It’s Like This

It’s like this Petey,
see God ran short of goodness
before the stork had to deliver
all the babies.
So the ones that didn’t get goodness
were stuffed with hot air.
They ended up on Santa’s naughty list
and you know the Easter Bunny ignores
them too.

Plus they are not fun at important stuff
like playing in the dirt.
Only thing they do have way decent
is playing at make belief.

So they spend all their time
at a game called Big Fat Liar,
the one who wins
gets to act like he’s sort of bully,
you know taking things that aren’t theirs,
yeah that’s not nice is it?

But we all just sort of feel sorry for them
because they aren’t able
to do anything else.
That is what we all take time
every so often to decide
who is it in their game.
The loser things he is the winner
and we send them off to a place
called the capital,
which is our way of making sure
of getting them to leave us alone.

The Pens Of Night

Eve’s charcoal canvas is silently streaked
by the vibrant luminescence of flaring tendrils
strung as shimmering rainbow lines in the darkness.

Their traces tease in a temporary wisp of radiant glow
while winding their way through the mind,
slowly wrapping it with their vivid threads,
which write their own special message
upon the heart in such intense iridescence
as they unite with the shining beams
of lamps and towering lights
to bond and link the electrified fires
and add a magical aura to the scene.

By those energize ribbons of firefly flash
suddenly the air has a web of incandescent,
temporary and fragile, yet so amazing
while it spreads its gossamer wires
across the eyes in soothing sights.

Slowly seduced to wonder
if these lines in the blackness
might have some life beyond their presence?

Still, for the fraction of flame they possess
the imagination feels a tale is penned
as their mystery and appeal
fill the quiet with possibilities.

Chronicles Of Life

History’s pages are often scribbled in selfishness
of all the me first melodies and songs of greed,
but some times love writes a chapter
though it may not always be read,
still it is the poetic passage of our good
what aspires for care and compassion
among the countless accounts of battle.

For the heart has the choice with its pen
about what becomes the chronicles of life,
it is up to us if those lines shine with care
or just keep on showing the stains of blood.

And minds of sane and soulful thoughts
ever will dream of a day finally coming
where somehow what time records
reveals more a fairy tale than sorrow’s stories.

Crippled

Manicured mantle of emerald blades
withering under a winter's sky
turning honey hues of lethargy's limpness,
hinting at the crippled essence
decaying in the owner's hollow existence
whose desire castle they once proudly adorned.

He sits in the clutter of his fancy,
morgue climate dominating
its luxuriant decor,
insides turning cold and empty,
sullen spirit frozen without feelings,
life's flame nearly extinguished
the more his being
became beguiled by Midas' lusts.

Solemn seconds pass unnoticed
ears still hearing the echoes
of missing children and wife,
who fled love's death at the hands of greed,
unable to endure arms that grabbed
and were too handicapped
by a lack of ability to hug.

Sun burns the deadness the neighbors see
a golden brown grassy carpet
never watered or cared about
because their guardian
they once saw as knight
traded a fertile reality with tender winged spirits
cast aside his armor for a coffer of coins,
heart leaded down with stones of indifference.

Rapture

Faith's lightning blessing
with fireworks from heaven,
searing the conscience
taking the spirit beyond breath,
to visions of serene,
feeling heart walking the sky,
skipping to harps,
recreated
till ethereal assurance
stuns with mesmerizing awe.

Angels now felt
caress with God's love,
one finally knows
is more than
the wind.

Towers Of Babel

Upon the stairs
I rose beyond the street
where I could see
above the concrete
that stuck to the heart,
kept me from feeling
this sun or dreaming.

Still I saw the world
with an eagle’s view,
but it didn’t silence
the wind howling
emptiness through my soul.

Daffodil Lives

Balancing on the breath of survival
world feeling immersed in its creation,
alone and trying
to find purpose's nectar.

Fate's breeze brushes
fancy's wings,
clinging to fragile security
of where the heart soared.

Battling against
challenges to faith,
finally returning
to the hive
in one's lover's arms
savoring affection's honey.

Where she can fly

Years she spent
wearing the same old wardrobe,
simple threads of words
spoken by so many
which kept her feeling
so shabby and unworthy.

But unable to endure the pain of tears
from their disapproval
she let them be her life,
always feeling less
than complete or properly dressed
by the weave of other's desires.

Then they irritated her spirit
once too often.
Finding a place alone
to ignore the moans of ghostly fears.

Stripping away
those pathetic fabrics,
discovering wing that were hidden.

Wind brushes against her joyful
nakedness of her true being
standing instead of always bowing,
ready to let the breeze
take her to
where she can fly.

