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JP’s Poetry

 

Walking These Halls

He walked the halls,
slowly, quietly, hesitantly.
Looking in rooms
searching for nothing
yet something vital.
A thing to enlighten,
a thing to inspire,
a thing to welcome
to raise smile or ire.
He walked the walls
read the graffiti sprayed,
the art of the masses
meaning unknown to all
but a chosen few.
He walked the halls
fingering railings
caressing walls
so familiar but alien
hearing footfall echo
He walked the halls
straining to hear
voice or song
or noise of any sort
He walked the walls
realizing he was done
he could never come back
as he was before
to those he knew before
He walked the walls
head up and spirit strong
a new man in an old place
new beginnings in these halls.

Slipping In

Slithering in on silent scales
tongue tasting
for scent of friends past
slitted eyes seeking
the heat of bodies known
and prey yet found
snaking through the minds
of those milling about
reading thoughts in prose
and rhyme
seeking refuge in silent corner
to watch and taste
the air of familiar ground
slithering in on silent scales

The Pool

Marco! Polo!
Marco! Polo!
Marco! Polo!
Incessantly.
Slick floors
water stained carpets
soggy clothes
mountains of laundry.
Skimming, vacuuming
testing and adjusting,
endless work.
This is the price,
but a cost gladly borne,
to see the smiles,
hear the laughter,
feel the joy,
of the children in my pool

 

 

 

Spring Reflections

Another early spring day.
Cold, cloudy, but green.
Not like the other May days,
those in the past,
warm and inviting, cheerful.
This first day of May
brings reflection on the past.
Three weeks till my thirty ninth year,
three weeks to start the end
of more than three decades of life.
Reflecting on all I know
a short reflection I admit
chuckling mirthlessly to myself.
Almost forty years
most of them spent besotted.
I remember past loves,
past lusts and past hates.
Hate is such a strong word,
and I realize I’ve never experienced it.
Ah, a good thought that…
I’ve angered, ranted, railed,
but hated?  Thank the gods, no.
Mistakes, I’ve made my share.
Too many to recall
and more of which I don’t know.
I think back at all I’ve learned,
and confused I wonder why
it only makes me less informed.
Every fact I covet, creates more questions.
Every opinion I voice, causes more doubt.
I am an adult, grey hair coming in,
and more insecure now than as a child.
When does certainty paint its portrait
in my mind and on my soul?
Why does this cold, dreary spring day
bring doubt, self-defeat, and loathing?
Why not provide inspiration to grow,
to learn? To embrace life? Spring you know.
I stare into the clouds
a mirror to my mind. Clouded, convoluted.
Almost forty years of toil and triumph
and I am still here wondering
and wandering through life.

Looking At Me

Looking down to see the scars,
scars from battles, some won, some lost.
The jagged line across the wrist
a battle of the soul – won or lost?
I can’t really be sure.
The quarter-sized scar in the thigh,
.45 caliber they said when they pulled it out.
“You’re damn lucky soldier, it’s only a flesh wound.”
How little they knew that it wounded much more.
We won that battle, so they tell me.
Years later, the battle still rages
and I am constantly on the losing side.
Many scars on the hand and fingers
from little battles through time.
Fights with the wall, a window, a bottle.
Too many mini fights to waste time on remembrance.
The counselor tells me that these are winner’s scars.
“You are here, alive, and well – you have won”
Looking at him, I laugh inside.
How little he knows about war – no one ever wins.
Some of us just survive, and lose for eternity.
The scars inside are the most vicious looking.
Jagged, raw, ugly scars on my heart, my mind.
Those are the battle wounds most apparent to me.
I know longer see the outside marks, unless I look.
But I forever feel the inside disfigurement.
How can I heal the scars of murder?
How can I heal the wounds of a liar?
How can the spirit ever soar with wings clipped
by my own refusal to forgive?
I sigh, and look at the scars of battle
Some won – to leave me physically alive
others lost – to leave me in eternal death

 

Morning Rambles

Dreary morning,
long day looming,
fraught with desire’
for the potential of change.

Cold wet, (spring?) morning,
dripping incessantly,
its liquid depression,
and cloudy compulsion.

Wordsmith struggling,
with inadequate tools,
to paint the life,
wished for desperately.

Scribbling scribe,
wrestling with muse,
extracting trembling thought,
insufficient to hearten.

Dreary damn rainy day,
cursing joy and its ilk,
chasing love from life,
and soaking sullied soul.

 

Blissful Hate

Here I sit,
in an office alone.
The anger I feel,
I cannot condone.

Although this time,
is quite and still.
I bathe in the bliss,
of the anger I feel.

My anger causes turmoil,
but hatred calms my soul.
I fear this anger and hate,
but their essence makes me whole.

I wonder at my thoughts,
the strange things I feel.
The ecstasy inside,
and my desire to kill.

Happy Feet

Something strange
has come over me.
My feet tremble,
my legs shake.
My arms tingle,
my body quakes.
I think…
I feel…
I know…
I got happy feet!

 

Violent Joy

A violent rush,
as anger surges.
The fanatic push,
of psychotic urges.
The erratic jumble,
as rage swells.
The sickening calm,
as madness quells.
The glorified burst,
in sanity’s last hour.
The morbid bliss,
as neurosis gains power.

Light Of Truth

The sunrise in the morning,
casts the shining light of truth,
on my love for you.

The morning bird’s call,
trumpets the joy of my heart,
for loving you.

The glow of your soul’s face,
reflects the happiness instilled,
by my love of you.

Every day as I wake,
I thanks the gods,
for the chance to love you.

 

Angel with an M16

Desert sand
billowing incessantly
coating sweaty skin
in gritty irritation.

Heated air
tinged with smoke
from spent rounds
and rocket’s tail.

Months spent
endlessly training
focusing on this day
this horrible day.

Duty done
honor is satisfied
country is served
freedom now reigns.

Desert sand
billowing incessantly
covering cooling skin
of our hallowed dead.

 

Stranded In Apathy

In a stupor I ask myself;
Is there a purpose?
I’m not really sure.

Looking at the world, from within a daze.
Is there a reason?
I don’t really think so.

Confused and leery, hurt too much,
and misled too often.
Not sure I care.

Striving for too much, grasping once too often;
Desired beyond my means.
Ended up with nothing.

Any hope for better, is shrouded in reality,
as the world settles in.
Stranding me in apathy.

 

Superpower

Superpower
with vision short
and divination of the future
in bad need of a tune-up

Superpower
with willingness to meddle
and the muscle to back it up
if not the stamina

Superpower
heedless of past error
when amnesia will facilitate
the needs of the day

Superpower
never claiming to be perfect
but always ready to stand
with those in need

Superpower
dutifully jumping in the fray
sacrificing your children
to save the world

 

 

Ignited

Forgotten dreams,
lay on the side,
of a well-traveled path.

Unquenched desires,
loll about the dust,
in quiet disregard.

World shaping thoughts,
huddle atrophied,
in my stagnate mind.

Fire flares,
through the opening,
of inspiration’s door.

Flames of passion,
sear away the grime,
of disuse and neglect.

Poetry’s fiery muse,
ignites the inspiration
in long sleeping pen.

Welcome home,
long lost scribe,
welcome back to life.

 

 

An Ache

An ache beneath your words
a pain that underlies
the happy face you show
and the cheerful smile lies

You touch our hearts today
you stroke our souls
you wrench our hope away
to thrust upon winter’s coals

Flames ensnare your heart
but never leave ash
the smoke of nothingness
the stench of emolliated dreams

Pity you for pity’s sake
yet praise you to your face
touch your spirit vicariously
through your tortured scribbling’s

Bask in the glory of anonymity
cursing yourself all the while
for desiring the fame
that befalls all around you

Cut deep the veins thought
spilling its inky lifeblood
upon eternity’s parchment
and cry havoc in your soul.

 

 

Choice

Breathe deep your cindery essence
Pursed lips release
flared nostrils recapture
your wisping brume
Enraptured by glowing crown
enlivened by billowing lust
hair set tingling
as you entwine within me
little white wand
of burning desire and need
let me glory in your pernicious spirit
let me breathe you yet again.

My Night

The moon hangs in the sky,
glowing brightly on a summer’s night.
Bats and night birds fly,
ebony angels taking flight.

Animals scurry hither and fro,
hunting and playing in darkened light.
Movements subtle and seemingly slow.
Show as garish and rapid in my sight.

Sunlight is but a memory,
now I’m chained to glorious night.
As dawn’s birth breaks my reverie,
I slide quietly from its sight.

An Average Day

Average day today
Careening thoughts assailing
Riddled dreams derailing
Overt desires compelling
Silent panics assaulting
Tantric needs defaulting
Intricate defeats exalting
Creating an average day today

Her Beauty Stunned Me

Her beauty stunned me.

She was someone I could fall for,
Talking with her told me that.
Smart, witty, flirty, and kind
She had all that I found attractive
Before I even laid eyes on her.

