untitled (for now)

Her path is brown apples, soft mud and loam.

She looks nowhere else, steps daintily home.

Above, only one fruit remains,

A brutal burden on a branch that strains.

Overripe, decayed,

Skin split and leaking –

Putrescent –

Do you know of that which I’m speaking?

The soft brown curls whereupon I sit

Are lifted by a gust.

If there is a moment, this is it,

When swiftly to prayer I must.

Oh, sweet lady, pull me low –

Let me shade thine eyes!

There are things one should not know –

Don’t look toward the skies!

Worry

Head in the lion’s mouth
Try to set aside my doubts
Keep the beast at peace
Blunt those hungry teeth
But it’s gnawing at my guts
And it hollows out this love
When nothing fills my days
It drives me slowly crazy

Nebulous

Crawling on my hands and knees,
Wondering where you are,
There’s a universe alive within,
But I’m just shedding stars,
Cuz when the emptiness is limitless,
You can never go too far;
I am galaxies, not boundaries,
And I’m gonna break the jar…

Wandering Lost

A metaphor stands before a wooden door,
Worn smooth from many a knocking knuckle,
And sadly turns away.
A metaphor in the tavern roar,
A metaphor in the fray.
A metaphor in the penny whore,
Who turns her eyes away.
A metaphor sits upon the floor and wonders if there’s more,
Than sawdust soaking up spilled ale and blood,
But the mess is swept away.

Shadows In The Garden

Here I stand with head in hands where once love’s fountain danced
Caught within an arid drought the fountain soon collapsed
Lust and heat, our time complete, so comes the dust
Less or more, I am too poor to pay the cost

Her letter crumpled, torn apart
My reply as yet unwritten
The bitter snake coiled in my heart
Is it her or me who’s bitten?

It is a scab I must pick at, old agony
A dedicated friend who reminds me just to breathe
Two forlorn and weather worn gargoyles still stare across
A courtyard full of dying dreams now washed by rains of loss

Her letter torn and stained with tears
This is all that I have written
The years have multiplied my fears
I know now who was bitten

The Ocean Of Time

Floating winter cloud
Cream on golden honey
I sip the red sky and wait
For the ruby sting of fire
Smoke angels sing
Black crackling chorus
I am a stony ship and sink
Into a silent twilight field

There is a rippling mirror
Shattered by the wind
Deflecting diving stars above
From the empty deeps within

There is a sleeping idol
Tarnished bronze on silver sand
Who dreams the blanket waves away
To stand in the sun again

Call Me Paranoid, But I’d Rather Trip Than Risk It…

Or

I’ve Heard It’s Good Luck

I’ve heard the birds are herding our words
Hoarding our nouns and hiding our verbs
Amassing an arsenal of arguments
In nests throughout the ‘burbs
To pepper us with platitudes
And bombard us with blurbs
Call it pigeon propaganda
(So said the little bird)
So I’m cautious of the crow
I see cawing on the curb
And I’m wary of the wren
As he’s easy to disturb
For avian avengers
Are hiding in the herbs
And today’s topiary twitters
Tomorrow may be turds

Been A While…

Hello.

I haven’t posted since… February or so?  Didn’t check the date on my last post, but it’s been a while.

I’m thinking I’d like to start posting semi-regularly again.  I don’t know how often people stumble across this site, but I like knowing my poetry is out there for people to read, regardless of whether or not it gets commented on.  I like to imagine the occasional web surfer stumbles across something I’ve written, and they can relate to it in some way.  Maybe it brightens their day.  Maybe it doesn’t.

But in those moments when you feel something, deeply, you are alive.

I haven’t been writing as regularly as I used to.  I still have plenty of time to do so, but there are a lot of distractions in the modern world, and I find what little I am writing hasn’t been of a quality I’m willing to share.  Not that my judgment of such things is unbiased…

Still, perhaps the simple acting of writing, every day, regardless of what comes out, will help me tap back into that inner wellspring of inspiration which has been running dry these past few months.

This is a call to my muse!

Sing to me!

Horribly Cute

Two stray puppies playing
Indian dust and heat
Two joyful hearts uplifted
Two puppies in the street
Two smiles crack and falter
The horror is complete
Only one puppy is playing
The other is merely meat

untitled

Underneath dry brown earth,
Mighty and deep-rooted,
Exists a well of rumbling mirth,
Subterranean and muted, until
His laughter breaks the surface.