Replenished

When I walk where wayward whirlwinds whip over my face
in fullness of force and fury so they blow me farther on wrong paths,
it is there the Lord still waits to bring me to the pool of Bethesda,
the place in my soul where I pause from every lure of will
and lie down in His stillness to drink of His Spirit’s waters
slowly letting it cleanse my cares so I can see by faith eyes again.

Through the soft and gently silence do I feel replenished
to sit in the quiet and let it calm the echoes of fear’s thunder,
so as night comes I do not shudder in the darkness
or allow it to make me feeble by the creeping vines of doubt.

What sings inside from that resurging sense of His presence
is the rich and blessed bounty in revival’s reenergizing nectar.
By it the lips again speak with their special inner psalms
as the heart once more savors the joy of His gift of peace.

Oh the hope, the pure balm of spiritual incense
that fills within from the communion of surrender
where we release those tattered bonds to self
for the raiment of His deep abiding promise in salvation.

Under that covering all that distracted and cause distraught
slips so far away from causing confusing thoughts and their chaos
while all around is felt the light from His omniscience,
which gently holds onto the moment
like it was a timeless touch from eternity.

Mind's Railway

Cerebral reruns
edited by paranoia's writer,
derailed potential
leaves memories baggage
in thought's caboose,
purchasing tickets
from dementia's
travel agent.

Jubilee

With eyes attuned to appreciate
what the sunrise can ignite in blessings,
is to look for the celebration of life
in every effect that a day brings,
to follow the rays with anticipation
of the gold among the refuse
where you rummage through the discards
and find the treasure others abandoned.

For it is a challenge unto the heart
that can embrace with passion
all that is good amid the shards,
then let the spirit see each opportunity,
which can bring our a summit in festive occasion,
a pinnacle unto that morning
just taken for the miracles and magic
visible when you truly seek their presence.

Never in a hurry to hastily contrive a jubilee
of false and feigned forms in inner harmony,
instead it is to drink of a light’s vessel,
sip that ambrosia made visible by its flame
so it turns those hours
into a reason to give thanks and praise.

Faded Tales

I gaze into the silver sheen where spirit's sun truly shines,
remembering all the faded tales of days imagined and dreamed,
feeling the awkwardness of self accusations,
reflected in my eyes of puppy dog yearning
being a metaphor of my life's irony,
one brown, the other green,
which symbolize the rippling chaos that has often sucked me
down a rabbit hole towards disbelief.

Face haggard and tired, senior citizen's age lines
etched in carved tattoos from sorrow and abuse,
thinning strands of blonde hair,
barely covering the crown of my portrait.

But the canvas seen is painted with cerebral strokes
bringing hues of light to shade rejection's ashes streaks.
Somewhere in the terse lips is restrained the subdued screams
from stab wounds to back where assassin vanished without witness.

Yet, in the veiled rationalized artistry of acquiesced seconds
comes the voice from the pit where I lie trapped in melancholy's ooze,
it resounds of clarity, from angelic guide
who forges a chain of heaven's links of grace
that might lift me for a sunrise
beyond the shattered shell of my esteem.

Coffin of resignation closed for another gaze,
exhaling with vow to fight against the trolls of recrimination,
hint of wings appears with shape of horns,
sighs cast our the corruptive whiff from arrogance's fragrance
once exhaled in a moment of madness.

Hate slithers as serpents through the spine,
but their poison is healed by God's anti-venom of forgiveness
as His hands lift me by faith to take the quill given by birth
to write of a journey through the darkness
where His love sheltered when the world offers a hangman's noose.

One Summer's Day

One summer's day
the forest grew fingers
to pull my heart into its serenity.

I followed the narrow dirt path
that snaked its way
between the pillars of evergreen,
towards the lake with its glassy calm face.

Scent of pine filled my lungs,
swept through my senses
with its own quiet peace.

Branches bending low
let the Kelly green needles brush me face
as I let my fingers touch the bark
and feel the occasionally stickiness
when brown sap would cling to my skin.

A squirrel climb a trunk towards a knot hole
holding a pine nut in its mouth,
looked at me for a second
before disappearing.

Birds in the shadows of the tree's spreading umbrella
sung their Nature's serenade.
Which gave my feet notes as cadence
while strolling closer to the watery edge.

Overhead the sky's turquoise canvas
gave me its fire as life's delight
to sample this feast in scenic sojourn.

Emeralds blades of grass
created its vivid mantle upon the soil,
interrupted by protrusions
from broken limbs that were severed during storms.

Reaching the shore as morning greets me
by a kiss of crisp mountain air,
tomorrow may be filled with savages of fret,
but at the moment I only see angels
in the place that is today's heaven.

