've been feeling stifled?
Just flicker as you fall.
Soldiers, how you rifled!
O banshee, how you call!
Ghoulish was the repast grim?
Crater, nurse thy rim.
Light of harpsichord, draw dim.
How about her or him?
Rain on us, O lightning!
O thunder, now to roll!
Fain would it be frightening?
Soak in gin, my soul!
The cone or the caldera?
What kind of choice is this?
Ergo, O my era...
O death gods, blow a kiss...
he didn’t blink
when the light caught his face—
just stared like a dog too long in the rain.
no prayers,
no cries,
no family on the concrete bench.
he killed for sport,
like swatting flies—
and still the world made room for him.
the guards were tired,
the chaplain bored.
death smelled like disinfectant and steel.
he coughed once.
then again.
then silence.
nobody wept—
not even the devil.
I’ve kept the bone-ash circle open—
chalked in wax traced from your last reply,
the one you coughed out sideways
between a mirror and an echo,
Just to reiterate, it read.
(Though you’ve unsent it now—
the smoke still mouths it back.)
The salt forgets which door to guard,
whether you're enemy or friend.
My tea leaves knot themselves
into nooses. The knife won’t keep
its edge unless I say your name
with my mouth full of soot. You know
who you are.
We only spoke three times—
I still remember your laugh.
I burned your coat—
the one already nicked at the cuff,
lined with lint and one of my hours.
The smoke limped east,
then circled back.
I still leave the latch loose.
Not for you—
just in case
some ghost with your gait
remembers how
my spine once knocked
like a drum left running.
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