The Violet and the Pine

Late April sunshine
lays heavy on my face and shoulders
a reminder of the deadline to decide
what will define the depths of my soul

Le jardin d'amour
is damp with ethereal beauty
crafted painstakingly,
a monument to the
richness of life.

I am caught between
the regal, seductive violet
and the fresh, handsome pine
unable to choose,
unable to let go

The horizon, littered with the two
offers no aid to
the impossible choice
that lies ahead

I stand on a cliff at the edge of the universe,
just barely kissing the sky,
breathe them both deeply into my heart
and jump.

Finer Stuff

The soul is made of finer stuff

Than frankincense and myrrh

It’s made of all the dreams and thoughts

That hum and tick and whirr

About the cold and barren nights

And blow along the breeze

The soul is made of starlight

That paints the night with ease

A symphony of winter tea

That whirls about the mind

It crests and falls and overall

The soul is tough to find

A silken sheet, a crimson peace

To lay upon at night

The soul is made of finer stuff

The soul is made of light.

Wednesday Morning

expression, concussion
guitar, science, church
cold soldier, war monster
new york taxi, munich road trip
orange trees, fuschia flagpoles
swim, love, create!

Taylor, Chuck

Worn skin

thick with lines of trepidation

of action without reprieve

the ridiculous notion

that one mustn’t ever stop

damp to the core

they sit, withered and bleeding

battle scars on display

time has torn away at the seams

leaving behind a sprawling mess

with faded eyes they wait

for peace, for rest, for silence.

Sketch Page

The sun, symbolic father

to the great hawk

whose mother is the wind

Pour yourself a cup of courage

you are a poet

write your heart on the page

for the world to see

There is beauty in the darkness of night

God paints Orion in invisible ink

only seen by the light of the moon

Art makes the weak strong

imagination replaces reason

power

The city skyline, moments before dawn

you can breathe in immortal beauty

untainted by the human element

Little Janet

Dust rose to the stars

amazing, beautiful

darkness of the night

the highway and a conversation

in a rattly truck

prettiest girl in the world

long fingers like Cleopatra

aware of him

talking books and little things

nobody ever notices such things

across the cornfield

trouble was brewing

too many pebbles

scattered toys and sad talk

and high-school kids didn’t care.

Kandinksy

Red angles seeping into

a sea of blue

stark black lines

divide emotion and reason

a worn canvas

bearing the loss of a love, or confusion

temperate shading balances intense dogmata

stretching German souls onto white

the cold walls

comforted by geometric poetry

bringing solace to those

whose inspiration has washed away

in October rain.

For The Rest Of Us?

glittering red ribbon

wrapped around thick brown skin

coils like an asp

multicolored jewelry adorns her tired face

still and stoic she stands

smelling of fantasy and confusion

endearing childhood lies

until finally, she is done

and dismembered

wrapped in plastic

and packed away in the cold grey

to wait.

Flying for Fish

We flap our wings to fly to success
pelicans
I have a fish, do you have a fish?
I have a sea full of fish
yummy, scrumptious fish
orange, yellow, green fish
by the way,
still flying.

The Palette

See, but cannot hear
soft wheat on bare feet
cold wind rushes by
like a baritone voice echoing off tiles
and then, quiet.
soft jazz rolls through the air like smoke
settling into the velvet armchair by the window
look out to the water, shut eyes and remember salt on the tongue
and wind pushing rocks to roll and tall, dry grass to quiver
like the dream of a lonely child
who shouts in despair
as he watches the last sail kiss the horizon.

Twenty-Eight

Snow fades to anger
In straight, metallic lines
adorning life with LOVE
and memories
of twelve years old
and sheer purple
and Ouija boards
"the last good thing"
whispers softly as I
creep slowly
across that narrow pass of land
promising of bright horizons
and fresh ideas.

The Taste of Iron

I'm trying out my chains
stretching, twisting, getting comfortable with them.
Hm, maybe a different color.
Hm, maybe I need more.
That's it! More!