Leaf

Foliage clothes the mind entranced
in a costume of wooden identity,
listening within to the voices whispering
when a breeze rustles the branches
with its invisible breath of sway
giving a sign language of secret stories
to the lumbering limbs of barked expressions.

Giving into the rustic spell,
surrounding soul and senses
charming with the magic call of Mother Earth's
timeless images of her suffering,
letting the spirit succumb
beyond where reason dresses the hand's labors.

Gazing outward under the mask of bonding with the entwined fantasy
feeling inward sprouts of an ancient blossoming message,
bringing in the mind a night of tranquil rustic passion,
sweetly flooding the brain in the serene sights of ageless landscape.

Heart throbs among the caresses of lushness,
before one transcends the moment
veins aloft the current of creation's singing plumes of understanding
reaching deep into the veins
till one is grafted onto the majesty solitude
floating into the melody of the circle of life
as another precious
leaf.

The Psalms Of May

When nature’s ageless vernal tendrils
spread from emerald blades,
the vibrant rainbow hues of blossoms
and the splendor of a cloudless turquoise sky,
then through the translucent sheet of silicon
I feel those vibrations resonate
from every petal, limb and thicket
to write a lilting psalm of May
upon my soul and very being.

Serenity rises like listening
unto a harp's pure dulcet tones
out of the scenic pastoral array
as my heart is swayed, utterly mesmerized,
by the subtle caress from the season’s tapestry.

As if sleeping, the senses suddenly awake
where softly and gently the spirit communes
with the radiant floral collage,
until its writes the lines of that song upon the spirit
to entrance and leave the moment spellbound,
breathless in the quakes of calm
before the earth that has revived
after winter’s icy vestments,
cloaked the soil and leafless trees
in its cold fibers of hibernation.

Slowly from watching out that pane
inside feels the inevitable call,
from the lurid fingers of allure,
summon a stroll amid the bouquets and bounty
of those intense tints in beauty.

For a while totally lost among its expressions
while they stroke the senses,
completely swaying within
unto a feast upon the moment
that makes life so alive and vivid.

Supports

They are the wooden timbers
built to make homes upon water
where land is sparse and the heart craves covering,
without those artificial poles to give life
unto those dreams
in places where nature’s tears
flood the soil of its foundation

once more the mind called upon creativity’s supports
so existence isn’t drowned
by the wash of tides or streams,
for the spirit will find a way to thrive
even if it means
the construction of hopes
upon the liquid face of time.

Fires

Why do there have to be so many liars
who start within anger's hottest fire?
Telling tales to please
pretending their minds aren't filled with sleaze.

Dancing with sincerity in their eyes
while the whole time they only of you just despise.
Producing a bouquet of verbal care about you flowers
which never smells other than with scents that sours.

Still they will keep up their charade
no matter who stupid their trust me parade.
And promise to be your friend for life
while holding behind your back a knife.

Got to wonder the point of this game
for some though it will never bring any shame.

Tongue Depressors

Bite hard
with verbal carnage,
insult vermin
multiply
in the heart.

Mind percolates
the vicious fancy,
arms crossed,
feigning
being disarmed.

Lips whisper
bullets
hope to hit
fate's
bull's eye.

Cords For The Greatest Good

Woven strands of sentiments
carefully crafted to lasso the greatest good,
summarily altered to fit any need.

A tie when it helps inspire conformity
or a lasso to catch a life,
ready to drag in behind an ambulance
driven by the latest paper monarch
in a parade to honor those
who died from taking medicinal prescriptions,
which were tainted by toxins
ignored in the haste to perfect
one cure for every ill.

Solstice

Pariah roots slither and creep into the myriad of animus chasms
shadowing the sunsets of frigid harbinger
erecting their megalopolis of fiery goblins
within the cerebral cosmic chastity of my lament.

Cadavers rise from each cavity of shimmer
where the light mortician embalmed
those mutter mirages of opulent horizons
once mapped
as a stepping stone carcasses
to Nirvana mausoleums.

Searching in feign rapture
for that orb of promise
that will make the tundra a garden.

Realizing it will eventually thaw
somewhere in the labyrinth
where panoplies of luster thrive,
haunting scribe voices speak their moaning
resilience,
coffers of fancy lucre open in a
vow of resurrection,
oneness of epiphany tides so imbibed
swirls beneath the hibernating efficacy
scent of majesty's vision
lingers in the psyche's honeymoon chamber
luminous wedding bliss echoes as a figment jewel.

Internal

Risk's
grim reaper
worry phantom
pierces
desire's season
with dread.


Insides burn
from panic,
imaging
ambition's assassins
after anxiety's encounter,
writing fables
to numb crackling
spine turns to Jello.
slipping into shadows
of fear's breath,
inhibition stained
with reaper's portrait.

