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.

Adapted

Oh,
how I’ve adapted to my optimism
willing to accept life’s grander lessons
humble enough to recognize my own blessings
so to my pen I offer my present confession.

Oh,
how I’ve relied on my false stability
came to be convinced of my ‘honesty’
relying on a chemical support system, chronically
and now freed, thus far, into peaceful irony.


2003

I Am

I.
I am not everything I pretend to be. For
my heart wants me a Romeo, my soul
wishes me a poet, and my thoughts are
fooled, thinking me a god. This world
wants me to be tomorrow’s fallen angel;
to soak in its sorrow.

II.
Yesterday has insisted I carry its burdens,
as today is confused about where I dwell;
I myself, am closing my eyes with the
hope I shall sleep in peace, forever. I am
not everything I pretend to be.


1994

Still, Perfected

I can still write love poems.
Not just silhouettes and their assigned words.

I can still put you in the middle
After all the mechanical failures in our (connected) souls.
I can still offer you truth, on paper
Because I know something else of your existence;
I know where it glows -

I’ve seen better days, when the sparkle in your eyes
Makes for a formidable challenge -
To the twinkle of champagne.
I taste its sweetness with my heart
And bear it’s lightness on my tongue.

How these days of an unbroken chain, turned -
To cracked porcelain; sometimes we hurt.

Still, how I would take the broken pieces over the world.

Because the faith I find in my mortality - in us
Allows for simplicity. Even hidden -
This is why I can still write love poems.
For inside the words is where I find you, perfected.


To Heather
Circa 2002

A Poet

A poet is someone who speaks of ordinary things with tempting eloquence. Always trying to convince you that these things are greater or lesser than your senses say they are; much of it may be nonsense, simply wrapped well.

For you it will not make much sense. The purpose is the poets alone. For him it serves as therapy for a mind moving too quickly and a hand that moves twice that. He claims no obligation.

But still how beautifully the music of the soul accompanies - as the poet hijacks the written word and leaves behind his peace.

What is left - but a residue: Glints of silver dust. He calls it poetry; we take his word for it. And somehow, in the end, we are all fine with that.

I Come

I come with words.
They have guided me here .

Take them in and protect them -
Even if I am not given the esteem of your order.
Disregard the bareness of my actions.
Forgive me the plainness of my mortality.

I come with words.
Take them in and protect them.

A Stranger. A Pilgrim.

“Death has a thousand doors to let out life: I shall find one.”
- Massinger

I am a stranger.
I keep my legs crossed
And my eyes shut lightly.
I sit in a dark room -
A familiar spot, every moon;
Fully aware of my abeyance
And content with it’s “third person draw.”
I have been here before
Mingling with my other lives -
Staring at myself in full three dimension
And laughing at my careless humanity.

I can’t speak the language I once could
But -- I remember well the words.
They were strong and high order, cachet and poetic.
And how they arranged them to please my wit -
And how they tumbled from my pen on command.

But where now, I ask, is that friction that sparks this prose?
Where is that sudden storm that thrusts me into myself - now?

I must have been a strange creature - this one;
Whipping forward a good word
While on pilgrimage, go I, into the nothingness.

June 21, 2008

Substitutions and compensations
Connect the words for me today.
How I have searched for the original voice, lately;
Fear and aloofness have retained the best of me.

As if time was mine to compromise -
Hoping my posterity may forgive me as I fall short.

Resistance or My Feet

I hope my own creative resistance
Sparks a bit of civil mischief
While I hide in the shadows
And keep a safe distance.

I'll come to steal a finer word
From others it comes so sweet
Then I'll take to the air and get a birds eye view
Before I’ve mastered my feet.

Meditation: June 5, 2006

Once your wings danced with the sky
like the cursive poetry as a butterfly.
You sang in your silence
about destiny,
now you have landed to see it through.
Divinely appointed to this great moment
shall you carry your will or let the wind carry you?


The very direction you move, now
mandates hope in your journey.
There will be joy in the way you tread.
But ease begets ease; remember this.
Your soul will challenge you for the better.

It is your broken heart
which must be emptied
before the miracle of Truth fills you.
So resist not the tokens of this chosen realm
whether they come polished...
or they come tarnished.