Her beauty stunned me.

As I looked at her photo,
Ivory skin with full, darkly painted lips
Flashing a coquettish smile,
And mischievous lovely eyes
Framed by that brilliantly red mane.

Her beauty stunned me.

Striking is the first thought I had
Exciting and absolutely beautiful.
My hands hovered over my keys,
My mind not able to focus
Forgetting what I was about to say.

Her beauty stunned me.

We chatted more, I relaxed some
then we said our ‘so longs’
and she signed off for the day
As I sat there, staring at her picture

Because her beauty stunned me.

 

 

I Held a Book

I held a book today,
which is not unusual for me.
Books on dragons, elves,
space, horrors, philosophy.
But this book, this book I held,
had a wonderment I did not expect.
Printed pages feel unusual somehow
as my eyes roamed those pages, voraciously,
I felt the magic of inscribed word
sink into sullied soul and jaded mind.
This book, this book I held today
unleashed the voices of muse and love.
It captivated me as its topic
has never been able to do before.
As I read the magic of this book,
I thought about those voices,
listened intently to their song,
gleaning from them the meaning
and purpose, and resolve of life.
This book, this book I held today
shared voices, Voices on the Web.

 

 

If You Want to Find Love

If you want to find love,
Look within.
A pleasing sentiment,
inspiring love of self.
Though my life has shown me,
a different way.
The path to true love,
is not the path within,
but the path without.

If you want to find love,
look without.
Look without expectation.
Look without trepidation.
Look without condition.
Look without want.
Look without purpose.
Look without desire.
Look without need.
Looking without any goal,
save for the willingness to give.

New Beginning

An adventure is starting one step at a time,
the first one taken,
you have a lot on your mind.
The anxiety you feel in the good times
and bad,
and confusing are feeling
both happy and sad.
Dreams coming true
might be hard to take in,
and no one deserves it more,
than you my friend
You who possess the strength and confidence
to be all you can be,
An inspiring soul for all to see.
As you step down the road
step hard, fast and true,
On wings of the angels
our prayers are with you.

Looking At Me

Looking down to see the scars,
scars from battles, some won, some lost.
The jagged line across the wrist
a battle of the soul – won or lost?
I can’t really be sure.
The quarter-sized scar in the thigh,
.45 caliber they said when they pulled it out.
“You’re damn lucky soldier; it’s only a flesh wound.”
How little they knew that it wounded much more.
We won that battle, so they tell me.
Years later, the battle still rages
and I am constantly on the losing side.
Many scars on the hand and fingers
from little battles through time.
Fights with the wall, a window, a bottle.
Too many mini fights to waste time on remembrance.
The counselor tells me that these are winner’s scars.
“You are here, alive, and well – you have won”
Looking at him, I laugh inside.
How little he knows about war – no one ever wins.
Some of us just survive, and lose for eternity.
The scars inside are the most vicious looking.
Jagged, raw, ugly scars on my heart, my mind.
Those are the battle wounds most apparent to me.
I know longer see the outside marks, unless I look.
But I forever feel the inside disfigurement.
How can I heal the scars of murder?
How can I heal the wounds of a liar?
How can the spirit ever soar with wings clipped
by my own refusal to forgive?
I sigh, and look at the scars of battle
some won – to leave me physically alive
others lost – to leave me in eternal death

 

 

Browsing

Here I sit, in darkened room.
Ghastly glow of the demon monitor,
spewing its garish life on my pallid face.
Fingers cramped from constant click and scroll,
back aching and hunched like hobbit’s knoll.
Constant reading of rhyme and lyric
causing sing-song gobbledygook racing throughout
this sagging, lacking, illusion hacking brain.
Word upon word, stanza, phrase and alliteration
melding together for my caustic consideration.
Why?  Why spend my weary life in golem cave,
rolling through endless page of poetic paint?
It is my life, simple as that.  My reason to be,
the only reality in this fantasy we call the world.
My life, my love, my serendipity and joy.

 

 

My Disservice

I’ve done the world a disservice.
I’ve shown the world me,
not all of me you see,
just shared parts and bits.
I’ve shared my ire,
and my biting wit.
I’ve shared my stern glare
my cutting sarcasm,
my litany of complaints.
I’ve shared my bitterness
my strife, my angst in life.
I’ve shared my dissonance,
my anger, distaste, and dislike.
I’ve silenced my foes
and bloodied those closest to me.
I’ve shared the worst,
the worst there is of me.
I’ve denied the world
a glimpse of my love
the glow of my inner light,
my constant desire to do right.
I’ve denied the world
through denial of myself.
I’ve not given in,
to compassion, love, peace.
I’ve railed against it all,
while resisting my soul’s call.
I’ve shared the bits of offal
to my utter shame.
I’ve shared the worst of me,
and this has got to end.
I have so much more to give,
love, kindness, peace, joy.
I have spirituality and thought,
intelligence and compassion.
This is the me the world should see
this is the me they will.

 

 

Thirty-nine

Tired of fighting
Hidden enemies of mind
Irksome worries and woes
revolving endlessly
touching peace with fear
yet once again

nary a glimpse of light
inside dreary existence
Never a soul’s delight
Entering this pit.

Yonder sparkle
Entices sullied mind
and touches worn heart
Rare tickle of hope
Silencing mental moans

Overwhelming happiness
Lashes out at gloom
Deflecting age’s doom

 

 

Deathbed

Fifteen years ago
the doctor called
you and I sat together
as he explained the results
of that fateful blood test
You sat stunned
I’m sure not fully comprehending.
The only thing I could say was
“Okay, when do I die?”

At the birth of our first,
we rejoiced and cried,
waited six months and tested,
negative,
and again rejoiced and cried.

Four years later, our miracle second.
More rejoicing, less crying.
Six months later tested and smiled.
Three years later, counts are low,
“Okay, when do I die?”
No, just take these meds…

Four years later and one more.
Another miracle, another reason to rejoice.
Again, six months, test – Negative.
Old hat this, but still rejoicing.

Year later, counts extremely low.
Illnesses come and go,
odds are becoming low,
Finally I let people know.

Three more years to see
my first in cap and gown.
Preferably not from my deathbed.

 

 

Truth?

Can a poet taste sincerity?
Can we write with the flavor of truth?
Can we pen the odor of futility,
or the burning sting of joy?
Can we as poets, capture
the color of honesty?
In our scribbles?
In our fevered writings?
Can we artists, self-proclaimed
speakers of beauty,
imprison life’s essence in ink?

Or do we just dance a dirge
of delusion?  A frenetic tango
of self-importance?
Do we type our inane lusts
in the computers of illusion
and call them scripture?

I think not.
We share the climax of speech
in heavenly form.
We express the weary world
in the fury of our odes.
We offer a respite from
reality’s bite.
Through the soothing
balm of our lyrical prose,
We are the healers,
of broken souls
the dreamers of dreams spoken,
and instigators of fantasy realized.

 

 

Fluffy Cloud

Fluffy cloud, fluffy cloud.
Why do you scream your hate so loud?

Gentle rain, gentle rain.
Why spear innocence with searing pain?

Silken breeze, silken breeze.
Why cause loving hearts to freeze?

Why is peace not shatterproof?
Nor harmony, indestructible?

 

 

The Inspiration of Desperation

Two years.
Two years have passed,
two years of dryness.
Dryness of throat,
dryness of thought.

So many nights spent in days past,
inspired by the muse of bourbon,
encouraged by the delusions,
of demonically quenched thirst,
Gone now.  Thank the Gods.

So many nights spent in recent past
searching for the inspiration
longing for the ease
with which I scribed back then.
The inspiration of drink
no more my muse.

The desperation seeps in
unknowingly at first.
Till one reads the words of friends.
Realization of two years gone by
and nary a poetic word writ.

This tome,
the pathetic attempt at art,
my first attempt, my first push.
Back into the poetic world
Hesitant, yet head held high.

This is desperation’s inspiration,
the act of writing, just to write
the act of hoping just to hope.
To break loose from the bondage of
my forced prison of sobriety
and refill the ink well,
with pigment not mixed
with the devilish brew.

 

 

The Truth of My Existence

The wonder of mankind
a legacy of hatred and death
the power and the glory
of the story written across the
landscape of memory.
A story of struggle, defeat.
Refusal to die and continuing fight.
Where is the glory?
Where is the power?
The power of sanity grasping for purchase
the glory of success, viewed in survival
not in terms of winning.
The voice inside my head is crying
eons of pain and sickness
a lifetime of scraping to exist
the voice inside my head is a wimp.
It is the animal in my soul
that deserves recognition.
The pure instinct to live
the unadulterated drive to BE.
That is the nature of me.
I am no hero, I am not human.
I am the essence of primordial sludge
I exist merely through breeding
the thoughtless drive to survive,
THAT is the truth of my existence.

