Darger Poetry (Jamie)

Hovering Over Hollowville

2008-12-02T19:44:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-03T18:19:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-10-30T19:25:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-10T10:45:00.000-07:00

Political traitors and economic traitors are one in the same.

2008-09-08T22:06:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-26T20:37:00.001-07:00

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

2008-08-26T20:34:00.001-07:00

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

2008-08-26T20:31:00.001-07:00

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

2008-08-26T20:27:00.001-07:00

“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...

2008-07-28T16:25:00.000-07:00

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

E.D.

2008-07-28T16:21:00.001-07:00

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?

2008-07-28T16:13:00.000-07:00

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

How they make this life their limbo.

2008-07-28T16:09:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-28T16:07:00.001-07:00

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

2008-07-28T16:01:00.000-07:00

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

Adapted

2008-07-14T21:09:00.001-07:00

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

2008-07-14T21:03:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-14T20:37:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-09T18:34:00.001-07:00

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

2008-07-09T18:25:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-07-09T18:20:00.001-07:00

“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

2008-07-09T18:19:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-21T11:04:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-14T22:59:00.001-07:00

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

2008-06-14T22:56:00.001-07:00

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

2008-06-14T22:53:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-14T22:51:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-13T17:43:00.001-07:00

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

2008-06-13T17:41:00.001-07:00

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

2008-06-13T17:39:00.001-07:00

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)

2008-06-07T21:45:00.001-07:00

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

2008-06-02T20:39:00.001-07:00

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

2008-05-29T21:37:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-29T21:35:00.001-07:00

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

2008-05-29T21:32:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-01-29T18:26:00.001-08:00

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

Potatoes and Rice

2008-01-29T18:21:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-29T18:18:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-21T19:09:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-21T16:52:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-19T20:56:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-15T16:38:00.000-08:00

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.

Certain Times

2007-11-19T21:17:00.000-08:00

There are certain times
when all things come gracefully to your plate:
The overwhelming gratitude
climaxes
and the opportunities
seem endless.

There are certain times when everything
you know pauses
and you and your comrades in spirit
take a slow jaunt through
The length of one moment;
purposely, like sponges absorbing life.
Moving quietly behind
your own heartbeats
while finding blessing
in every breath;
inhaling the magnitude of the human experience.

This is one of those times.

To Ever
October 29, 1998

Appeal

2007-11-19T21:15:00.001-08:00

‘Appeal the decisions - fellow beings
appeal the misfortune an’ painful things.
Ask for mistrial - make your objection:
Ask for more love, kindness and affection’

Burton Sunrise

2007-11-19T21:12:00.000-08:00

Predictable, but not promised, comes this morning,
Man waited by - the night
to resurrect his mortality
massaged by gifted light.

The meandering wonder, the morning’s rise
over the horizon’s lip.
To compromise the fainting moon
as the stars bow -- then dip.

Hallowed is the clouded glow
that breaks through by it’s fire,
to blanket, both, man and beast;
majestic arrival.

There! A message it comes to bring
speaking the language - Now.
(cradled in the Hands of mighty awe)
sings: “Turn, breath, live, grow!”

Coaxed by order it keeps it’s course
through the blinding glare,
“I’ve come to execute your sight,
I am your sun, still
I am here.”

J'ai Vecu

2007-11-18T21:20:00.002-08:00

Do I play the king well?
(Is the crown transparent
my ego in reflection.
Is the golden key to my kingdom
strapped to my heart;
majestic or stealth
to my intentions?)

Is it now
that I accept nobility
more than before
or am I not the hierarchy
proposed by my hands?

I know of this:
A villain, I feel
wearing my shoes.

I come to terms with my misery
by holding my apathy
and lie
by a showing of my teeth.
I court the day, with magic
for it knows little of
death
that silently, purposely
guards my reserved moment.

Learned

2007-11-18T21:17:00.000-08:00

‘...but to fill with hope this void of gray.’

What I’ve learned
and heard
and seen
is hardly what I claim to be;
that of choice and fear and empathy
and all the misery between.

Some same, “Misery loves it’s company”
while others think, “I don’t give a damn.”
Either way - its wind may blow
to the lot of them: I am what I am.

