Inconceivable Void (in the eyes of a simpleton)

From my porch I see two stars
caught, in boughs of
Birch and Pine.

and staring into heaven,
that abyss of old,
none can fathom
the sheer
lack:

of Air,
of Space,
of Love,

or any feeling for that matter.

From my porch i see city lights,
bringing no hope.
No hope,
save for two stars
in boughs of
Oak and Pine.


In Love, In Denial

We are
Incredulous lovers,
disregarding truth as
fantasy. It's possible,
but ignored as improbable.
Not nonsensical, but
new and untamed.
I'll never know the new
as she knew the new'd
stay the way it was,

in incredulous disregard.


These were the words

These were the words:

With which we won
what was woefully wisked
away when we winked.

Wondering why we were
where we were
when we weren't watching.


Proposal

If I have never mentioned this,
I wanted you to know,
and keeping quiet isn't fair,
It isn't quid pro-quo.

You've always meant the world to me,
In times of dire need.
You've listened well and calmed my fears
with tranquil ease and speed.

I wish there was a way that I
could somehow pay you back,
for all the things you've done for me
and everything I lack.

A simple thanks, a hug and kiss
are all I have for you.
Unless your answer to my plea
is found to be "I Do."

Inspiration from www.egodialogues.com/words-language/2sentences.php/

"I can avoid tax collectors all day. When night comes, Death is the only one left to pay."

"Two bodies lie sleeping not 5 feet from one another. Only dirt and finely crafted wood separate them through the centuries."

"I'm Daring, the dastardly, dueling duo. And I'm his other half."

"Understand what you're reading before you read what you understand. Comprehension begins with the resolution of illiterate tension."

"Meanings mean different things. It's the mean of meanings that stays the same."

"All my words are original. It's the thoughts I've stolen."

America (a Senryu)

hard, long day of work
boxer briefs, t-shirt, and beer
cigarette and game


Departure (a Senryu)

insecure breath fills
shallow emotion ensnares
goodbyes are so hard


Departure (a Senryu revisited)

shallow breath so hard
ensnares insecurity
goodbye emotion


Anew (a Haiku)

little raindrops dance
quenching remnants of yester
clean of sorrows past


Arm Rest (Head Rest)

Here,
I rest the origin
of my being,
my mind,
as it wanders
and dances
among the sunbeams,
bouncing with the
grains and joints,
faceted with
sunlight's golden
kisses.
Here,
I rest.


Intimacy

Close my lips,
Open my eyes,
Loosen your hips,
Show me the lies.

Open my lips,
Close my eyes
Show me the hips,
Loosen your lies.

Prime Time

blizzard
projected onto thin
glass,
separating man from
magic.

Hollywood to Suburbia in a flash of
unpredictable weather patterns rising from
unimaginable strength in so
few who call themselves

[static]

nothing; we give them their Identity,
stolen away from reality to
Soothe and Relieves our Sore, Aching
Psyche,
found bruised and battered in a field
just north of what used to be
a solid foundation for
A Nation, under antennas and cables.

Satellite dishes, like wishes, fall
from the sky into murky depths.

recovered, recycled, re-made,
sequel'ed, prequel'ed, marathon'ed,
left for dead in a cold warehouse
during the

blizzard
between the man and the magic.

a poem (or two)

boring

The Intense sensation of nothing.

Inexplicable lack thereof.

Overstimulation is a fantasy

Which won’t come until

I’m done with doing what this abyss

has done to me, and yet

it continues.

Ailing Love

Did I wake thee, precious Angel?

Slumber now and rest thine head,

whilst I look upon thine face,

Lie and grace this bed.

Close thine eyes of sapphire.

Save them for the morn.

Where i'll be a waitin'

Pray don't leave me here forlorn.

Still. Lie there motionless

in that nat'ral state.

Restin' and a waitin'

till the Sun shall fall by fate.

A Self-Realization

In blind vision I seek the lost
answers to sheltered freedom.
To dream of reality, is a far-fetched
fantasy, fleeing from this fellow, filled,
yet void of concrete soul.

My chameleon character grins and lies
on this face. Too true to reflect the
false, but false enough to fake the
truth.

Muted music, mumbled,
emerges from this symphony of
silenced souls. A score written for
Dim eyes, and performed for
Dull ears. Yet played with this wailing
heart, budding by a blue moon's bright
beam.