 

 

Stop

Feral whispers call me,
echoing in empty skull.
Beckoning fiercely to me
urging my screeching lies.

hush

Whisper death of humanity,
sing the song of corruption.
Play the game of malevolence,
rolling dice of life,
betting on saintly failure.

quit

In earth’s swirling mass of slop,
mankind’s society ebbs.
Cloaked in madness disguised as right,
masked in hatred painted in light.

quiet

fueled by selfishness, guided by greed {demon’s seed},
Camelot dreams shrouded by pedestrian schemes.
Bohemian desires eerily lit,
by suburban housewife fires,
and death’s stench permeates,
from crawlspace of wasted minds.

futility

Tomes of ostentatious rebellion,
bound in popular garb,
cries for change sounding the same,
from lips stained with blood.
Prophets of a new age,
shrieking with manufactured ire.

stop

Feeding on the souls of the stupid,
shouting defiance to the evil,
which they, themselves, perpetuate.
doomsayers of end world,
prophets not, yes – profiteers.

Humanity,

insanity,

inanity.

 

 

Reflections of the Hunter

I shot you last night.
Ceased your life in a flash of death
I gorged myself on your flesh
taking all I wanted and leaving
waste.

The slaughter I reveled in
was in vain for the most part.
I was not hungry, nor in need
I merely wanted to end you
quickly.

I sat down today and reflected
on the violence of my act
my hand reaching like a bullet
my words butchering your soul
unknowing.

As I thought of my failure
to be the man you so deserve
I prayed for the strength
the true strength to fix it
finally.

I know my quest for your joy
will hurt you just a little
as you are faced with my trash
I leave behind with this final
bullet.

 

 

I Have Nothing

I have no woman’s eye to view,
the world the way it looks to you.
I have not the lady’s heart to feel,
our life and love the way you will.
I have no philosopher’s mind to know,
the complexities of life if you should go.

I have merely this haunted shell,
this empty vessel of masculine hell.
I have nothing save this foolish pride,
which leaves me scorched and black inside.
I have only thirst unquenched and aching want,
in labrynthian heart and self-loathing’s haunt.

I have no life nor love nor care,
if I have not you to guide me there.
I have nothing,
without you.

Thoughts on Monday

Solitary soul
in poetic deatH
Understanding nothing
save original siN
Needing others
in this pitiful lifE
Denied such gifts.

Morning Sun

Your love has touched my heart
like the morning sun
alighting on a poppy-strewn hillside.
Tenderly bathing the top in amber,
then cascading down, a golden fire
igniting in its wake.
Filling my soul with the joy
of its brilliant warmth.

Early Morning Sunlight

The early morning sunlight,
shines through my window.
Bringing life to a new day,
putting light on my midnight fears.

The early morning sunlight,
glides across the floor.
Playing songs for the dancing dust,
and shining through my waking doubts.

The early morning sunlight,
slowly wakes the world.
Bathing the earth in fluid gold,
and adding magic to my dreams.

Sunshine

Sunlight
soft, warm
shimmering, glowing, shinning
a glimpse of eternity
life.

 

Office Wars

It’s quieter now,
a lull in the fight.
No phones are ringing,
casualties are light.

Prepare yourself,
for I hear the sound.
The rumble of pencils,
and the paperclip pound.

Phones do battle,
as to paper and pen.
The letters take point,
the memos dig in.

The orders are given,
and the forms fly.
Typewriters explode,
where wounded clerks lie.

A cease fire is called,
and this day is done.
For an ongoing war,
that cannot be won.

 

 

The Sweetest Thing

The sweetest thing was the taste of summer on my lips.
The warmth of the sun in my mind as I ran,
crashing through tall grasses and butterfly dreams.
Thoughts only of play, iced tea, and love.
The sweetest thing was the joy of boyhood.

The sweetest thing was the last time I slept through the night.
The glorious feeling upon waking to morning sun.
No midnight dreams wrenching me from the velvet clutch of rest,
no ebony lit excursions to the medicine cabinet,
no frustrated wrestle with covers which do not cooperate.
The sweetest thing was the last sleep without thought.
Thoughts of disease raging, poverty looming, work dooming.
Yes the sweetest thing was that last good night’s sleep.

The sweetest thing was the chance to live.
The opportunity to know your love before I died.
Seeing my beautiful children come into this world,
feeling the soft, warm breaths as I held them to my chest.
Hearing the contagious giggling as we played ‘The Claw’,
watching them become people with minds of their own.
The sweetest thing was the chance to say “I love you”,
for the last time before I left your side forever.

 

Glory

The glory of the world,
washes over my well-worn body.
The magnificence of creation,
the total harmony of nature,
the absolute certainty provided,
by the knowledge of life’s continuance,
rages through my soul.

The brilliance of love,
flashes in my sorrow filled mind.
The gentleness of sweet lovemaking,
the urgency felt in passion’s thrust,
the sweet release in climactic lust,
dream states induced afterglow,
ease through my heart.

The glory of the world,
touches magic upon my dying flame.
Flashes of sunlight in the morn,
flickers of flame in campfire night,
tendrils of melody in child’s song,
essence of harmony in lover’s laugh,
bathe my dirty, well-used mind.

The beauty of this world,
comes to me in many ways.
Fathomless, unrelenting ways,
only to look, to feel, to see,
only to open myself, to be me,
only to allow you, a love to be,
to touch me and make me whole.

 

I Am

I am a simple man with extraordinary ideals
I wonder at the glory and power I see about me in life’s dance
I hear the piccolo strains of Angel song
I see the godhood emanating from humanity
I want to chain the preterhuman state which is our birthright
I am a simple man with extraordinary ideals

I pretend to see reason in chaos
I feel a need to believe in the supernatural
I touch the souls of those about me – often not lightly
I worry that I will die without becoming who I should be
I cry thinking about grandkids I will never see
I am a simple man with extraordinary ideals

I understand life is hard – and it is well worth it
I say “every damn thing is your own fault, if you’re any good”
I dream of one day flying without aid and knowing all
I try to be fair-minded, tolerant, and accepting
I hope that my life gives others power to excel
I am a simple man with extraordinary ideals.

 

Love’s Warrior

He surveys the field of battle,
sadness gripping his heart
for he knows what must
eventually come to pass,
victory, in soul’s bloodletting.

He dreads the fight to be.
Cowardice? No. Just love,
given to him by the Queen
and knowledge given freely
by her wizard and scholars.

He now knows of truth,
seen in her shimmering eyes,
truth that his challenge,
is to show kindness, love,
to all who toss the gauntlet.

He feels the love she gives,
something unknown to him before.
He understands his duty,
of chivalry, honor, benevolence,
of caring for all humanity.

The battle before him is senseless,
faced in stoic sadness,
his sword heavy in his heart.
His shield forgotten, not needed,
she guards his heart, his life.

The challengers circle the field,
their quest always honorable.
He watches them intently,
not wanting their hurt, death,
not encouraging their charge.

Silently he waits, knowing,
knowing he cannot lose now,
’cause her love has given,
eternal victory for his soul,
even if he dies this night.

 

 

Night

Starlight glints
in sultry night.
Bat song titters
and crickets cry.
Humid hand
of summer’s eve
caressing neck.
Dampened shivers
in fan’s wake,
labored breath
of tortured sleep,
echoes heavily,
in dead air.
Jasmine scent
pushes through,
touching nose
and freeing mind.

 

 

He Found His Voice

He was a quiet man,
unassuming in act,
taciturn,
not prone to gregariousness.

He was a quiet man,
who fought life’s battles,
demurely,
on his own.

He was a quiet man,
who found his voice,
surprisingly,
through quill and parchment.

He was a quiet man,
writing dreams of gods,
feverishly,
in his enduring solitude.

He was a quiet man,
whose thoughts and hopes,
thankfully,
will now last forever.

Would That I Could

Would that I could,
be the man you think me to be.
He of pathos and logos,
he of eternal vision
and fathomless depth.

Would that I could,
expose the inner soul.
Caged in this granite effigy,
with little fear,
of being touched deeply.

Would that I could,
cease my spewing insecurity.
Its constant pollution,
poisoning the world about us,
with vulnerable distrust.

Would that I could,
expose this wretched heart,
to the wonder that is you,
and learn to love myself,
as you have loved me.

 

 

Father’s Day

Hours spent,
building the crib,
painting the room,
dealing with your pregnant mom,
8 months along, in August.

Days and nights,
with you on my mind,
measles, chicken pox,
(you shared those with me, didn’t you?)
mumps and flu as well.

Taking off work,
to see you sing,
school plays, recitals,
karate matches.
Weekends spent traveling
vacations, softball tournaments.

Working two jobs,
to give you the house,
the clothes you need,
food to eat,
and a bit of cash for your pocket.

Late nights spent,
waiting for you,
driving the streets
trying to find you
because you did not call.

All the pain, work
love and joy
run through my mind
on this day, my day.