Some say honor burns brightly, some blindly
a torch - per say - for truth.
I say, “Come to terms with idealism,
either way - fools - I want proof.”

I Saw A Picture Tonight

2007-11-17T22:44:00.000-08:00

I saw a picture tonight.

It was of a man with only one arm
And only one leg, sitting
By the side of a dirty river,
Bathing his two young children.

I thought to myself:
Look at this man.
Know that God’s love
Reflects on him
As much as it does
on yourself.

And a sense of relief,
Accompanied by peace
came over me.

Maybe because I could
Feel I was not taking
More than I am allotted
of God’s attention.
Or maybe that I could
never
Fall low enough
not to qualify
For His love.
Or maybe it was all about
Gratitude for me
Or sympathy for them.

But surely it must have been this:
No one may notice
This man and his children
But I had been assured
In a moment
That God did.

Lost

2007-11-17T18:14:00.000-08:00

Dividing Light

2007-11-17T15:10:00.001-08:00

There is a dividing light - parting
partaking by those to come
partook by those to leave.
Nestled carefully between is divinity
balanced flawlessly
(a center)
in the prism of all
development and decadence.

Spanning from Alpha to Omega;
catching in its web - both
ignorance and defiance -
yes - all that justice places
and mercy regards, between.

Am I arriving at my destination
or am I denying my journey?
Am I careful to enhance humanity
or is my apathy well enough?
Am I one step from the dividing light
or am I once step past it?

Ego's Philosophy

2007-11-17T15:01:00.000-08:00

Surely
to feel the reality
like astronomy
bearing down on me.
Like the gods crying
catastrophe;
will I burn in hell?
Well we’ll just have to wait and see.

My bad luck
is my new ‘winning’ streak
But every breath - I breath
still brings life to me.
But when I die, I pray not the eulogy:
‘Here he fell
- downed -
by his ego’s philosophy.’

Giant

2007-11-17T14:56:00.000-08:00

I am a giant today.

I will carry a voice of prayer at every moment.
I know my breath is on lease by a Greater Party and can be taken at any moment.
I will keep my eyes open, my heart free of selfishness; as so to acknowledge,
to accept the smallest of miracles.
I will adopt the words of angels.
I will amend my anthems according to personal revelation.
I will take one or two steps closer to the light; I will not be idle.

I am a giant today.

I will have love and tolerance towards all.
I will hold my tongue to protect the dignity of others.
I will, in humility, yield to my own evolution:
From notion to knowledge to wisdom.
I will be sincere.
I will take personal responsibility for my actions.
I will lead my family to the sunshine.

I am a giant today.

I will define my motives, to keep recklessness at bay.
I will respect others free will, expecting the same.
I will take a little less and give a little more.
I will take action, with mercy.
I will approach no one on bended knee, save it be God.

I am a giant today.

When She Was Here

2007-11-16T22:07:00.000-08:00

When she was here
she was
like fear stuffed away,
like pain in remission,
like innocence evolving.
She was my Juliet.

But now that she’s gone
It’s a short distance from my lips to my ear.
It’s like a long walk with sorrow;
holding hands with anger.
Like listening to the memories play their tune, fading;
like tears lingering on stone eyes.

Untitled

2007-11-16T22:02:00.000-08:00

Someone said
I had to begin again.
Living life with all the sin, again.
All the hopes and ‘nopes’ and giving, in again.
Someone said
I had to begin again.

Someone said
I had to move ahead they said.
Living life with what’s in my head, they said.
All the blood I’ve bled and love I’ve shed, they said.
Someone said
I had to move ahead.

September 22, 1992

She Is No Coward

2007-11-16T21:59:00.000-08:00

She’s lost in a crowd even when she’s silently alone.
Even when there is not, not even one shadow to entertain her imagination.
But what ‘they’ say or what ‘they’ do is enough
to materialize, real life, in her head, when all else is gone.
I suppose she knows she has to face ‘them’ tomorrow
or the next day or someday, too soon.

There is a voice, stilled, whispering logic behind everything else
in her head. An outline in the doorway and between them - a mob
of dark figures, spinning and pushing.
Sometimes she seems as if she can’t come to the beckoning of it;
she can never get close enough.