Creating escape
upon delusion's
quicksand,
never free,
but selling maps.

THE GOOD

I heard
two believers today
reassuring each other
about the goodness of God,
which meant to them
that he gives us
only good things
during this life.
But I thought to myself
how if this were true
would god really need
to wipe away every tear
when the redeemed
are before him
in Heaven?
For some
apparently
eternity’s blessings
must happen now
if they are to count.

Daffodil Lives

Balancing on the breath of survival
world feeling immersed in its creation,
alone and trying
to find purpose's nectar.

Fate's breeze brushes
fancy's wings,
clinging to fragile security
of where the heart soared.

Battling against
challenges to faith,
finally returning
to the hive
in one's lover's arms
savoring affection's honey.

The Muse's Wilderness

No fences of forms
to corral the spirit
creativity breathes freely
unshackled by meter or syllable count
nakedness clothed by structured stanzas
stripped raw in its virginity
chastity belt of restraint
abandoned to poetic paramours
slumbering silently in meadows
undefiled by homesteaders
who stake their claims
with houses of sonnets
and other villages of literary boundaries.

Wandering beyond their conformity
admirers see the cathedrals erected,
that worship expressive order
works of poetic art
always carefully guarded and preserved
metaphors fit a given mold,
images are exquisitely framed,
another realm resides
for those unable to fly within their walls.

A wilderness lies outside the tradition,
quill flowers from seeds sown
having scents inspiring images,
which mind might not see
when dwelling where a given shape
is what one's words must take.

It is a journey were there are no rules,
only that the desires burning within
find their way to the page,
flame coming in the core
from bearing what is secret,
until it opens chest
where other thoughts beg for resurrection.

Baptized

Immersed
by such waters
flowing deeply within
forming calm's pearls upon the mind
serene streams so gently flood the soul's pool
drenched fully by each droplet's gold
peace flows over inside
quiet brings life
immersed

Floating
over new thoughts
bringing life's sweetest joys
in the places where sadness flowed
sailing on a craft of newly found smiles
refreshed from sorrow's arid stains
swimming vision's slumbers
mind tastes bliss's
floating

Rapture

Faith's lightning blessing
with fireworks from heaven,
searing the conscience
taking the spirit beyond breath,
to visions of serene,
feeling heart walking the sky,
skipping to harps,
recreated
till ethereal assurance
stuns with mesmerizing awe.

Angels now felt
caress with God's love,
one finally knows
is more than
the wind.

Lips

Innocent's kisses
pressing trust
never removed,
unless love
not returned.

Reservoir

Dam of dawns,
storing life's waters,
washing against
heart's embankment.

Flowing through
the mind's filter,
reservoir
fills with regret's molecules
or the effervescent
of purified hopes.

Breath

Inhaling the air the lungs never truly breathe
infusing the body with gusts having an origin of other than mortal.

Mind collects the rainfall of facts
bearing them in a bucket of reality.

Body imbibed sensory cocktail
touching each poor of feelings.

But in the bouquet of seconds
there is the nagging tug
that there is more to time than brick, flesh and stone.

Ethereal echoes quiver to the bone giving spirit awakening
as light brings its wind of immortal
letting eyes feel all the arrays of transcendence
lingering in aura hints outlining life.

A need boils in the body,
for oxygen fanned from divine hands,
oneness floats into essence,
lingering as a peace
form body and mind being bonded to discovered soul
shudder the conscious in an intuitive knowing
no words can ever describe.

Dawn's goo

Morning sings with possibility's stirring song
rising to wash away the eve's doubts.
No eyes can see what isn't there,
but the heart can believe
in wish mirages that can come alive.

Bear a smile to greet the sun,
light will rise in the spirit,
till you pass on the warmth to another,
then they too shall feel the,
dawn.

NATURE'S MASKS

Oh the arresting morn
of infectious sensation
where we first see with such spectacular awe,
a lush tapestry of crisp, cool air and scents.
In a scenic intoxication our orbs barely notice
the tidal wave of mist flooding the rustic mural
till islands of jade bristles are all that remains.

Then my insides flame to ponder
what ageless secrets Mother Earth
might hide inside her invading
milky blanket of blur.

Somewhere deep in one's veins,
there swells a ghostly murmur from ancestral seers,
caressing with a mantra of intuitive passion
that haunts by the creeping of curiosity spiders
who sting with fascinations over natural mysteries
that burn in the mind and bind us to all that is.

In a blink,
one tempest and leering thought,
our eyes feast with fancy's sight
upon the pastoral strokes of myth, romance and lore
left utterly infatuated with the incense of enchantment
as our being pants so intensely in wonderment
while savoring the spine chilling spell of
Nature's masks.