All I have done for you,
all I have endured for you,
I’ve done for my soul,
for my heart, out of love.

On this day, this day set aside
for sons and daughters
to show their love for fathers
you show your love to me,
with a tie.

 

 

Saturday Morning

I wake to a cold gray morning,
after a restless, fitful night.
It’s early and all others are quiet.
I shuffle down my dark hall,
pause at the bathroom, flush,
then go to the kitchen.

The cold of the vinyl floor
seeps into my feet bottoms
causing my ankles to ache.
I start coffee, and grab a glass,
8 ounces of water and 3 dozen pills.
I choke down my first meds of the day.

Stomach churning, I sit at the table,
staring at nothing but what may have been.
Coffee’s cooked and I pour a cup,
sipping the nectar of life I again
stare, at nothing but what once was.

My son comes down the hall,
twisting his blonde hair, rubbing his eyes.
He walks past me and says “cartoons”,
walks to the TV, turns it on, and sits,
as I watch him intently.

Two years old and he knows what he wants,
the kid will be a success someday,
I think this proudly as I sadden,
knowing I won’t be there to see it.
I tear my eyes from him, painfully.

My daughter makes her way down the hall,
thirteen years old and becoming a woman.
She is beautiful in face, body, and mind.
I look at her and cannot decide,
if I want her to slump, or stand up straight.

“Morning dad” she says as she walks by,
She sits on the floor by Joshua
Without taking his eyes off the tube,
he crawls on her back and sits there,
both of them watching cartoons.

I hear the toilet grumble,
and turn to see my other girl
9 years old, little, blonde, beautiful.
She walks past me in a daze,
a morning person she is not.

She goes to the couch and curls up,
pulling on a blanket she’s glued to the tube.
I watch the three of them.
Fresh, fun, beautiful, and smart.
I turn away so they can’t see the tears.

Another cup of coffee, my stomach wailing,
hunger pains strike at me violently,
but pills are my breakfast for now.
I look down the hall, my hall,
and see Tami, clothed and bright eyed.

Fifteen years of marriage we’ve had,
and I still cannot fathom how,
she can love early days so much.
I am, have been, and will be,
a creature of the night.

A quick kiss and a good morning,
as I hand her a cup of black gold.
I feel the day start to wake up,
and I take the moment to reflect.
My god, how lucky can one man be?

 

 

Poetry? Ha!

To write a poem, is my goal.
Words to mirror my heart,
rhyme to reflect my soul.

In this seething quagmire,
of poetic abundance,
I read works of wonder,
and clichéd redundance.

By what right dare I whine
of the skill of Passion’s scribes
putting their soul in every line.

I do not write sonnets, lyrics or bonnets.
I know not of iambic pentameter, meter
nor even the function of the odometer.

I cannot pen works of rhythmic muse
rhyme scheme, assonance, alliteration,
gone from my mind in cosmic obliteration.

Nan has tried, through time ad nauseum
to teach me use of poetic tool
Her efforts while valiant and insightful,
have fallen in the seedbed of a fool.

Still I wander through this garden
sewn with the seeds of poetic bliss
this wonderful field of beauty
colored with the hue of Passion’s kiss.

 

 

How I Feel at 12:15 a.m.

Frenetic thoughts
Roil inside
upturning my world
Slicing my peace
to thoughtless shreds
Ragged and
Alien
Trite and
endlessly, hopelessly
Defeated

Altruistic desires
needlessly discarded
Giving way to
Rapacious
Yearnings

Hedonism’s slave
Unbecoming of love
Rejected by his clan
Tossed by the wayside

Whispers

Feather whispers,
nibble gently at my periphery.
Wispy scents
of hushed voices
flit about my mind’s edge.
Malignant utterings
concealed in benign mutterings.
Suppressed whispers
gnaw diligently
at my once, well-trained sentience.
Deceiving my suburban reality
with smoothly wicked circumlocution.
Conniving loquacity
worming through pedestrian comfort
Sowing seeds of licentiousness
fertilizing the crop
of growing iniquity.

Reflections of a Life

Staring intently at the face in the glass,
wondering at its changes through the years.
I’ve looked at this face, trapped in mirrored cell.
I’ve noticed the marks of time, showing who I have become,
sometimes without knowing it.
Hair, the shade of used dishwater
never thick nor bouncy,
now speckled here and there with specks of grey.
The forehead, once smooth, now shows faint creases,
like soft ripples in a pond – thought lines,
is what I prefer to call them.
The eyebrows, pleasantly arched (can one be proud of eyebrows?)
drawn together by wrinkles of consternation.
The eyes staring back at me so intently,
are brilliantly blue at this moment.
Showing no signs of years past.
Pleasing in their clarity and smoothness, yet sad,
for the same reasons.
None of the little lines attributed to laughter,
a sorry testament to a life with little joy.
The nose, this strong, straight nose,
draws the gaze to the mouth below.
Lips; soft, moist, and beautifully shaded.
Clearly defined shape urges a sensual pride within me.
The mustache framing that softly sexy mouth,
matches the hair without the flecks of age.
Teeth, not quite as bright as they once were,
too much coffee and too many cigars perhaps.
Ah, no matter, the straight, wide smile,
is pleasing still – when allowed to show.
That chin, sharply defined as is the jaw,
once coated in soft dark whiskers, bu now…
cleanly shaven since too much dark had turned grey.
Overall, this face in the glass that looks at me,
shows clarity, strength, pride.
No feature here so impressive as to draw focus,
but all blending nicely to form this mask.
Signs of worry touched lightly here or there,
but ultimately, this face staring back at me,
hides all that has come to pass,
all that boils beneath.
I close my eyes and turn away,
tearing my gaze from that visage framed in argentine.
I close my eyes and heart, to that ageless facade,
staring back at me from the mirror.

 

 

Discombobulated

Swirling tumble,
twirling jumble,
tossed and turned,
and inverted spins.
Misty movements,
of disconcerted eyes.
Roiling thoughts,
bubble through constantly,
adding deeper frets,
into this furrowed brow.
Confusion is but fancy,
as the mind attempts,
its denial fate’s aria.
Eternal fall of man,
into depths of unknown.
Dangerous slips haunt
as struggles for solidity,
continue incessantly.
Wishful hopes,
candy cane dreams,
replaced by the cacophony,
of ignorant screams.
God it’s great,
to be human.

 

 

Dawn’s Trance

Waking early,
to morning’s gray.
Steely clouds,
threaten this day.

Birdsong lilting,
in swaying trees.
Rustled by fingers,
of burgeoning breeze.

Sit here quietly,
watching dawn’s ebb.
Through silvery lace,
of black spider’s web.

I rouse from my trance,
and rise to my feet.
Morning’s reverie,
short, but oh so sweet.

 

 

Forever Fight

Malevolent shade,
why dost thou pursue me?
Violent, spectral beast,
reeking with death’s stench.
Am I the only one to fight you?

In our eternal battle,
not once have I escaped,
your sinewy blizzard clutch.
Wrest briefly from thine claw,
only to again be grasped by mine heel.

Never to remove thy grunge,
from inside mine head.
Thine presence sickens me,
ye of many names;
anger, spite, envy, despair.

Your putrescence creeps always,
touching filth upon any I love.
Thou dost grapple with me,
in my waking dreams.
Sitting upon my labored chest,
in my fright-soaked nights.

Darkness be thy greeting,
horror be thy laugh.
For ages beyond my knowing,
you have death-walked,
seething within me, waiting.

Are ye controlled by my might?
Hardly so. Merely allowing me,
but brief reprieve, to flit upon joy.
Only to make thy return,
more vile by compare.

Eternal dregs of hate,
I spit in thine eye.
For I, humanity, shall strive,
to gain final conquest,
in this forever fight

All Things Shall Return

He sits quietly,
sickly glow of monitor,
casting face in death’s radiance,
wondering how he will survive.
Her death was well deserved
and long time in coming,
evil demon of lust and greed,
who passing from this coil,
will give life to this heart.
He places fingers on keys,
to begin his life anew,
painting portraits in rhyme,
sculpting statues in prose.
the very life’s blood again,
that once made him a man,
but which she stole violently.
He taps the squares of the muse,
watching verse flow before him,
feeling the power of creation,
in his ability to pen joy.
Somewhere, in labyrinth of thought,
he senses her soul stir,
the soul of doubt and fear,
the soul of the mute, the numb.
He feels her seethe deep,
weak, not quite as dead,
as he had prayed for.
He races with poem,
trying to put down each line,
’cause he understands,
with the certainty of the dead,
that she will come back to him.
For like sorrow, and the misty ocean,
all things shall return.

 

 

Sentience Slain

The mood is upon me.
Fighting its grasp,
is mere futility;
feeding its thirst,
by my very throes.
Jealousy, gloom, bitterness
swirling in my head,
dizzying me deliciously.
An occasional focus,
to allow a cobra strike,
and relishing the sting,
I’ve visited upon you.
Your words are meaningless,
your assertions useless.
No one can stand,
against me now.
Because the mood is upon me.