Maybe she’s got too many memories wired to the smell
of these things, of anything -
She feels like crawling into a corner, tail between her legs;
she is no coward, but she’s lost her ‘battle plan.’

I was there. I know it was ‘peachy’ when there was nothing to be done
or always something to say.
The madness, she thought, crept in one night, but it was always there.
I imagine she ran too fast in her youth to take notice
or excused it as a glitch in mortality.

She was making head way, I saw it in her eyes;
the wind to her back. Any friends about would vouch for her, as I.

Now she looks, as she feels there is a hole in her head and all of lives’
meaningful things out, drifted up.
Tired and confused like a broken ‘vet’
who’s war cry is now a whisper, crackling
through a tube in his neck.

To Heather
2005

I, Humbly, Peeked

2007-11-15T21:03:00.001-08:00

Our Epitaph

2007-11-15T20:58:00.001-08:00

Thus - it is written:
in blood - our epitaph.
In Greek - our travels
hanging dangerously from the clock.
My own is of ‘ash foundation’ and ‘golden feet’
as I have repeated in an all too odd fantasy:
The fair skin and red brow
the shapely teeth, on the carefully
conspicuous smile.
‘Cold air and warm lips’
tightly pinched together to keep our ‘real’ alive;
like my own cancerous egg.
Wasted - filler proposing replacements for -
the lovers.
But still in our hands, closely woven in another time
(precise in its function)
lied down a web - so faithfully knotted.
And yours - is the name sung from trumpets
tattooed on many a palm
the feathers of a nodding angel
plucked, prematurely.
But - now - with voice
the mass must recognize your eyes -
a miracle, none the less, like from the banks of the Red Sea;
by your right hand - blind men shall see.
And now, I must understand how the inspiration
comes, motivated by ‘the experience’ and not the fantasy of.
How the blank space - between us - lacks hope
and cultivates, only tragedy;
played out, written in blood
our epitaph

To Heather
February 1998

Cukoo Birds

2007-11-15T20:56:00.000-08:00

Do you feel as though we’ve ‘spread’ ourselves?
Stretched ourselves too far - fighting armies
from a multiple of fronts;
like ‘shrink’ wrap lying, warping, slowly against the heat.

Like a pair of cuckoo birds - wound too loosely -
who barely step outside the clock - into the sun;
running - in place - as fast as we can.
Carrying with us a basket full of our misfortunes.

We’ve come from two far camps, equally diverse or simply bland.
What we devise inspire the next of us - the upgrades
inside our four walls - into the sunlight.
Our equation for our offspring is to make them free;
free will is always the standard - the hope - of great people.
Like giant scrolls furled open before us - defining our plans;
read - between the lines is profound, indefinable love.

Do you feel as though we’ve ‘stacked’ ourselves?
Towering from the heights, teetering - swaying
from a multiple of fronts;
like a rising wave, fighting, firmly against the wind.

Like a pair of cuckoo birds - wound too tightly
who would soon as peck at your hand as to shake it;
frozen - in place - praying as humbly as we can.
Carrying with us a basket full of our opportunity and misfortunes.

To Heather
2005

Sweet

2007-11-13T11:54:00.000-08:00

I never told you
about so many things:
the cotton candy and elastic dreams
that taste so sweet but always seem
to snap back at me.

I told you once
of my weak element
all cracked and faded
and broken and bent
and you left me.

2007-11-13T10:16:00.000-08:00

There have been lifetimes before
and still lifetimes yet,
but for this lifetime
patience is the anthem
and kindness the way.

2007-10-22T21:37:00.000-07:00

Will God interrupt the voice which is false -
So we may arrive where "true stillness" resides?
In that stillness where the soul truly moves.

2007-10-22T21:34:00.000-07:00

Wisdom carries itself in the splinters.
What then of a fallen tree?
Let us carve it into a wonderful shrine
and spread its seeds.

Travels of Love

2007-10-20T08:59:00.000-07:00

I feel the love in me go out and go into you.
A test of compassion without the effort.
The flow of the divine empathy, near me
traveling through me.
It is not my love - but the Greater Love.
I must recongnize the grace in it
or it stops in me
and dissolves.
And so this is my call to action -
to continue its movement
these ripples
as the perpetual travels of love.

