Different

A smile treated as a sneer,
eyes crippling by prejudiced
over the one dressed out of poverty
with worn out pants and wrinkled frayed shirts,
stained jacket,
all treated with disgust.

Ask a question bearing your soul,
just out of desperate loneliness,
they think you're a serial killer, weird,
only deserving of being abused.

Love is the sun you never feel,
forced into shadows as a hideous creature,
mutant gnome to taunt
having only been cursed
through lips imagining evil and grotesque
hidden underneath
a body that shakes out of fear
instead of insanity.

Knife they gossip about
being kept inside the coat,
is really just a pen
used to write a diary
pouring out the pain
beautiful people cause
through their freakish hate.

FINGER OF GOD

Mind sculpts the strumpets of feathers
to make their seductive clay
into a scepter of lust
for touching the paradise of one's desires.

Imagining inside all the little gods
we can become,
using technology's magic wand
and reading our wizard's little black book of techno lovers
one can worship at divine.

Carving the lies of our immortality
in fool's gold ambition,
lifting up the hollow icons of solution defiantly
towards the sky of our illusions.

Creation in our veins
becomes an personification's
grotesque deliverance statue,
its meaning we invent
making up the scorecard and rules
from our vanity's fantasy victories
as we dance naked
before our shattered mirrors of delusion,
murmurs about end of the world
ignored,
while pretending our fingerprints
our heaven's master

Baubles

Morning has no eyes
to shred withdrawal's shroud,
dressing me in such hell.

The puke green wall of my rehab pit
feel like they are always closing in,
suffocating my insides,
but not as strangling as those restraints,
which they have finally removed.

Today is clemency,
pardon's memo received,
declaring victory over addiction's apocalypse
surviving all the sweats and screams,
haven't seen the purple monkeys
in five days.

Soon, I'll depart this cold turkey horror,
hopefully never returning,
happily abandoning,
my gods that live in bottles.

Ripples

Eyes engulf in visionary ocean of azure gazes
seeing the ghosts of fingers
who wrote the stars in the heart
before the eternal night consumed.

Breathlessly listening
to each departed soul
spill their haunting memories
into the very core of one's being.

It is all a mystery,
or perhaps a dream,
even the product of too much dinner.

But when the mind is supercharged
by the lightning of curiosity
the spine ripples in awe
over things that might be.

Trinity Clashes

Deep in the chasms of bleeding, luminescent sarcophagus
where the scribes of our essence chant their secrets
the tethers to reality fray
binding the mind, body and soul.

Spirit ascends to lofty layers while sewn to earthen facets,
brain begets its throated passions, visions steam in fancy's tea pot,
flesh obeys as servant to king pulse,
all working in rhythm to a sun's stop watch.

Inward the ghosts of our stumbling resolutions
weave festoons of Nirvana and Hades into the sandman's litter box.

Between the pillars of conscience
erected to keep the crumbling house of sanity
from suffering dementia's earthquake
one strolls as a mirror enigma
calling out for help with mime language.

Hoping to find a maze with a map
that doesn't lead to another halo dungeon
where the screams from our triune essence are soften
by the death groans of our mortality.

Flinch

It is the quickest of seconds
when the mind detaches
from its strings
holding it to the heart
and suddenly
feels the shake
as a single memory's balm
is drunk by the soul.

All that fills the head
washes away
to make place for that soothing
touch
reaching into every part of our being.

Consuming in a pure trance of affection,
pulse entwines eternity
like tomorrow will never come.

Eyes behold the beauty
outlining the icon of inspiration
giving off that aroma of waking,
we inhale like a drug.

One flinch becomes more precious
through the offering of a mood so euphoric
than any other beat throbbing in the chest.

Sparkle

One single string of starburst sunlight
enters the heart like a firework flash,
exploding in such intensity
till life itself becomes a serious of perfect notes.

We can see it anywhere,
just that momentary swipe across our souls,
speaking such incredible tones deep into our core,
when our heart rises
above any tide of listless flood
to find the sunrise for our own finger's serenade.

It isn't a visit to a place
specifically marked on any map,
somewhere residing instead
between what we touch and what we imagine.

A voice sings through us in the process,
one having our own sound,
but coming from beyond
where the spirit alone has ears.