Hateful, spiteful assaults,
my loquacious daggers
dropping you, lifeless,
and I gloat sadly
over my fallen prey.
Subjugation of spite,
to allow brief light,
golden, shimmering light,
to touch my mind.
Only to wrap itself
inside, safely away.
For the mood is upon me.

Stolen thoughts of joy,
replaced by dreams.
Bloody in their vehemence,
the slaughter of innocence,
the destruction of youth,
the feel of my hand,
gripping your slowing heart,
in its icy metal clutch.
Smiling, eye to eye,
I squeeze the essence,
from your paling soul,
for no reason other than,
the mood is upon me.

Sculpting Statues

I’m building things,
in which you don’t believe.
Castles in the air,
floating on heart songs,
that remain unsung.
My hands molding statues,
of a me that will not be.
Sculptures of my dreams,
undreamt and dismissed,
in fear of your laughter.
I’m building fantasies,
on hopes and wishes,
solidly set on sandy dune,
waiting for onslaught of tide.
Vision’s denial to give ground,
to today’s battle for purchase.
Fantasy’s strength shall outlive,
reality’s blustery strike.

 

 

The Poet

Writing in the wee hours,
of dimly lit night.
Searching through books,
for words just right.

Empty coffee cups,
scattered here and there.
Like tumbled thoughts,
twisting rumpled hair.

Cigarette butts,
litter overfilled tray.
As poet writes,
till dawn’s first ray.

Trial and error,
seeking the rhyme.
Revision upon revision,
with no concept of time.

Scribbling furiously,
to get the words down.
Tossing that failed try,
with deepening frown.

Scribing through madness,
pen at fever’s pace.
Recording the perfect stanza,
and stating poetic case.

Finally it’s completed,
shining guest of its host.
The poet smiles wearily,
and pushes the key to Post.

 

God’s Wrath

God’s wrath,
will be brought down amongst you.
You who do not pray, do not fast,
you who do not bend, will not last.

God’s fury,
will be visited upon the world.
Earth full of vile, sinful beasts,
wallowing in the glut of evil feasts.

God’s disdain,
most like falls elsewhere.
to they who wish death on others,
like children and unsaved mothers.

God’s attention,
to our fleeting, petty lives.
Is far less intense, then and now,
than our self-importance would allow.

God’s love,
for this ball of ants.
Must transcend our pitiful needs,
for vengeance, death, and holy deeds.

God’s Son,
if he was the true one.
Lived, partied, taught, and cried,
to teach mercy’s love before he died.

God’s hand,
will not come down to smite.
His essence is pure love and grace,
why would he erase us from earth’s face?

 

Salvation

Sacred blood
of the true Christ
slowly soaking
Golgotha’s stone

Sacred blood
of humanity’s hope
silently saving
sin-stained souls

Sacred blood
of His only son
cleansing, healing
life from his death

Sacred blood
of Mary’s miracle
born for sacrifice
dying for our rebirth

Sacred blood
of the Lamb of God
giving his all
to save His creation

Sacred blood
of the King of Kings
offers eternal glory
for those who believe

 

Faith?

Years spent in prayer,
fellowship, meditation, praise.
Hours on my knees, crying,
begging forgiveness,
enlightenment, healing, love.

Sunday morns at the pulpit,
teaching, preaching, reaching.
Spreading the news of your glory,
and searching for the same inside.
Sunday afternoons on my knees,
begging for conviction, truth.

Bible study, classes, prayer meetings,
sharing with parishioners our faith.
Doing the works of the true God,
begging for the works to give belief.
Again, on my knees, begging, praying.
Asking for the faith I claim out loud.
asking to feel, what they feel when they pray.

 

 

A Prayer

Gods of fire,
ignite my soul,
for my passion,
is but sodden ash.

Gods of wind,
breathe life into my heart,
for it gasps for air,
as it slowly suffocates.

Gods of water,
wash the pain from me,
pain of love given away,
but so selfishly desired.

Gods of earth,
ground my spirit,
bring my being back to reality,
and let me face the world.

Hear my prayer gods of power,
hear my plea and allow me,
your servant of the universe,
to live again despite the pain,
despite the sorrow, sadness and tears,
despite the hypocritical will,
to put upon my face the smile,
that my soul will never again feel.

Touch me my gods, heal me.

 

 

Pre-Class Observations

Cacophony.
Voices mingling,
thoughts spoken,
merging, separating, colliding,
over and over again.
Constant barrage of sound,
pummeling, then lifting.
Assaulting, oppressing,
Luring you in,
only to push you back.
Snippets of wisdom,
clouded by shouts of idiocy.
Pearls of humor,
hazed by crass exclaim.
Silence unknown,
yet so desperately desired.

 

 

I Died Today

I died today.
Not in body, no,
That would have been far better.
I killed my soul,
I pulled out my heart,
and obliterated it, completely.

My fear killed me.
Fear of happiness,
fear of love,
fear of being a whole man.

I looked on the face of joy,
and it scared the hell out of me.
For so long, I have been a fortress.
Superman’s fortress of solitude,
was a castle of sand
compared to the walls within my soul.

I touched happiness by chance,
not looking for what I found.
I drank from its limpid pool,
quenching a raging thirst,
I did not realize that I had.

I am a coward.
A coward afraid of his own heart.
Running from the love she gave,
like those in search of the grail,
when faced with the cave rabbit.
“Run away! Run away!”

Am I bitter? Yes.
Not at her, but at myself.
She did nothing, but offer.
Offer me the love I needed,
offered to erase the pain of nothingness,
which I had grown accustomed to.

Her energy enlivened me,
her intelligence intrigued me,
her beauty aroused me,
her perfection enthralled me,
her love fulfilled me,
and I ran like a frightened child.

Safe now, in my comfortable gloom.
No one to elicit joy in my heart,
no one coaxing my soul to feel,
no one upsetting my solitude.
No one to quiet the cacophony
of tormented screams in my mind.

Once again my heart languishes,
in the dormancy of winter’s grasp.
Once again in my wretched void,
safe from the threat of happiness,
protected from the horror of love.

In my self-imposed agony,
I hold tightly to spirit’s extinction.
Acid tears cleansing me of love.
In my sorrow, I embrace the death,
I have visited upon my soul.

 

 

The Price We Pay

At the end of this day,
I will assess the value,
of what I’ve gained,
for what I’ve paid.
I paid a day of my life,
a very high price indeed.
I pray that my investment
was worth it.
Too often I have found,
my accountancy in the red,
paying the cost of life,
and not capitalizing on it.
I’ve paid at the door,
and have wandered aimlessly,
wasting, in true American fashion.
As I review my ledger tonight,
will I find I have misspent,
this day I’ve bought?
Will I find I ignored,
the chance to make a difference?
Will I find I avoided,
the opportunity to be of import?
Will I find that my payment,
has gone unreturned?
Tomorrow comes soon,
and I pray that I realize,
that I am bankrupting my soul,
and that I fight to see a profit,
worth the inflated cost of life.

 

The Glory of Life

Humanistic failings
stand without debate
in this never ending flux
of insolence, degradation, and hate.

Deistical desire
force conflict and strife
changing forever the face
of one’s humble, peaceful life.

Power hungry despots
killing without shame
politicking the world
and slickly shifting blame.

Whining world citizens
impotently complaining
while outside their window
the glory of life is reigning.

Burning Hate

Explosive hate
rips through my mind
the need to kill
is taking its toll.

The hunger for blood
and thirst for slaughter
burns in my heart
like flaming coal

Blood like fire
races throughout
igniting hatred
deep in my soul.

 

Horsemen

As horsemen ride by unaware,
skulls aflame in the eastern fire.
I draw the knife ‘neath my chin.
My life, evaporating desert pools.
My love, struggling mantis meals.

Apocalypse thrives in the depths.
Cavernous, hollow stench permeates,
my dungeonous waking dreams.
Sunlit nights no longer protect,
from wamphyr thirst of lust.

Necromancer dances lightly,
upon my blood drenched soul.
gamesmanship his forte,
Playing jacks on my heart.
One’sies, two’sies, oop’sies, death.

I watch the horsemen ride.
Laser lash whipping joyously,
‘cross the flanks of hatred’s steed.
Casually glancing at beast and burden,
rushing forth in sweet anguish.

Blood soaked nightmares cherished,
in this spirit darkened by love’s lie.
Pandora’s song brings eternal blight,
the Valkyrie’s wolf-mounts feed,
As I pay Charon my single obolus.

 

 

Prison

Prison of intellect,
so viciously strong,
letting not sorrow,
nor soul’s sparrow song.

Shackled by my thoughts,
no room for spirit’s need,
Thought is the only lord,
ruin of love, lust, and heart.

