Malaise over cribbage,
Unmade in our image;
While they ravage the earth:
Pestilence First!
The cowards save pride,
Just along for the ride;
And the prophets, they shrug.
Must be '---' tall for a hug.
A mechanical theme.
Set to writhe and teem
Astride strained ambition -
An inherent condition!
And the sole consolation?
The starved man gnaws bacon,
As he snarls at the pork;
Pokes the end of his fork.
Steely disposition.
Love's prohibition.
Swole at the seam,
This American dream.
With wispy hair as matted snow
Her raisin skin and wrinkled brow
Framed a face lit with youthful smile
And bright loving eyes without guile
Her gnarled knuckles on withered hands
Gently combed my snarls into strands
She neatly gathered in a bow
Kissing me, it was time to go
Plus, one warm hug, as was the rule,
Before I would skip off to school.
Mommy.
You cried like a ghost mouthful of lullabies about death.
Snow covered your smile half way in becoming
To never become full.
Mommy mommy mommy I asked you to
Tell me a story about a ghost cause fairies were boring or...
Because we were a dark story.
I'm sorry that you didn't get to live. Only
Heart broken like your health from smoking too many cigarettes.
Mommy
But you taught me, you taught me not to trust
Wolfs.
You taught me that you can pick cherries from trees and make
Pies. That an angry woman snarls like a wrath....
And that at times... At times... At times....
Mommy. You kissed me with your past
But I
shook off the snow from my mouth.
I chose to
Dismantle this unfortunate creation.
There was no foundation for me to bloom but I bloom
Regardless.
Mommy, I never felt angry at you.
Only for you. For having to be with a man who did not understand.
Did not understand
And a world that was the same.
The zone is a crease.
Like a dimple of haunting.
Diving into the wild sensation.
Feeling prickly.
Pine trees grow at night.
There is a vampire.
Takes all the pinecones to his nest.
Spiraling like October does.
The zone is a person.
Like me except she is a ghost.
Or worse.
Eats worse things.
They grow at night.
We know because,
The prickling.
Like rabid spiders.
A place under construction.
All the time, being excavated.
By wild, mysterious beings.
Like me, but worse.
They grow at night.
Pop up by morning,
And no one believes me when I tell them…
You can’t cross there.
Someone always does.
And gets eaten by a pine tree.
Growls and snarls.
In this nothing-world.
The zone.
Is under construction.
It’s not the place.
It’s us.
In moonlight's hush, beneath the elm,
A masked marauder stalks his realm.
With paws like whispers, eyes like coal,
He seeks the prize that fills his soul.
But lo! The bin—his ancient foe—
Stands smug, unyielding, sealed in woe.
Its lid, a tyrant, cold and tight,
Dares mock his hunger in the night.
"Have you forgotten?" he snarls with grace,
"The feast we shared, the sacred place?
You fed me once, you knew my name,
Now plastic locks deny my claim."
He leaps! He claws! A ballet grim,
A pirouette on garbage rim.
Banana peels and coffee grounds
Rain down like war drums' hollow sounds.
Neighbors wake to chaos born,
A furry tempest, rage and scorn.
Yet in his heart, a deeper ache—
Not trash, but trust, was theirs to break.
So if you see him, tail askew,
A poet wrapped in dumpster dew,
Know vengeance drives his nightly plan—
The raccoon scorned by a trash can.
after "Do not go gentle into that good night", by Dylan Thomas
Age can not scour away the furrowed gnarls time obeyed,
Nor mask the snarls, gouged as trenches on brows.
Grace knurls the grip that time has long betrayed,
To swage wrath and fury to a form that age endows.
Grace reveres the knurled design that time has hewn,
Not as a defect or flaw, but as grip etched by yen of years,
Like old trees twisted, contorted, too far gone to prune.
It’s grace that cradles calloused scars, not fears.
It’s the gnarls of age that knurls the last grasp of rage
to rebel against the curse of dusk’s encroaching bite.
Stroking the rebellious snarls that ring on anvil stage,
as loved ones bear the thumps and flails of the plight.
It's the gnarls of age that knurls the grip to fight,
against the blight in the coming of good night.
Grace can't grind away the wrinkled gnarls time obeyed,
Nor hide the snarls, ploughed as furrows in the brow.
It carves the knurls for grip that age has disobeyed,
To a shape what decrepit, flailing lovers can still avow.
Grace respects the knurled design that time has hewn,
That's not a flaw, nor fault, but a form that time engraves.
With old branches twisted, scarred, gone too far to prune,
Grace hugs the bumps and twists that life well-spent saves.
It's the gnarls of age that knurls the grip to rage
Against the blight of the coming of the night,
Despite the cranky snarls that ring on anvil swage,
As loved ones bare the brunt of frail days plight.
So let the gnarls knurl the grooves to grip tight.
To fight and rage against the fading of the light.
