How oft the brittle well
Will give drink in drought
To those who need it more.
Each drop a weakening sigh,
Recognition of the coming sleep
As parched lips pray for one more.
Cups filled with survival
At the cost of living;
Broken hearts mending broken souls.
Till rain comes again
Drenching the world in kind
With love deeper than any well.
She’s my catalyst
Accelerated demise
Burning me alive.
On the road is where I belong
Always passing through
But never staying–
Long enough to get attached.
The cares are drowned in the rush of wind
And the silence of the nights
Barren of human life.
The stars are my companions
The moon, my vacant candle
Illumination unmerited by fate.
Pictures are all I have of memories
Faded, brittle prisons of thoughts
Scattered upon the dash and floor,
Marked by muddy footprints
And salty snow.
I sleep in my haven
Of gentle woodland grove
And find the dreams that catch me there
Are the only ones worth chasing.
What are my words
To the blind, mute and deaf?
Illegible scrawling by a broken hand
Twisting and falling
Failing to realign the sailor off-course.
What are lines to mountains
When shapes and grooves
Bend and snake their way
With rough mannerisms
And heavy tongues?
What are songs to the valleys
Whose melodies ring triumphant
And the wind recalls nary a note,
Its stanzas superior to man?
What are feelings to the ocean
Wide, deep and wise
Untainted by regret?
What is love
To the willow by the lake
Whose hair dips low?
What is hate
To the moss underneath?
These I ponder as I lie awake
Yet I still write…
For what?
To live, not merely survive.
“You are not a real person”
Those were her words
Unpolished, yet whole
Sincere
Nothing more and yet,
Need there be?
Her scent upon my coat
I lie in warmth unrelenting
Pressing luck like flowers
Polaroid stills of perfect sighs
Stuck between clear sleeves
Transparent phrases and gestures
Frozen in time,
Suspended in animation
Of feelings I suppress and deny
Refusing my admission
Heretofore so clear.
“Real people don’t think that.”
Yes. Yes they do,
But they lack the words to express
The feeling of caressing
Your ears with truth.
It is my gift to describe
Exactly how you make me feel
And yours to make it so inadequate.
Your smile shatters my thoughts
Sending shards of bitterness,
Brittle traces of cognition
Conditioned to your grace.
Your laughter shakes my soul,
Dislodged logic careening
Scattering upon the floor
Plans and designs unmet.
Like fragments of light
Fracturing upon your hair
Lines of color, hue and depth
Reflect unborn words.
Still life portraits of our days
Hang in solemn places
Secluded and unjustly set,
Ashes mingled with acrylic.
Textured phrases pass our lips
Brushing crimson on pale faces
Alive with shades of warmth
Gently across a perfect canvas.
Traces of your heart stain your hands
Shadows of your creations
Dotted like constellations unseen,
Otherworldly beautiful chaos.
A ruffled feather in the wind
Tossed in airy waves
Churned by notions of grandeur
Such is the beginnings of love.
Clouded eyes reflect illusions
Where personalities are lost
In representations of perception
Pantomime performances
By clowns with broken limbs
Signing a language they don’t know
Or will ever try to understand.
When you say “I love you,”
To whom are you speaking?
The man or the vision
The woman or the dream
The human
Or the fantasy
Designed to pleasure the creator?
Can you truly believe
That your snapshot can portray
The billion words and thoughts
That dot the constellations
That guide their every day?
Can you call this love?
Some do.
We tilt on axises undescribed
By the fictions of our youth
Shaded from the harsh glares
Of misrepresentation,
A slap across the face of our forefathers
Seen through glasses shattered
By years of tyranny and supplication
Denied.
We spin like tops without a table
Unstable motion compromised by hate,
Blindness conjured through misinformation
And the passive acceptance of the mob
Majority ruled by iron clad robes
Trying to bleach the masses
Like diversity is filth instead of beauty
Defined.
War erupts on assumptions based in fiction
Friction set in motion by forces moved by
Riches of the land before their people
Nations reduced to GNPs and ashes
Statistics grayed out in time
Crumbling in the winds of lies
Designed.
A train leaves Detroit at 6:15;
How long does it take
To begin to realize
You’re going the wrong way?
Bridges pass by in blurs
Hazy representations
Lines of forms fragmented,
Faulty transcriptions of the mind.
The whistle blows
As stacks of steam obscure
Innocence stained by dark coal,
And spots on a white sky.
Murmurs fade as darkness falls
And eyes begin to rest
Shadows fade to blackness,
Peace.
At dawn’s light,
Journey’s end
Trails to a stop;
But have you really moved?
A glance takes in the changes,
A rural town for the city
Grass and trees for concrete mountains
Green and yellow for red and gray.
Footsteps seem softer here,
But not quite…
Determination’s lost somehow,
Yet, there is purpose.
Morning is bustling still,
But in a merry sort of way,
Full of light and humor
More greetings than scorn.
It seems a dream in waking,
An impression of a thought
Etched, dyed and pressed
Into your eyes.
Yet, no illusion is present
But the one in your heart,
Bourne of grief and fear
Of woe and past lives.
Past lies entangled
Like lines of crimson peppermint
Bloching the ivory face
Of time.
Bury your secrets
Like brittle coffins,
Misshapen representations
Containing remnants of past lives
Decomposing fibers disconnecting
Shedding splinters and dust.
Loosely held convictions
Scrapping the sides of your grave
Crumble like pastries
Poisoned with promises unrequited
Fractures obscene and unsaid
Shifting blame and purpose.
Tilted perspective lines the inner sanctum
Comforting the frigid corpse
Lips blue with the touch of hesitation
Alight with the echoes of all undone
Pieces of cloth encircle madness
Expressing anger and remorse.
Shards of glass protect the sleeping
Light engulfed in recompense
Shafts of shade lull the weakened
Pages fading into sand.
Moonlit Poetry 