To Dina

Meditation: May 3, 2006

When the monsoons come
in a great blinding curtain of dust
to paint the valley
my poetry will find it can fly;
like broken leaves
who have made an alliance with the wind
to be carried over and beyond,
content to travel with whatever life
remains in them.

Clatter

My lesser self comes
with a clatter,
heavy steps purposely -
aimed to shake the attention
of the rest of me.
Like a state of drunkenness -
sleep walking, blindfolded;
cursing under its foal breath.

How it loves to throw its weight around;
looking to take command
of the day.
How hasty it makes my senses react;
allied with impatience and selfishness.

Mine, mine, mine -
my lesser self comes.

Jesus, Buddha and Bill Wilson

Deliberate contributors.

Actors
of both love and self-preservation.

Architects of the divine;
connecting moments with then to the now.
Ones to move along,
infusing
each generation behind the previous one
with great hope.

Prophets.
Anticipating the time when the world would wake;
heed their call
one by one.

Transparent servants;
laboring in a myriad of paradox.

Philosophers of The Original Thought;
ones to press forward
the ripples of perpetual Stillness.

Professors of the One Truth;
forwarding, through the madness
a message of joy,
of fulfillment.

Crowned princes of wholeness;
being the ties that bind
or the binds that free.

Wizards
ones to light the torch of man.

Masters
of their still, divided cause.


February 2006

I, Humbly, Peeked

A parcel of light
hewn down
from the highest heights.
One to touch my hard-baked soul
even to pierce my parched, empty spirit.

Contingent on my will to open ‘mine eyes’
so to welcome a polished glow
for my being;
eyes from which I humbly peek.

To learn just enough;
to hear the sound of a distant whisper.
Yes, to feel the cadence of a marching force.

To yearn enough;
to lie by the wayside the self pity of
‘mine own’ maladies.
Yes, to compel my senses to soften themselves
so to be permeable to
a parcel of light.

Whisper of Babylon

I frolicked too many days
with the whisper of Babylon
over my shoulder; envious
of the peace I turned my back to.
With the pompous nobility I mustered up
I called it valid - for
my Father had forsaken me.

Oh, my despair - how you
bound me - assured me
in my sickened moments,
all was well in the temple,
the madness was outside the gates;
‘t would be err’ to
excuse the guards
so then to threaten my ‘truths’
under the whisper of Babylon.

In The Sunshine

I lie out best I can - my ways to happiness;
left my footprints in the sunshine.
The paths that found their ways through the shadows
are tucked away from you.
There is a course that reels out of me, from my torso
connected to my fibers;
extended lengths of my nerves.
I’ll leave signs to better you. Read them please
for I lie out, best I can - my ways to happiness.


April 24, 2004
To Bailey and London

notes (In My Pen)

I stretch out my soul to keep peace in my mind;
To find the cosmos are alive within me.
The universe is contained in me.

My mind keeps me busy at this juncture.
It holds me close to the residue I call memories,
It gets me from A to B.
It equates for me, common sense and reason.
It rarely fails me unless I infect it;

When it fails me it is slow to notify me.

Must has been said. So Little by me.
So I know there is still much therapy in me pen.

Outside, Orion

Outside my front door
Stands Orion.
Points - shadowing a great warrior,
Mounting the darkness.
One to guard the sky,
To rule the night,
To keep an eye on my better interests.
While I turn a cheek to my regrets -
I stand, fully erect
And halfway aware;
Motionless atop nature’s green shag carpet,
speaking to Orion

The Zombie, God and Lust

all my inhibitions left outside the door
replaced by all my moral decay, swept up from the floor.
all my timely habits - revolving ‘round my God
replaced by all the chaos, deceit, distrust and fraud.
all my evolving wisdom - the root of all my pride
all my intelligence countered - by all these ancient lies.
(and still no pity for my pain)

all my inhibitions that I so kindly left behind
stand me up and set me straight and push me near the line.
instantaneous retrospection before my judgment seat
shall take me back some twenty years, to taste, by hell - its’ heat.

all the inspiration, in men, who found their death
urging the rest to ‘battle’ - to ‘the cause’ if nothing less.
all the chasing, all the plotting to arise the human soul
leaving none, save sorrow - to fill these jagged holes.
all the words bending - inside the human mind
spew out the lips and burn the ears of those we left behind.
(we ‘kindly’ left behind)

yet still (we toast these traditions, our customs, idols and lore)
making me pause to wonder - what is all the killing for?