Mind of the lowly,
ruling the common soul,
Thought, the guide’s tool,
in life’s meaningless trek.

I struggle with daily toil,
fight with living’s foil,
search for passion’s need,
and find humanity’s greed.

I cry to the gods,
seeking their blessing,
Only to be given,
their selfish rebuke.

My soul, so wanting,
trapped in my mind’s cage,
cell of iron intellect,
seeking release without formula.

Scientific solutions no harbor,
realistic illusions no haven,
for love’s battle weary foe,
for life’s hard-fought medic.

Hard battle has worn me,
hard soul-search has tamed,
I’ve felt love’s tenuous claws
and survived, nearly intact.

Parts of spirit torn away,
parts of soul devoured,
parts of heart attacked,
But I came through, empowered.

 

 

Clinging

Dear glimmer of hope
I fix upon your spark
with every ounce strength
remaining in this shell

Shimmering glow of fate
touched my life
with such hidden power
and malevolent despise

The gods of peace
leaving me in my fear
Powers of joy and love
wilting in life’s fire

Valiant grasping
to hopes tenuous spirit
with withered claws
fed only by my heart

Daily prayers to Gods
seemingly unanswered
save for the fact
I can still pray daily

Grateful tears slide quietly
each night I lay down
to sleep beside my wife
for one more time

 

 

Return to Darkness

I opened my soul to you,
not knowing my foolishness.
Now… now, I understand fully,
my damned stupidity.

Band-Aids cannot seal,
this gaping slash in my heart.
Cast iron straps, with welded clasp
yeah, that should do it.
Hold my heart together
in their hard, cold, eternal grasp.

I Removed my armor, exposed my soul
such uncalculated idiocy.
I suppose I deserve my pain,
because I dropped my shield
expecting you to protect me.

Whose fault? Is it mine? Yours?
Who gives a shit? It still hurts.
Will I love again? Care again?
I doubt it. Once is more than enough

My intellect is still intact.
my mind can work just fine,
without my heart’s help.
Thirty-four years of soulless thought
has proven that point splendidly.

Can a man return to darkness
after touching the light?
Can a man re-embrace silence
after hearing the song?
Will water quench the thirst
created by the taste of wine?

I guess we’ll see, won’t we?

 

 

Sleepless

Normally my sleep is sound
I dream no dreams of relevance.
Tonight though, no rest is found
as I turn, toss, and sigh.

No particular reason for my fit,
no earth shaking danger or woe.
Can’t fathom reasons for this shit,
My world is happy for the most part.

Illness knocks forever at my door,
but it’s old hat and of no import.
I rise and pace, ‘cross chilly floor,
wondering why I cannot find sleep.

I check the stove, iron, and wife,
check my children and the cat as well.
All seems fine in house and life,
yet no rest comes to my weary bones.

I sit with tea to ease my troubled head,
the nagging feeling not leaving nor easing.
I tell myself that my worries must be dead,
that nothing is wrong and nothing’s amiss.

I shuffle through the house, checking locks,
I ramble from room to room looking for anything.
I check the doors, windows, faucets, even clocks,
and find all in place, as they always are.

I sit at my desk and draw parchment and pen,
I begin to scribe thoughts, rhymes, dreams.
I write these words you read, and to my chagrin,
My eyes begin to droop as slumber visits finally.

 

I Hate Café au Lait

My venture to the dark
is very well lit.
I stumble not of stones
of ire, pain, or death.

My path to the pit
is cleared of debris.
I boldly stroll forth
unafraid and unhindered.

My journey to this place
is unfettered by strife.
I wince at the pain
kindled by the light.

My travels to dark passion
thwarted by good thought.
The nocturnal refuge
subverted by day’s glow.

My eternal quest of gloom
stalled by enlightened hand.
The bitter twist of black coffee
diluted with cool milk.

 

 

Patiently Waiting

Waiting quietly,
my hair is combed,
in my Sunday best.
Patiently I’m waiting,
for the others to come.
Listening to their words
laughing to myself,
’cause they really don’t know.

I see your face in my mind’s eye,
and determine to keep waiting.

I like the feel of my suit
the silken tie at my throat,
the spiffy shine on my shoes.

I sigh, in exasperation.

Though I should be kinder, in my waiting
’cause I know you have things to do
before you go.
You’ll be here, when you are ready.

I relax, and vow to be patient
as they close the lid,
as I hear the dirt thud on top.
I smile inside.
I can be patient, waiting for you,
’cause I have eternity.

 

 

Darkness

Hatred seethes through my mind,
darkness caressing my brains.
Anger edging its way into my soul,
and rebuke takes his place at the helm.

Silently waiting for love’s touch,
I sit in the agony of deaths clutch.
Patiently doting on hearts need,
I bathe in the filth of horror’s seed.

Benevolent mind cast mindlessly aside,
malevolent spirit joins the raucous ride.
Mere humans cannot fathom my depravity,
nor sink to the depths of my sad gravity.

 

Returning Home

Approaching the door
hesitantly, warily.
I reach for the bell
and push.
My arrival announced,
serves to feed my fear,
of denial and rejection.
I left here silently,
when you were not looking.
Slipping away,
ghostly.
It was not until I erred
that you knew I had left.
and that error was enough
for most to close the door
forever.
At the door now,
waiting for your reply.
The threshold of your heart
has never looked so frightening.
Am I more afraid
of being turned away,
or of being accepted
and living with my guilt?
Do I fear your love
and your forgiveness?
Or my own inability to
let bygones be bygones?
Regardless of my fear,
here I am,
at the door to your heart,
at the door to my home.

 

 

Lost

Lost
turning endlessly
in nothing.

Syrup minded
lethargy and sloth
slowing the soul.

Absence
creating a labyrinth
of my heart.

Passion’s
deflated retreat
leaving want.

Inspiration
on my periphery
won’t come.

Desperation
seethes mindlessly
yet impotently.

Poetry
the saving grace
waits patiently.

 

Nil Desperandum

Blustery brisk December day,
bathing all in frigid gray.
Glacial winds cleave the air,
slyly thieving my despair.

Winter’s death begins dissension,
as my dreams commence ascension.
Earth’s gelid sleep beyond contention,
my exultation defies comprehension.

As I walk this necropolis of frozen ground,
despite the brittle screech of arctic hound.
Though its hollow cry’s a demonic sound,
I awe at the felicity I have found.

 

Conjuring

Spirits of lost hope depart,
demons of fate’s cruel hand,
leave me.
Specters of anguish and pain
I cast thee from my mind.

Wearily he speaks the words,
the incantation of despair,
longing for the days
of glories remembered.
Pinning for the merriment of yesterday.

He draws the symbols of conjuring,
casting the spell of hope,
praying to his elemental gods
to heal a broken soul,
a tainted spirit.

He lights the candles of color,
as he whispers the incantation.
Lighting the incense, casting the runes.
Begging the powers to come,
and make him whole once more.

He lays upon the alter built,
and stares to the midnight sky.
Sacrificial knife to wrist,
as blood bathes the ground,
body, with soul, soon die

 

Raped

The malevolent image of you,
violently forcing itself into my mind,
tears at the tissue surrounding my soul.

Your very presence repeatedly thrusting,
pounding into my brain, my being,
bruising, ripping, and savaging,
the bleeding, ragged tendrils,
of my slowly dying spirit.

Just the thought of you causes shame,
the memory of you induces sorrow, pain.

You’ve raped my heart,
viciously gaining your own satisfaction,
and leaving me lying, exposed to the world,
covered in the filth of your issue,
nursing a life that is violated,
and damaged beyond hope of redemption.

Violent Joy

A violent rush,
as anger surges.
The fanatic push,
of psychotic urges.
The erratic jumble,
as rage swells.
The sickening calm,
as madness quells.
The glorified burst,
in sanity’s last hour.
The morbid bliss,
as neurosis gains power.

 

Home

For my entire life,
I have been searching for home.
Home is where you belong,
fit in, are accepted.

Home is where the heart is,
old timers say.
Home is where your hat is,
was always my sly reply.

As a kid I wanted home,
a place to belong,
to be me, unconditionally.
I never found it.

As a teen, I searched,
for that place for my heart.
That place that says to me
you are finally home.

Thirty-five now,
thinking I found it.
But merely deluding myself.
Never allowed to be me…
partially? Yes – but not completely.

Dark currents run unexposed,
for fear of driving you away.
Now you’ve left, I suppose
and this house we hold
feels less like home than before.

 

 

Reality

The radio plays,
as I sit in my chair.
I’m in a daze,
and I don’t really care.

I look around,
at the same four walls.
Losing my mind,
as the numbness falls.

Reality hesitates,
letting fantasy slip in.
A short little fight,
and reality rules again.

My tears fall,
as I watch fantasy go.
My heart sleeps,
letting the pain grow.

My mind wakes,
and gloats at its victory.
My mind promises,
it will never set me free.