Unfinished Moment

2007-10-20T00:02:00.000-07:00

Today I (nearly) died.
My demons would like to claim this victory here;
claiming I was merely a spoil of war.

But in reality the poison ran out;
the poison always runs out.
With the poison I ran out, and I ran and I ran…
And you always come down.
Just like that, I came down,
but six feet down is as far down I came come.

I forgot someone told me
that life is always “fresh”
if you look for the miracles.
I - only knew life was always “frozen”
If I passed them by.

So today I (nearly) died.

My Contribution To This Earth

2007-05-07T16:07:00.000-07:00

And my body will fall like a brick to this earth
stale and cold, lying peacefully on the ground of my own
Gethsemane:
This Garden of pain.

Lead tears may travel the long path down my cheeks,
but they cannot tickle a dead man.

And maybe a lone traveler, one hundred years hence
may stumble over this patch of grass
so bright and green, tall with sharp blades;
maybe to sit here for rest. If this be so, may their joy be great,
for this patch of grass just may be the most beautiful
ever known.

And below in the moist soil, my sacrifice to life,
which is so ironically, death.
My contribution to this earth.

In this place lodged between heaven and hell
where I have dwelled for such a short time.
This same place that has given me nothing,
save a broken heart and a tear stained face,

where I once prayed to my God:
“May I never forget the pain this world gave me,
so that I may never return.”

1992

I Am Drug

2007-05-05T20:41:00.001-07:00

I am a drifter.
I am a splinter on the two by four of life.
I am a liar.
I am the fire engulfing your heart.
I am a broken down dream.
I am a seam on a ragged old pair of jeans.
I am absent.
I am a blister on your sole (soul?)
I am the last snow.
I am a ‘no’ on prom night.
I am night.
I am a bite from the dog next door.
I am a king.
I am a god.
I am a anticipating nod acknowledging your presence.
I am sound.
I am that pound on your front door.
I watch you sink.
I am in your bed, in the corner of your room.
I am fear.
I am a mirror of the world’s reality.
I am fearful.
I am just another tear.
You love me.
I hate you.

I am Drug.

Hail To The Men

2007-05-05T20:38:00.000-07:00

May the dreams
of all who aspire
merge in choir
when but one of us
succeed.

Hail to the men
who need not the acceptance of others
to find purity, strength, wisdom. power and peace.
May I join their legion someday
and let the others judge me as I march
into the sunset of my own destiny.

2007-05-05T20:36:00.000-07:00

Little Arrows

2007-05-05T18:39:00.000-07:00

Lately
I have been practicing
shooting
little arrows.

My bones have been feeling
like a pencil, hollowed;
a tube
without the lead
running the length of it.
I have been pushing
large stones
through the park;
most are the size
of Volkswagens.
I have been killing
time
tearing pages from books;
using the covers as birds.
Lately
I have
been swatting flies
with a broad spatula;
saving them, storing
them in the kitchen sink.
I have been speaking
to my grandma
recently;
she is dead.
I have been walking,
throwing forward
my feet,
as on a tight rope wire;
I can’t afford
new shoes
or the price of falling.

Lately
I have been practicing
shooting
little arrows.

December 2005

The Compromise

2007-05-05T18:35:00.000-07:00

Is it not true
what we do - or not do
we struggle the burden
to set to peace - the feuds?

All the ground gained
and lost - could blamed
on the compromise:
or certain shame?

Oh, when to give up a bit
or when to drown - with the ship.
When the debate
or when a tight lip?

Oh, all the quarrel - we rise
as our egos are tried;
but it is then we give - half
all for the sake of - compromise.

Adapted

2007-05-05T18:32:00.000-07:00

Fixture

2007-04-27T17:20:00.000-07:00

I have been speaking
to myself; rattling - numb -
on and on
about darkness
and how crowded it can be.
I have been speaking
to ears, stuffed with cotton.

I have been thinking
about this king named James
and his version
on how things went down.

I have been gnawing
on my finger tips
anxious about how I view myself;
their is little holiness
in these matters.

I have been shifting
my legs
bouncing on the balls of my feet,
caring less;
less about the solution.
My issue is with these
blinders,
(made in America)
assembled in my mind.
I can’t see them thus I can’t remove them.