It's Neither here, nor Real.

These are the irrefutable meanderings
of those reluctant to wake for the
journey to morning through starlit safaris,
and they guide these empty minds and
heavy lids to safety.

A haven of resounding silent serenades,
sung without words through the nose.

They are things of mindless jabber,
nonsensical and brilliant
to the deaf ears of the hearing,
the blind eyes of the seeing,
and the quiet lips of the

dreams not yet heard, but
forming. (still the bits of yesterday)
A dash of hope for tomorrow.

They're all too true, too real, too
pure and unrestricted is this,
the mind.

These are the unconscious masses,
ferried across Styx for an eve of
pleasure and dreams undone into
worse things than this,
my mind.


Meticulous Mutterings (on a mankind)

Melancholy melody
is a manipulation of musical masterpiece.
Mindlessly milling about a museum,
we're marveling maliciously at the
masters' medium of magnificent
mahogany and marble.


ignore this

What worth in my words?
I speak into the wind.
fleeing, flying, fluttering chagrin.
sorrow, sadness, sudden despair.
I'd say it again, but hey, who cares?

Lonely.

a cold slab of granite hovers
permanently there, dedicated to
sunken souls peering up and out.
whetting a whistle to shiver
withering trunks of naked trees
with roots unknown, bare to
accept the abuse of
years of
grief

icy tears lost to eternity, a
black and gaping pit from which
none a grim grin is gleaned, but
the rigid temple of a person past.
human ivory left to ponder a
buried future and a risen past.
with neighbor sharing soil,
sharing nightmares and other
creatures of the night. lost and
alone, none can fathom the
time left to ponder the
unknown,
uncertain,
undetermined,
indefinitely.

alone.


unrealized potential

An understanding eye caught gazing,
wondering if: wishing for wanting.
Glimpse of dreams too amazing:
unspoken knowledge of one thing.

Double take of flutter pulsing:
second guess for second rate.
Long ways off mind, emulsing
us in reality's mate.

fantasy.

It won't always never will,
inside the dream. For when
dream-weavers till,

what might have been?


A Personal Discovery of Truth

To be or not to be
is certainly the question.
For others and myself
at yet another level.

Is Being false with others,
being true to myself?
Or is it something more?
A deficit: less than my best.
What is "all that i can be?"
Nobler in the mind.


contradiction of perception

missing messes
n' skipping stress is
wonderful to be,

but missing you
n' lonliness is
ever worse for me.

solitude is what i
seek when ev'rything
goes wrong,

but the ride's not
half the fun wi'
'thout you taggin' 'long


Commuter

free tickets to
one way streets.
round-trip relationships
arrive on schedule.
checking departures for
breakdowns and delays
unseen.

traffic clouds and clogs
vision and distorts
reports of congestion.
sight-seeing distracts
from shortest route.
nobody ever sees it
coming.


and Jazz

Smooth
and
Rhythmic,

Inspired
and
Driven.

Ivory dances
and
Brass declares.

Sultry Strings caress
and
Demanding Drums pound.

Feel the sound
and
Hear the emotion.

Simmer Down
and
Turn it Up.

Tune In
and
Zone Out.


A Captive Heart

They said no idea
more elaborate than beauty
will compel people to think
how this is only real,
here, for so little a time,
momentarily.
It's a strangely translucent vision
before a bleeding reality.

But break this silence
composed with the music of
my desire for you. It's a perfect
rhythm in my heart, strumming
it's strings as the mandolin by day,
bowing them as the cello by night.

Don't leave me to howl
at He who lights the night,
searching to quench my heart's
thirst for that which will wrench
boy from man
leaving his soul void of want.
Let end this quest for love.

And confess every line
as the Gospel Truth, with
obsession and a new life,
compelled as if nothing else
could be certain as this.
Spur my ache to dream.

For I too drink of it,
the fermented dreams of times
passed. Beneath an ever conscious
attic, filled with the forgotten
antiques of yesteryear. Above the
wrong from between fire
and inspiration lies an orchestration
too pure for ears, and
too loud for one heart, but
written by one whose soul is the ghost
haunting these words, the invisible
spark giving birth to
the flame behind your eyes.