 

 

Last to be picked

All my life, I was last to be picked.
Baseball, football, kickball, the prom.
Second choice, in all I’d pursue
third on the list, in everything, but you.
Vanilla is the flavor no one picks,
it is only settled upon.
My life – vanilla, until you.
But fate in its twisted humor
has taken you away, in body and mind.
Given you another in my place,
Given you the gift of love’s grace.
I stand here, empty and amazed
as he lies with you nightly,
and questions his place.
A fool? Surely so, love is his
and he wastes it on doubt.
Smart, pleasant, sincere, poetic,
all that you desire, admire.
and he twists his guts
with the ties of uncertainty.
Run with it young man!
Seize the gift, I’ll never have
and throw away the foolish fears.
In all my life, I was last to be picked,
until now – and now I can’t play.

Sanity

The silence cries out
as my mind’s eye
seeks out, my heart’s desire.
Dark shadows illuminate
what my restless soul
cannot fathom, nor deny.
Contradiction is the slave
that soothes the wounds
of existential battles with,
metaphysical reality.
Enigmatic understanding
adds stability to sanity’s
firm foundation, of sand.

Who Really Cares?

Children are born
and die needless deaths,
gunfire, crack, brutal moms,
who really cares?

Lovers love and laugh
only to lose and cry
heartbreak, tragedy, suicide
who really notices?

Life revolves
and we turn with it mindlessly
jobs are lost, bankrupt, homeless
who really sees?

Humanity struggles
through the tide of self
I am for me, screw you
who really give a damn?

 

 

Passion’s Sting

Longing’s pain lances my heart
as passion engorges me
relishing its sting as I
deny the overwhelming need.
I bow to your ebullient lust
red-tressed goddess of pathos
willing subjugated by you.
I kneel to the burning bush
as Moses on Sinai.
Tasting beauty’s essence by invitation
hearts conjoined
bodies united
soul meets soul with fervor
passion joins passion in earnest
in love’s unification.
Glory has known no better feast
than this moment with you.

 

 

When the Party’s over

When the party’s over
and the booze bottles
litter the apartment floor.
This is when you find,
who your real friends are.

When the party’s over
and the vomit’s dried,
in your kitchen sink.
This is when you find,
who your real friends are.

When the party’s over
and the cheeto stains
spot your velvet sofa
This is when you find,
who your real friends are.

When the party’s over
and slobbering, snoring drunks
are sprawled on the dinner table.
This is when you find,
who your real friends are.

When the party’s over
and cases of empty beer cans
are piled on your bed
This is when you find,
who your real friends are.

When the party’s over
and used condoms are stuck
to your bathroom mirror.
This is when you find,
who your real friends are.

Your real friend is the one,
who hands you a joint and says:
“Screw  it, we’ll clean it tomorrow.”

 

 

Standing

I stand
at the foot of your bed
speech taken from me
breath haltingly found
the precious gift
I see before me
causes trepidation, fear
and a deep longing beyond understanding

I stand
at the base of your glory
staring intently
at the offering
yet unwilling, unable,
to reach out for it
my self-doubt plagues,
holding me firm to befuddlement.
Cannot comprehend why,
you show me, pitiful me
the path to nirvana.

I stand
at the precipice of joy
confusion, arousal, gratitude
fighting furiously
tearing my soul to shreds
yet never lighting upon
the granite statue you’ve invoked,
as I stand
at the ready
willing, wanting, needing
yet still unable to move

 

Fair Trade

“Lying bitch”,
he tells himself,
quietly, but with venom.
While at the same moment,
taking it back,
knowing it was not meant.
But merely pride’s need,
to cover the pain,
with anger.
He reads her words,
“I’ll always love you”,
and has to laugh,
Unsure of disgust,
hurt, shame, or lust.
Love was something,
she had given him,
in months of passion.
Understanding and joy,
an introduction to a life,
he thought was unreal.
Though they never met,
she touched him deeply,
and he her, so he thought.
“Stupid old man”.
He mutters to himself.
Lasting love with her,
young, wonderful, sexy,
intelligent goddess?
Not in this lifetime.
He straightens himself,
wipes tear from cheek,
and begins to smile.
At least, at least,
he confides to himself,
she had given me something,
a glimpse of my heart,
long forgotten,
the soul long denied,
the passion concealed,
in meaningless lust.
She dug this from me,
showed me the joy,
of my life’s potential.
Yes, she has given me much,
and taken away herself,
A fair trade perhaps,
but not one I sought.

 

 

Summer Nights

Sultry summer air
lying heavily in night
pale, slender form
bathed in sickly neon glow.
Filthy sidewalks and alley-way stench
quickly forgotten, as old Buick slows.
Leaning in, smiling the smile
of hunger and thirst.
Urgent thrusting on torn vinyl seats,
curses and insults barely heard
as John violently satiates his need.
Back by that filthy alley
twenty dollars shoved in the shoe
The scalp hurts from John’s grasp,
the throat hurts from his last gasp.
Pain replacing hunger, then forgotten
as a darkly painted Lexus stops.
Leaning in, smiling sweetly.
Short ride to dark places
No clear view of lusting faces.
Two this time, taking each end
then switching to take them again.
Fifty bucks from this painful tryst.
That sidewalk again, and hateful alley,
as summer nights, thickly settle
upon this dark street
and on this pale boy,
earning enough to eat.

 

I Am

I am the sun and moon.
I am the air and sea.
I am the glory of God,
and the decadence of Satan.
I am the power of the universe,
and the fragility of life.
I am the flesh that gives form,
and the thought that gives substance.
I am the beauty of love eternal,
and the filth of hatred everlasting.
I am the divinity of birth,
and the repugnance of death.
I am the embodiment of pleasure,
and the exquisiteness of pain.
I am all that has been,
and all that will ever be.
I am deity
I am humanity
I am

 

Watch Your Language!

LOL

j/k

a/s/l

where r u at

ROTFLMAO

What does it all mean?
Not philosophically
but literally.
What the hell are they saying?

What happened to English
when the pen and paper left?
What happened to beautiful words,
now that we’re handwriting bereft?

Are we destined to live,
a life shortened to symbols?
Are we willingly diving to a hades,
of abbreviated keystrokes?

To be or not to be, that is the question.

Or is the question really:  2b or not 2b?

 

Mile High Manilow

It was a hot day, that day.
Typical for this part
of the country in late August.

This day, this momentous day,
waking to the sun brought
numbness and fear of thought.

At 11 a.m. I went to the door,
called goodbye to my father
and walked out to the street.

Mom was there, my ride today,
we spoke little as we drove
just about writing, calling and such.

At the bus depot I got out,
a quick hug, a kiss goodbye
and I boarded the bus of life.

I didn’t watch her as I left
I wanted to start my life
Army life, adult life, my life.

From bus to plane in blurry haste,
orders in hand, and still clueless
taking off for parts as yet unknown.

Sipping soda at flying speed,
staring out of the airplane window
as my country slides below me.

Manilow sings to my departure
in sweet sad voice on two dollar earphones
a mile high sonnet for my tears.

 

 

I Thought of You

I thought of you today, and I smiled.

I recalled the melody of your heart,
the lilting scent of your soul,
and joy filled my eyes.

I thought of the exhilaration of your anger,
when I act… not quite right,
and the tempering of your love,
by your acceptance… of just me.

The flavor of your spirit,
filled my very being.
Bringing comfort and sustenance,
to my road weary body.

 

 

Poem

I wrote a poem once,
I thought it very good.
I wrote it for my brothers,
hangin’ around the ‘hood.

I wrote it with feeling,
about my fellow ‘home’s.
all about their dew rags,
and their neatly shave domes.

I wrote about the pistols,
their clubs, knives and Glocks.
I wrote about their razors,
they carry in their socks.

My homey’s read my poems,
had themselves a hoot.
I doubted that I hurt them,
till they began to shoot.

 

 

Let It Ride

Energy shakes my soul,
laughter makes me blind.
Joy lights my heart,
ecstasy grips my mind.

Sadness greets my heart,
sorrow invades my head.
Too much effort to cry,
so I chuckle instead.

Some say I’m weird,
others vote for strange.
But life is much too short,
for me to try to change.

I’ll roam the world,
and saunter through life.
Counting my blessings,
and forgetting my strife.

 

 

Selfish

I think of my own pain
and wonder at why it must be so.
I think of my own sorrows
and curse the gods that make it so.

I turn to see the face
of a child with no coat nor bed.
I stare at the multitude
in similar state – without a bed.

I think of myself
why I am so concerned of my fate.
I will die; someday soon
why live those days in hate?

I have the means
to help those who have none.
I have the chance
to serve others than my one.

My selfishness rips my heart
as I fight sadness and self-pity
my resolve makes me see
all those who suffer within this city.

What is my death
if it means I go away unknown?
What is my life
if it ends with me alone?

 

 

Sadness

Sadness stops me in my tracks,
charging me for the food it eats,
using my soul as a smorgasbord.