It is not so much about indecision
as it is about my usefulness;
the trajectory to a meaningful end.
I have been bored, lately
as I read the books of others;
hardly comprehending
the context and even lesser
the wholeness
of the concepts.

I am mighty
in my approach to the impossible.
Though, it is easier
to believe in what has -
than what has never been.
I have been pondering
the futility in function;
how my desires - are a wash
a stale,
frozen intention.

My Journey begins at sunrise
and ends at sunset.
I concede I am only man,
as human as they come.

I do neither more, nor less
of my ability.
It is a normal consequence
for people of my type;
to play through long evil
so to acquaint myself
with quick death.

I light my own ‘cell’
as I realize my nothingness.

I am not greater than the sum;
only a slice of eternity,
becoming dim in my mortality.
Like a fixture
in the dining hall of the Lord.

December 2005

2007-04-27T17:16:00.001-07:00

Undermine your own assumptions.

2007-04-27T17:11:00.000-07:00

The greatest truth is this: Love is the bringer of life. It is why Love will always survive. We can fight our instinctive role in it's current or we can joyfully participate in the ebb and flow of it's life.

2007-04-27T17:09:00.000-07:00

Is it safe in a "box"?
Is it not?
Whatever the structure
the safety is self induced
by the comfortable confines our own perception.

2007-04-27T17:07:00.000-07:00

The spiritual path reminds us -- that we can no longer fool ourselves and even more - we are less consumed with fooling others.

(Winter) Poet

2007-04-25T19:54:00.000-07:00

The winter --
there is no quick cure for it.
A singular event, drawn out
and as mortality has its way
no guarantee to see the next.

Embrace it, this once
as you beckon the “common thought”
that floats above you.
You are still young, Winter Poet.

But lo!
If you raise your sails --
be prepared to move.
(the wind will incite your command)

I myself have lasted long enough,
to laugh long enough.
Though the foam and the roll
have tilted me --
there has been enough joy in their experience.

For divinity losses not its order
if it thrusts us back
to the womb.
I should see the winter, again
for the first time.

2007-04-25T19:51:00.000-07:00

Stillness is where thoughts - go - to die.

Extra Cheese and Finality

2007-04-25T19:46:00.000-07:00

We’re brothers;
they say family trumps all.
It transcends all.
There is no divorce in all this.

(this may be a very expensive re-run
if money matters at all)

We populate the third rock
- for the time being -
and we make a beautiful and shiny collection.

And how are we subject
to the elements;
even if the worse of them are only in our minds.
We say hello
and from the other corner of our mouths
we say goodbye.

Hey, love is no big surprise.
We’ll all drink the champagne that came with the shellfish
or maybe wait until a better occasion...

but I don’t suppose we’d see each other
at the Democratic National Convention
no matter how funny that may turn out.

Anyhow, enough with the competition for God’s attention;
we all have a sense of humor.

To Scott

Untitled

2007-04-25T19:41:00.000-07:00

It is not what you do in the light;
it is what you do in the dark.

It is not the medals you have been awarded;
it is the scars you have received.

It is not the hands you have shaken;
it is the lives you have touched.

It is not the dawns you have witnessed;
it is the days you have endured.

It is not the the treasures you carry;
it is the burdens you have lifted.

Love Abiding

2006-08-29T04:04:00.000-07:00

My head lie near a treasure placed deep in your soul
gifted to you, by angels
The moment finds solace in me for there is peace in the simple.

Lend me your freedom, may I share openly the passion of life
Lend me self love, as I would see the purity within mine own.

Where is this potion you drink of, seeing in me what I do not?
Forgive me for I am blind, my cloud has yet to part.

Content you watch lovingly, knowing more than I,
as if awaiting metamorphosis.

May my tucked wings emerge,
unfolding to the brilliance of blue and gold
an endless ray bouncing off the beauty of flight.

It is there I land gracefully next to you,
my treasure

To Jamie
Love Heather

August 25, 2006

2006-08-25T09:46:00.000-07:00

What good is life
when it is carefully contained
to protect an alien form?
Are not the burdens of others
we aid, to lift
the monument we gain?
Is it not recycled
by universal law,
when the giving of breath
is the taking by another?
Is not the reward the act?

2006-08-22T19:13:00.000-07:00

August 3, 2006

2006-08-03T23:56:00.000-07:00

There are many roads to Christ, but the road is not the point.