perhaps, something we could never face: all the faults of man?
something He could never halt, by His flawless hand?
all the hate we nourished, plant seeds then went along
countered by a few old verse (that told us it was wrong)
and the countless children, marching
straightly - to the tune of fear
wrapping chains around their hearts
afraid of crying their ‘poisonous’ tears
(afraid of crying)

and all our inhibitions, trampled to the dust
perpetuated by our hate, the zombie, God and lust

1990

Silver, Glassy Cages

Dimmer comes the morning’s wake
divided, by demons, and the
Monster’s take -
mastered, perpetual
betwixt,
the after math and daily hope (the overdose)
and the gone, rank - better half.

Running, panting
outside silver glassy cages
gently begs the record of (nonsense)
on broken pages -
powered by heightened rages -
a spotlight on moldy toothpick stages
the ‘dead’ bought and sold
cracked hands of (narcotic) sages.
bounded by foot
chained to truths - faded

(is that all we leave on our plates?)
to call, hence, a circle of footprints
a worthy stake?

The Monster comes -
stilled, to devour
guarded, by his silver, glassy power.
a congress: of force
guided by a numbed, mis-guided
architect
through the silver, glassy cage
(made whole by demons)
the Monster deems
his take.

So, the best - swim
most drown
under a giant’s thumb - pressed down
An evil sunrise to dark new ages
lies (inside) the addict
of silver, glassy cages.

Meditation: February, 2006

To be damned is never
to taste the melody so sweet.
In this world of illusion
folded over, like an unfurled flag
in shades of magenta.
Oh, how it tries to be real
but remains, cardboard cut-outs.

This one more death is personal:
I, downed by a man in a
black derby,
dirty blonde hair,
missing two teeth.

Everyone wants to be in the spotlight
that shines from beyond the clouds.
Strange isn’t it how any of us could
be so excited about this realm.
A golden age, fool’s gold.

It’s a slaughtered mess;
a butchers shop, this life.
I am a chameleon that remains safe
always, scarlet red.
All the while the jaws snap quickly at me,
piranha quick.

And through the twisted gums
and broken teeth, the demon says:
“Start from scratch, you could be so much more.

I understand the implication
but his bargain is bare;
his logic is a debate
over a three sided square.

Maybe God hasn't created anything real yet.
Maybe Earth is just a prototype.

Potatoes and Rice

Virtues and Vice,
potatoes and Rice,
the conditions of mortals
and our staples of life.
We all got an angel
tripping over our heels.
We all got a demon
there for the kill.
We all got a smile
we don't use enough.
We all have a sadness
we play on too much.
We all have potatoes.
We all have our rice.
We all got our virtues.
We all got our vice.

Sign Post

Love is the sign post that arrests despair.

We need not only acknowledge
the Light in one another,
but remind one another
of the Light we share,
and it's capacity to heal.
This is love
and that is the sign post.

Maybe

Maybe when it is all over
we will see God
with the face of the one
we despise the most;
the one we could never forgive.
Maybe that would be
our last and most ironic lesson.

Doctor Martin Luther King

Every group, nation or peoples slandered by evils’ tilted ways;
that has invested its methodology in an ignorant and archaic enterprise
needs a man “who has a dream.”
A man who's interests are calculated by a freeing, just God.
A man who is instructed in his motives by a whisper of the divine.
A man who stands witness to an equality and a free will
that forces a united plane.
A man who knows that this spiritual freedom,
endowed by The Mighty - is the way - beyond mortality’s limited view.
Being tempered by the flames of love
our own tolerance is strengthened and our own peace retained,
for another day, because of that man.

A Mighty Love

I'd like to leave you a mighty love;
I ache to speak those words that sing.
But I am left to utter fleshy sounds
that come from this fleshy machine.

My Love

You won’t agree with me, my love.

But we all enter heaven
On our own terms.
Some by the sweat on our brows.
Some on the whimper of our victim hood.
Some, following the stars in their eyes.
Some through ignorance
And those who are simply lost.
Beyond this dance we go…

There is no “chance meeting” with
The Father, my love
We will return,
as expected,
exactly as scheduled
Because it is where we belong.