Sorrow invades the stillness,
that once was my carefree mind,
upsetting the bounty of thought.

Sadness, sorrow, morose partners,
in the conspiracy to rob me,
of the joy of life and love.

To hell with sorrow and pity,
screw sadness with its petty whine,
gritty life abounds with or without.

Casting aside the shackles of despair,
throwing out the stench of tears,
stomp on the skull of gloom.

Beating despondency with vigor,
chasing melancholy from my heart,
shout the victory cry of cheer.

Joy’s sacrosanctity confirmed,
Laughter’s intoxication felt,
life grants me felicity.

Praise to the powers of being,
hail the spirits of the universe,
for allowing my life on this day.

 

 

Hot Chocolate Dreams

The heavenly host and hot buttered toast.
Sunday prayer interrupted by football
or is the other way around?
Our god is recognized by
the green color of his ink.
Our seasons are celebrated by buying,
giving, and praying about getting.
Put the Christ back in Christmas
if he was there at all.
Let freedom ring! Let it ring!
If it can afford the bell
forgive the sinners who overcrowd hell.
Forgiveness? A joke. This is a word,
that makes mankind choke.
How can you forgive what you do?
When you knew it was wrong. You knew.
Bombs blasting, curses casting
all the while
video games drone on in hot chocolate dreams.

 

 

The Enemy Within

The body fights its enemy within,
The daily struggle for life,
takes its toll on the soul.
War being waged incessantly,
relentless battle eats at my mind.
Medications coming and going,
leaving more pain than relief.
Extend the opportunity to survive,
to continue the battle.
The all-too-hopeless battle,
for one more day, one more day.
Waking at night to void the body’s waste,
waking at dawn, then morning, noon, evening, night…
Illnesses come, beat me down and slip away.
Sicknesses shed easily as a child,
rage within me, vengeful and wild.
Hunger lashes at my gut,
the same gut that refuses to accept a meal.
The people around me smile with no clue,
my battle within never touches their world,
and they are happy for it.
Another day comes,
faced with joy and depression.
Another day dawns,
another day to see my friends,
my family, the world.
Another day comes,
faced with dread and longing.
Another day to fight,
raging for the might.
Another day to see the sun,
which soon will only be night.

 

 

Dawn’s Trance

Waking early,
to morning’s gray.
Steely clouds,
threaten this day.

Birdsong lilting,
in swaying trees.
Rustled by fingers,
of burgeoning breeze.

Sit here quietly,
watching dawn’s ebb.
Through silvery lace,
of black spider’s web.

I rouse from my trance,
and rise to my feet.
Morning’s reverie,
short, but oh so sweet.

 

 

Passion

Passion knows itself
only when faced with itself
love only becomes real
when grated against
by the sandpapery scratch of hate
desire can only be true
when forced to expose
its very essence to the
inquisition of Rome
and in the end
I can only know my heart
by allowing you to touch it.

 

 

Why2k?

I hear the wailing of horrors to come
terrible times waiting in the wings.
I listen to the expectations of
crashes, stoppages, glitches, and death.
Computer death,
the extinction of souls.

Wondering, deep inside myself
if this will be the apocalypse?
If so, what will be the outcome?
the death of the computer god?
Nietzsche claimed god was dead
Rosemary’s neighbors sang the line
I guess they never sat at a keyboard.

I sit, in my library
full of things called books
and stare at the flickering screen,
the deity of society
glaring at me, its reluctant apostle
daring me, to live without
its benevolent guidance and tutelage.

I smile at its all seeing eye
as I realize that its demise
may be my salvation.
My serfdom may be ended
without my need for revolt.
Y2K may kill this god
and leave me free to see
the beauty of the world
through a window that needs no plug.

I sit back at marvel at the wall
lined with pages of script,
old scrolls wrapped in skin
now replaced by paper bound in leather
parchment replaced by cotton fiber
squid ink replaced by heat cured toner.
Yet the words placed upon these tomes
will not die by the change of the date.

I look back grudgingly at the god
one eye glowing, 101 teeth sitting,
waiting for the touch of my fingers.
A god who can perform miracles
but only through my faith and service.

The urge to kill the god fills me
Why 2k? I ask. Why not now?
I reach for the O/- to extinguish
the power of this horrid lord.
Yet, reluctantly I relent,
and instead I touch the teeth
and return to my daily prayers.

 

Confined

It’s cold in here.
The drab cinderblock walls,
urine stained concrete floor,
offer little warmth.
Harsh neon lights,
merciless metal bench,
offer little comfort.
My wrists feel better,
the cuff-welts easing.
My pricked arm itches though’,
“Breath, blood or piss?”
the gauze tape pulls my hair.
Snippets of conversation,
float by casually.
“I didn’t rob no damn store”.
“Freeking cops…. it’s a set up…”
I pay them little mind.
Rubbing my eyes,
stifling a yawn,
fighting the urge to cry.
Aching bladder draws my eye to,
the open, metal, crap-caked hole.
Deciding instead to hold it,
or wet myself trying.
2 a.m. and breakfast arrives,
rubber eggs, cardboard toast,
charcoal, smelling faintly of sausage.
Grunts, groans, chomping, chewing.
My mates seem to like it.
Hangover surely, but vomit threatens.
A small offering to Bubba,
“My food for my shoes, perhaps?”,
Dozing off, head bobbing,
snapping awake quickly,
skull and cinderblock greet savagely.
Finally resigned, I lay out,
my body soaking up the chill,
of the jail cell floor.
Eyes closing, rest coming.
Doors slamming, voices yelling.
I ease myself up,
exhausted, freezing, aching,
“Everyone up and out!”
Following the red line,
then the yellow.
“Sign this, wait here”
“Hey shithead! Against the wall!”
Release! Glorious release!
6 a.m., cold, rainy January,
no coat while I wait.
Payphone line dwindles slowly,
“Collect, from JP”,
“Yeah hon, come get me”,
“Call the tow company first”,
“So we can pick up the car.”

 

My Salvation

Rain gently falling beyond my window
Slate grey sky showing little care
For the mood it imposes on the world

Angel tears streaking the panes of life
Gully washed lives stripped of joy
As depression cleanses all of love

Hopelessness covers the earth
In its death-soaked cloth of pain
Obliterating humanities spirit

Brilliant flashes of citrine erupt
Shattering the charcoal stench of winter
Goddess of amber’s love triumphs

Cold aches replaced by warmth
Soggy sadness of blight and desolation
Cloaked in the Golden fire of love

Bleeding sky drips no longer
As glorious love eternal encompasses
My heart, mind, soul, in saffron bliss

 

 

My Child

You were born in the shadow of my demise
that I would not see you grown was no surprise.
I did my best to raise you right
until I went quietly into the night.
I cared for you in your illness and health
although money was spare, love was my wealth.
No wedding day, nor graduation to see
but meeting your first love was joy to me.
I tried my best to show you warmth and love
I guided you with a velvet and iron glove.
I cry at night knowing I will never see you grey
but I smile inside realizing that we had today.

 

 

Finding Jack

Entering at dusk,
through back doors ajar,
calling for you
hoping for your reply.
Groceries, newly bought
sit upon the table
amidst dishes, and papers
empty Bud bottles and butts.
Kitchen smeared with grease
more dishes scattered about
I call your name again
louder this time.
I study the room saddened
knowing this is how
the old and lonely live.
I notice a carton of milk
opened, warm, but still fresh,
sickening pit in my gut
tells me that all is not right
calling you again
my eyes peering through
dimming light.
Past the photos on the mantle
grandkids, children, long gone
I turn and see you sleeping
in your favorite easy chair
I call once more though I know,
that you cannot answer
nor greet me as before.
Slowly I go to the phone
911
“no, no ambulance is necessary”
Now just a wait
in the other room perhaps…
tell the coroner my tale
of finding you.

 

 

Thinking

I’m sitting here,
thinking to myself
what happened to all I know?
Where did the laughter go
when the candy man came ringing by?
What happened to the tears
of joy that sprung from
songs so eloquently sung?
What became of the beetles,
the butterflies and the little children
that frolicked in the grass of the meadow?
What has become the fate of
the feelings of exhilaration
at first love, first lust, and first frost?
Where have I put the anticipation
of laughter, of sorrow, and fear
when meeting, leaving and losing you?
I’m sitting here
thinking to myself
what happened to all I know?
I ruminate further
answer in sight
as I pour another shot.

 

 

Crap

I take it back,
everything I’ve writ,
though’ well intentioned,
it’s only shit.

His rhyme is forced,
his metaphor sucks.
His pull on pathos
barely plucks.

My own device
pales by compare
I cannot write
the poetic fare.

Artists be warned
when exposed as I
hide thy work
or willingly die.

 

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Comments»

1. Poetry page is finished… | JP's Mind - February 26, 2013

[…] JP’s Poetry […]


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