July 31, 2006

2006-07-31T23:55:00.000-07:00

The so-called "veil" that is often spoke is, in a very literal sense, the human body. Without its limitations, or our acceptance of these limitations we would be free to see through to our true spiritual destiny.

July 28, 2006

2006-07-28T21:14:00.000-07:00

While love as a whole is predictable, the magic that urges it is not.

July 27, 2006

2006-07-28T21:13:00.000-07:00

It is not an unknown I worship, but rather the Known.

July 25, 2006

2006-07-27T22:03:00.000-07:00

The beginning and the end connected, they are, so close in this sphere of life; only a moment separates the illusion of birth and the equal illusion of death. Only a thought of the human consciousness, as the Master quietly, lovingly observes all the madness (stuck in "time") between.

July 24, 2006

2006-07-27T22:02:00.000-07:00

Listen to your own voice; your own insights. Your higher-self knows Truth.

From The Better Half

2006-05-28T08:13:00.000-07:00

An inviation to the angels
that mingle in the sky:
Come and perch upon my shoulder
and whisper, still greater
things divine.

Raise your chin toward the sunlight;
leave no way for darkness on your forehead.
Raise your chin with the divinity that calls from you.

Dip from the cup, overfilled - with empathy, with love.
Know that your communication with - Him - will ease the pain.
All the while you cannot architect the free will - of others...
All the while you cannot discard your flesh - prematurely...

Raise your chin toward the sunlight;
leave no way for darkness on your forehead.
A child, simply ignorant to the glory of all things -
still, you are, to be greater.
All the while believe this.

As we bow - let our darkness leave us;
by our simple, unassuming, humble hearts we are guided
to One to carry our burdens;
the nature of mercy.
The exemplar: Perfect enough to guide the fleet
of the world, yet still, to know all uniquely.
One to press down the raging seas
to be satin, silk, glass.

Raise your chin to a hymn
whispered by the voices of those angels
coming from your own front door;
just over your shoulder.
Carried - purposefully - to you
from another dimension, from the better half.

To Dina

Jesus, Buddha and Bill Wilson

2006-05-23T09:01:00.000-07:00

Deliberate contributors.

Actors
of both love and self-preservation.

Architects of the divine;
connecting moments from 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;
offering, 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

Clatter

2006-05-23T08:57:00.000-07:00

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 it's foul breath.

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

"Mine - mine - mine,"
my lesser self comes.

Mother

2006-03-28T16:50:00.000-08:00

When my fire went low
the embers in your eyes always
kept a cool, constant watch.

When my knees were bent and
my eye lids close to the ground -
my shoulders were certain to
find empathy in your touch.

When my expectations fell short
and life seemed broken for a spell,
without a word you guided me.

For now, if it is truly the journey
that will count - your example
has been sure enough
to find me, someday,
in your footprints.

Mothers Day 1999

Words - Dina Gardner

2006-03-28T16:42:00.000-08:00

egg on my face again.
some walk on egg shells,
others wear it on their face.
i am weary
of the continual shame
in my room
i am safe.
"my cave" saves me
from the humiliation that
follows me persistently.
the adjectives i claim as my own
do nothing for my self respect.
they are just words,
but they cut like a razor sharp blade
removing any prospect of peace.
worthless, dumb, stupid...
words that have formed my identity.
a lifetime of articulate language
moving through my head
without control.
strength of mind has,
so far,
proven ineffective;
self-talk has been futile.
the inner voices
have been in command,
playing havoc in my mind.
the volume inside
takes on a world of it's own.
voices, be still.
let me rest in peace,
with egg on my face.

To Do, To Be

2006-03-28T11:36:00.000-08:00

I may never see the result.
I may never be rewarded.
However, it will never change the reality
that I was meant to do, to be.
Placed right here, right now -
possibly, for this one act.
If I can be humbled by this possibility -
I will forever act in the will of My Father.

