Hovering Over Hollowville

I held my life up to the sun
and traced around its edges;
they were as smooth as could be expected.
A cross-section of a butterfly wing
stacks of colors,
nature and her graffiti
How it falls quick from our mind’s eye
as it looses our attention.
I wonder how it dissipates so smoothly;
like its been here before and left - out the same door.
Like a poem about D.B. Cooper named:
“The Poor Cult and The Wealth of It’s Personality.”

There’s a harmony. Sounds (tip-toeing) drops
from a waterfall or maybe a faucet.
It stirs me awake
so I take the moment to check my pulse
and I hear my Life tick-tock.
It sounds like this: “Thump, Thump.”
My God pays overtime, so I police my health.
It is why it may be a surprise, but it won’t be a coup,
on my watch.

I say when it is all over, life is a straight line.
Straight and beautiful.
I almost expect to hear the clouds cheer -
when they part
to let the sun back through.

2008

I have to agree that John McCain is a better politician than Barrack Obama.
And that is exactly why I can't vote for McCain.

Put a pen in my hand, while I'm on my death bed.
Then you can truly say, he died doing what he loved.

Political traitors and economic traitors are one in the same.

strange how we start life kicking and screaming then we push and manuever.
it is either age or wisdom
when you realize that life is a slow dance
and you slow down, to enjoy the dance.

brand new world

my eyes awoke to a brand new world
betwixt - my heaven, my hell
i tossed a - lighter - dream onto my back
straightened, wore my smile well

i stumbled over - an uprooted memory
as i rolled - down from my bed
buried it next to another thought
that of - to be -left dead

while dragging my way across the hall
i bumped - into - an aging regret
i nodded - a nod - impersonal
and then -my silence - to myself - i kept

i wrestled hope - from deep in my pocket
and - left it - soaked to my tongue
then - stomping into this brand new world
with that - my life - had begun


1994

LJD

May angels flock to you,
to consider your greatness.
To share the warmth - of your contribution
to the complete life cycle.

May your shoulders always anchor your head
so it might not leave your best interests behind.
May your intentions, guided straightly, be realized.

May good graces, attend you
while a wealth of peace be the charge you take.

Bring with you always
a sensitivity for the freedom of all;
let it be a theme you parallel.

Might you live - long - face to the sun
always letting your reputation precede your footprints.
Forge on with respect
with love, in solitude
and leave along
- in your wake -
a legacy of humility and joy.


To London
2002

So Long

You wait so long for someone
to take the barrel from your mouth;
to ease your arms to your side
and wrap theirs around all the hurt -
then there fingers resting quietly
on your leg reassuring you
that the pain finds company with the moon
and the sunrise will give to you
redemption -
and when you finally fall away
you realize that there is a space
long and hollow
between your' torsos
and the barrel tickles you tounge again.


Circa 1995

Masks

“So many to choose from,” cried the boy as he grew.
His parents taught him well, oh yes they knew.
“Always be on your guard, never let anyone know
inward feelings and thoughts you should never show.”
And as manhood approached he took advice
until he wore his masks
not thinking twice.
Of course a different mask for every occasion
and so through the years avoided life’s invasion.

A mask of humility to God’s house he treads
silently wishing the church furnished beds.
A mask of compassion for those hurting within
all the time thinking what’s in it for him.
A mask of awareness which he thinks is real
but no mask can replace the ability to feel.
As age settled in he became prone
to wear his mask when even alone.
For his mask had become reality
no sadder a fate could ever be.
Old and gray, soon to die
the man removed his mask to cry
looking closely at what he’d become
he took down a letter and wrote to his son…

“Life is no masquerade, the world’s not a tool.
Masks are worn by the scared or the fool. Because in the end
all there will be, is a mirror reflecting the image of me.”

These words are written in stone and rock
so no one need forgot the old man’s lot.
To enter the cemetary there is but one task;
a marker explains –
“Please be courteous and remove all masks.”

T.V.E.

This poem below was written by someone at school a long, long time ago...I can't remember her name, but her initials were T.V.E. I always loved it...

God bless those that are more selfless than I.
They keep the infinite balance, for the rest of us.

E.D.

It is difficult to know
How she may have spoke.
When she wrote
It was as if she was dictating
The words of an angel;
One that knew too well, for this realm.

How the words have danced through time
While, I know, she only glimpsed their immortality
From a dark corner.

It makes me wonder, in my awe
Was it a speaking voice or a magical wand?

Poor are the poorest
who drinks life
and hates its gall,
but still - are fearful of death.

How they make this life their limbo.

You must not press forward into,
but draw back into abstraction.
With rest enough in its odd burrow
its wild beat will carry you your way.

A Skeptics Joyful Taste

It would take a formidable force
To keep you from being a good man.

We, us two, have come a long way;
Extended lengths of silence
For me to realize
We cannot truly be divided.

Yours is a voice that agrees with my existence;
It echoes well - through me.
Like a skeptics joyful taste of truth.

So now I remain humble - as I see
More clearly beyond you -
Understanding better your Master.


To Dad
2007

How we prop up the foolish - despite the evidence before us
and bury the ignorant - prior to investigation.