So I let myself go, and let myself be.
And like magic, there's a new one soon.
Really it's quite neat.

Hey, a chain could be anything.
It could be ignoring a phone call.
It could be smiling with rudeness on my lips.
Or that last drag of a cigarette to
calm. me. down.

The chains are comforting.
You always know where you are when you have chains.
You know how you got them, you control IF you get them.

My chains link me up.
They connect me with my past and drag me into my future.

With cool silver links and metallic sheen
They clink together like richness.

I don't need to break my chains.
I'll just live in them.

Nature Walk Haikus

leaf waterfall
crests
hill's end

three saplings
bow to
winter

dirt, covered up
in color
shamefully

last green
crawls out from
brown bed

poets
seeking truth
natural light

silver composite
divided
mother ivy

pink petals
fight against
snowy demise

green hands
stretch and reach
sun

overcast
obscured by
brick

branches bend
parentally
over Earth.

Classes Before Sunrise

When I become a teacher
I'm gonna learn how the mind works in
Classes before sunrise
And I'm gonna teach them poetry
Plucking poems out of books like fresh flowers
And wrapping them up into bouquets.
I'm gonna show them words that feel like water
And smell like salt
And smell of long days in the sunlight
And cool summer wind
And bright red parasols
And soft volleyball sand
And the thatch-roofed buildings
Of young and old young old young souls
And I'm gonna put infants
And children and seniors and adults
And all the in between people in it
Teaching everybody with sweet words
And learning from each other flawlessly
In that first morning class when I
Become a teacher
And teach in classes
Before Sunrise.

Back Across the Rubicon

As the snow must eventually melt
As the sun must eventually drop
So too must we change

As the battle must eventually end
The soldiers will carry their swords, bloody and bent
Away from the battlefield in due time
To fight again another day
So must you know when
The battle is too tough to fight

I will pack up my heart
And my confidence, and my dreams
Turn around, looking at the river of trust
I had once crossed bravely
And begin to wade back,
Back to brighter days.

Jokester

Blue gingham
warm mornings, cold tile, content
Pink floral
ocean breezes, cool waters, empty feelings
only pieces left behind
curving silver and tan lines
the only whispers left behind
with a hidden meaning

I always mix up
if tonight is
one step forward
or two back

A Spiritual Crash Diet

A black and white strip from a photo booth
Clementine soda and a green armchair
The third mic from the right at church
Bandages, bumps, and bruises
Towering carnival rides
Pen scribbled into skin
Bare feet all year 'round
The color blue
The melodic beeps of a video game
238th Street and Bailey Avenue
Plane rides and road trips
Adrenaline pumping through your veins
A remade, renamed, rethought work of art, never quite finished.

The Olive Branch

plain, uninspired words spill from pursed lips
dead eyes and a half-assed smirk belie your true curiosity
not even a question really, more of a statement in passing
oh, if you could see the effects.

my face warms and my eyes blur and shake
i clench to hide my answers
and i laugh, through clenched teeth
brushing off my back
years of doubtful insecurity
bowled of by a handful
of simple, mean-nothing words
in a perfect conversation.

Geminus Sententia

Light splashed hiccups
sauntering daintily into space
wrack my brain with
twine made of rainbows
hearts, the invisible darkness
quashing unseen disaster
leather and mesh
wrapping tightly around
your air supply
barnyard smells and error screens
wash over grey painted dawns
witches, elemental explosions
lullaby me
blood-stained cobblestone
you alone have saved me
ravaging midnight fires
consume pictures
sunglasses, hamsters
and the number twenty-four.
flute stands and purple curtains
cloth made of butterflies
river-swimming history.

Simple Questions

If I shot a paper plane to the moon
who would read the secret trapped inside?
If I dove from the leafy bassinet of a tree
would I survive? Would I know what it's like to truly be alive?

I surmise
that I will die
from the fear I try to hide.