Affirmation: October 21, 2005

2006-03-25T18:53:00.000-08:00

Today there is green, green grass beneath my feet;
my mind's eye can see it.
Today there is wide open space and freedom before me;
my soul can feel it.
I am not grounded by my poison -
no, not today.
Today I have defined my motives.
Today I fly. Today I am a giant.
Today I love; I am loved.
So Today -
I will not steal from tomorrow
to ease Today.

random notes (feeling inclined)

2006-03-24T19:17:00.000-08:00

to all the poets
sitting on all the empty streets -
thinking less fondly about
the world, this crowded field, this box

to all the poets
standing atop cigarette buts - twisting
turning - their thoughts inward -
their insecurities, predjudices
awes and experience
their love, passions - pressing
out their definition of this
humanity -
on all those envelopes, palms, napkins -

writing about its sorrow
about its limited joys
about its glorified egos
about its depression, oppression, obsessions
- about it guinea pigs and rats - about its puppets
- feeling inclined to scribe the unfortunate
the misfortunes
to let the world know of its weaknesses, its faded beauty - its fate
to let the world know how we all feel -
the same

to all the poets
who speak for the masses - writing history as it happens
carrying out their "obligations" to
their fellow beings - their gods - their loved ones - their comrades
- oh amie! dear lover - to whom it may concern -
let me be the one to carry the cross
to bend my fingers backward
to bang my head to the wall - to script it all

to all the poets
who set aside their comforts -
that lie their motives on the table
their inhibitions - pains - misgivings

to all the poets
who fear what we all should fear:
ourselves

to all the poets
who dabble in battle with - understanding
and run it through their hand - through their pen
to "eek" out the last of their ink
on the last of their paper
all to let the world know -

to all the poets

To Logan

Sketches of the Real, November 16

2006-03-23T16:59:00.000-08:00

Left behind?
You stopped moving.
The world - a mine
you stopped digging.

All this gold to fill my pockets
to mend the holes around my stomach
but all this silver could never
fill
the gaping hole between my ears,
the giant cavern in my chest,
the channel down my back,
where my spine once was.

The Young People's Guide To Life

2006-03-23T15:44:00.000-08:00

There is nothing I can tell you about this life;
nothing I could tell you that you would understand.
The point-less-ness in advice.

I can tell you that nothing
happens by chance.
But that would only enable you or frustrate you.
I could tell you that all myths
started with a spark of truth,
but that would overwhelm you.

I might tell you that there is nothing
if their is not love.
But you have never really loved.
I would tell you that excess
speaks it's own terms
but today that is your joy.
I should say not to pollute you body.
(there is no way to dig your way out of a hole)
Moderation would be your argument.
I can tell you that expectations
fall short.
You should only expect breath and a beating heart;
nothing less, nothing more.
You would call me a simpleton, dazed.
I could tell you that a daisy
would teach you more about God
that any living being,
then I would be a madman, confused.
I might tell you that you are not young,
but mature, eternal and permanent.
Then you would question my sources.

So be young.
There is nothing I could tell you
that you would understand,
until you already understood it.

March 2006

"I Spy With My Dragon Eye"

2006-03-23T14:48:00.000-08:00

I wish I understood, still
the magic of a cape;
burning energy foolishly for it's sake.
I wish I could wonder, again
why 'G' sometimes sounds like 'J';
why 'W' shouldn't be called 'double V.'

I wish I could relate, still
to the simple equation: A is for Apple.
I wish I could use, again
imaginary bullets.
"Bang!"
To know still, I wish
the freedom of jungle animals
and fresh, new coloring books;
to know the triumph in,
"No homework."

I wish I could play, still
in the tub until I was pruned.
I wish I understood, still
the taunting choice between
Lucky Charms or Cap'n Crunch.

I wish I understood, still
what it was like not to doubt;
mom and dad where the "know all" authority.
I wish, still
there was a bed I could sneak to
in the nighttime.
I wish I could still say, "Daddy."

I wish a small bag of Doritos lasted, still several days.

I wish I knew, still
how to have everything at my fingertips and be
bored.
I wish I experienced, still
taking a three month "holiday" every year.
I wish I remember
having my own room.

I wish I remember, still
when quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies
were all worth "1 monies."

I wish yellow was still "lellow."

Oh, I've been there
but I wish I understood, still you.
I wish I could still..."spy with my dragon eye."

I can't sreech like a dinosaur,
anymore.

Maybe I have twenty-seven years on you,
but you, still
have the world on me.

To London
March 21, 2006