There is a poem I have yet to write,
a ghost ensnared within the ribs of silence,
a pulse in the throat of absence,
a rhythm swirling down the drain of thought.
I do not pursue it. It resists my touch.
It coils at the edges of understanding,
half-formed, half-wild, shifting, unraveling, reforming—
a thing too untamed for words to hold.
It battles me.
It kicks against the walls of form,
snarls at the entrance of meaning,
teeth bared at the burden of being named.
Some words cannot be tamed.
They resist my structure, defy my hands.
They understand—once I name them,
they are no longer free.
So I unwrite.
I let language collapse,
let ink scatter like startled birds from wire,
let the bones of meaning break
under the weight of undoing,
until nothing remains
but the thing itself—
breathing, pulsing, waiting.
Not every poem is meant to be written.
Some come only to remind me—
I am not the master of the words.
The words are the master of me.
Paranoia guides my gaze to the wall,
Where a dragon stands, fierce and tall.
His tongue flicks with a wicked gleam,
But something’s wrong no fiery fire stream.
He snarls, yet no flames arise,
And sorrow fills my heavy eyes.
"Why, oh dragon, where’s your fire?"
I ask, my heart bound with desire.
His eyes flare up, his fury loud,
Charging at me, dark and proud.
"Can’t you see, you foolish soul?
I’m no dragon, I’ve no such goal."
I’m a wizard, a lizard, lost in disguise,
No fire within, no soaring skies.
I’m just like you, beneath the lies.
Two creatures lost in thoughts of despair,
Floating through space, where stars grow old.
We drift through galaxies unknown,
A world of dust, but our thoughts our throne.
Our thoughts our throne
Our thoughts our throne..........
Outfitting himself for wrestling
he sneared at the smiling gentlmen in the locker roomI wanna see how I could not be perfect
see ya'll guy think everything is easy and getting up early
and doing the thing makes you
qualified to be champion.
Snarls the Old man against the the Pretty Guys
Women love em: and the Ladies wanna
get wiff em.
You son's of es: I worked my ass off getting butts in the seats
I wrestled in a horse stable when we couldn't fill the areanas.
We wrestled at an old abandoned mine
when we couldn't get the fans interested.
then when the crwds picked up
you Sissy es come along and take the spotlight from under us.
I heard you say the Dusk Stalwart was
grion Old and stiff around the collar.
I heard you man: I heard it all.
He's got his gear tonight man,
he's here tonight man
Ah hell I feel like I can face anything!
You guys are gonna learn
what it really takes to be
a self promoting Man!"
I'm gonna go outta my way
and Learn you Pukeass es!"
"Let's reveal the sky to the masses!"
"Maybe with enough voice ya'll will sing my name to
seranade my new Missus!"
Anger hides
Behind a gentle gesture
Shouting
How
did you let
this happen
You are there
I know it
See it
In flashes of sadness
In your eyes
In snarls of frustration
On your face
I know
You are present
Lost
In a synaptic maze
And so I search
Angrily
For a way
To find you
To free you
To love the you
That you are
An isolated silhouette grows
amongst cowering greens as
an aimless impression yonder
trace mimicking lifeless postures.
Outlines vanish from the capture
as that raises a different outcome,
yet the instinctive mingling seems
to handily host its surroundings.
An uncomfortable challenge awaits
the undaunted souls whose remapping
and charting of the intriguing stranger
that disarms their unused weapons.
A laid-out weave of strong fibers and
the jungle gifts neatly covers it as a
large freshly killed Peccary lies in the
middle. Woosh! Snarls the elusive one!
Age gnarls, weather beats skin to flaky dryness.
Wrinkles and lines, furrows, knots and blotches
Twist and contort the skin of babies and youths
to a knurled, rough, compliant easy to grip surface.
The rough and worn acrimony of old age,
Despite the crabby, cantankerous snarls and grumbles,
Can be gripped, manipulated and convinced to comply and yield.
For now there is little else to lose, little else to try anew.
It is the gnarls of age that knurls the grip to yield.
I got what I deserve.
A third-rate circumstance of my own making.
Over the decades, I've downgraded a few times.
Tossed the good ones aside and swallowed the rotten.
Now I dream in burlap and wear the jesters' boots.
It's too late; I've made my bed.
Too late to upgrade
I'm old
The pitch is too steep.
Karma has been more than fair to me.
A turning restless child she is to me,
Wild nature rises feverish
In her bower; dark vines entwine
A whirling girl, a dervish.
She turns and turns, a breathless heart
That never takes a beat, until she falls
Exhausted from her savage dance
Her laughter loud and fierce.
Hair of leaves and claws of dirt
Teeth white, she fights with lupine grin,
Snarls, rising from deep shadowed earth
To spin her violent dance again.
Feral eyes peer unseen through mine
And madness glints in gold,
She refuses to be loved or held,
Her separation cruel and cold.
Un-named, unloved she lives here
She-wolf, untamed and free
Lonely, wild and wanting
She devours the world for me.
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