For a heavenly pause
our lives transcend any darkness or valley where we tread,
calm and joy flow through the gathering creation
we begin to write again,
happy to have inhaled the gusts of notes
from an eternal wind.

Perfect Eyes

What truly traces each outline
which makes our heart gasp?
The measure within
that burns the mind
speaking soft utterances
of such intense affection?

Beauty is more than what is seen
by our normal sight.
Is the inner sense of love's perfect eyes,
gazing at all creation
finding what is sweetest
and desirable
in all that is.

Vivid is a place simmering in the soul,
intensely reaching out,
till what touches
regardless of its shape,
becomes our gold.

Store Windows

Panes of glass tease with their eye baubles
dressed and decorated to be a glance at paradise,
our minds reach through that clear covering
and wishes grope what lies inside.

Without senses engaged to deter the fantasy
it all become a perfect touch to our thoughts,
just aching inside to possess what is seen
until it becomes our dream, our heaven.

Days spent wandering by that window
each a journey to a play land
where what we saw becomes our happiness
then it consumes, dominates, utterly controls our time,
if we never own what we want
our insides will rot and we will be a shell,
nothing let to breath or care,
totally ruined from the lack
of holding what we made our god.

By chance or plot the day comes
at last we stand completely transfixed
while they remove the item from the display
prepare it for sale and then hand it over to our hands.

In the feel comes the plain reality
because no longer does our imagination
make the item radiate with such intensity,
it loses any luster, that evaporates
since it was never there,
returning to the sidewalk
to meander in our brokenness with crushed hearts.

Slices

Day's distractions bleed such stagnancy into the soul
lethargic mind wanders aimlessly
into a foggy maze of myriads in musings,
momentary mirages spread fantasia's delusions,
paradise's scent teases nostrils,
quickly suffocated by some moral mar's stench.

Looking upwards in gasping resignation
at the turquoise, cloudy envelope,
lifting one's third eye razor blade
to penetrate natural translucent envelope
and see into the starry lattices
where eternal epiphany plumes
await to dress the spirit's light.

Moving effortless through the portal
within the layers of one's senses
touching in such intensity
all the jewel of forever's sagacious gold.

Feeling the soothing flush of knowing
drape one's essence in pure euphoria.
Gazing at the chaos and clatter
strangling others souls,
seeing its irony and sadness
for how they have yet to soar into realms
where reality is more than growing old.

Succulent

Vernal droplets oozing pink and alabaster,
hang as beads of nature's silky necklace
wrapping the soul in life's silent effigies,
paradise plumes perfume in precious floral incense,
heart feels rhythmic floral symphony throb its elation
petals pour forth sweet streams of serenity's tangential hues,
bathing the soul in the calming immersion of pulsating melody,
until what drips from one's mind and into other's esteem palates
flows from a bottomless cistern of love
finding beauty in any withered blossom.

Greased

Mind's wheels stop squeaky and screeching,
body feels so smooth in motion,
able to run when it once walked,
feeling like wings are attached to the feet,
having been made so oily and lacking resistance
from the grease of inspiration,
but the only problem if you get too slippery
is it effects your vision with overconfidence,
till you think you can slide through any obstacle.

The World Is Made of Clay

The world is made of clay
to be shaped and molded
anyway our minds care to see,
in either splendor or waste
a planet blessed or doomed.

We can watch fertile fields
and see only death and decay
or gaze at a rubbish littered land
with eyes that discover treasures.

In the heart remains the gems
found by our wandering ways
happy when we discover hope
among the soil sought and searched.

Upon this mantle of earthen features
there is the rhythmic resonance
totally ringing its tones
deep into our senses.

Is it a song we celebrate,
a memorable tune with magic
instead of some funeral dirge,
it is up to our choice
our thoughts to gleam
what we define as beauty.

How we easily elect
what is the taste we find
among the flavors
spilled by this spinning orb’s
many sources of wells.

Lips

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

Eloquence

Reaching deep within the tides that bind the soul
to the sensory seas of sight and sound,
his horn probes and embellishes
touching all the fissures of darkness,
summoning the visionary sage,
speaking in oracles,
uttering mysteries unveiled,
before the third eye stage.

Each ember of jeweled thought
burning brighter than the stars,
silvery collections of sagacious sonnets
radiate in flashes
upon the essence
dawning creations of eternal wombs,
yielding days of new languages,
so lucid and illuminating,
until the seer is unmasked
of his ignorance blindfolded.

Scribes of purer poignant purpose
are clothed in a precious robe of harmony,
quietly serving his wound's ethereal intentions,
adding balance to the chaos of life.

Upon the soar

Upon the soar
of her children's praise
she flies so long in heart and soul.

Trying her best to cling to that wind
amid the endless chores
that come each and every day.

Being chauffeur, cook, housekeeper
and so many other names,
but mainly
the one little eyes turn to
in order to make
their world complete.

So she mends their wounds,
hugs them when their hurt,
kisses of reassurance
all done out of love.

Doing her best to keep flying so high
though they only say thank you,
once a year,
on Mother's Day.

SHRIVELING MATCHSTICKS

Matchbox sitting on the shelf,
shaking inside from the bitter cold
still refuse to strike that match,
can't waste them, ever.

Icing chill bites deeper,
day's lament for worthless weather,
dying in pneumonia's rasp, visions of reaper's sickle
painting an eerie shadow on my bedroom wall.

One more rib stabbing cough,
phlegm comes to the lips, soul begs for warmth,
screaming to light a single match,
can't waste them, ever.

Shivers quake the body in horrifying tides
like a foreboding tremor of death knell warning.

Last of cough medicine exhausted,
lungs hurting deeply, the infection fluid inside
slowly suffocating the capacity to breathe.
Mind pleads to use one precious matchstick,
can't waste them,
ever.

Then the nightmare collapses,
waking to a new day, healthy of body, dead in spirit,
trust's matchbook lying on the soul's shelf,
never opened to risk a flame,
to warm or light one's life,
can't waste them, ever.

Space Husbandry

Distractions thunder terrorizes in taunting torture
ripping the mind's cosmic epiphany garden.

Seeds of silvery sagacity are strewn in the soul's sailing seconds
across the silvery furrows in contemplative soil,
flowering in vibrant auras of creative starburst's illuminating bouquets.

Hope's Canopy

Gossamer lace stretching between horizons
crystalline clarity panting its cerulean hue
flawless expanse inhaled into the soul,
indigo waves of transcendence
sculpt serene sapphires
within the mind's textures.

Cobalt calm engulfs from the heavens
stirring dreams where clouds
fill one's quiet
drifting upon the rifts of thought
perhaps shadows aren't dragons
after all.

Drinking in the turquoise elegance
until it veils the blur of goblins,
noon touches with stark azure enchantment
lungs taste anticipation's scent
amid the rush of questions.

Sunday's Vase

Faith's petals blossoming in quiet, humble obedience
God's presence flows as spiritual scent, inhaled by the soul,
light shines from love when his grace is so imbued,
heaven is the home of truest treasure, serene and cherished
when each day the angel's bless with Sunday's vase.

Can you

Can you
hold a dream
or feel the touch of the phantom seducer
who has cast a spell upon your night?

Will you always chase passion's echoes
into dead end romantic rendezvous
when this heart I have
and place in your hand
beats so loudly and longingly
only for you

Ventriloquist Stares

Cauterized conscience
learning rote conformity,
where Barbie and Kens
have real hearts,
but no soul.

Mirrored intuition
mummifies vision,
voice babbling
parrot philosophies
through orbs
seeing
social caricatures
as sitcom surreal truth

Happily chirping
what is predictable,
in candy coated dozes
of myopic excuses.

Fallen Petals

When rose petals float upon forbidden bursts of blue
the winds whispered colors of hope~

Only to be scorched later by realities waves
crashing them against the shore

Wilted into deception upon the sand
drained of all their beauty,
a salty mist cascades in empathy around me,
seizing my thoughts

I am waltzing through echoes of a merciless world
darkened by shadows,
as this ruse of impressions leaves behind deep footprints
upon my hearts journeys

Lurking like crystal memories
an image,
my reflection~
reveals itself in the dried petals left scattered

Suddenly, I am left wandering~
Alone, My life;
frozen between syllables of thoughts,
overwhelmed with sorrow,
my soul crumbles
in silken wishes of tears,
as stars softly fade away my dreams

with tainted remnants of yesterday,
left upon the sand

To light the sky

Muse's lips caress in such unexpected allure,
implanting messages and symbols --
dreams thought to be imagination
fracture into profound elements
till one's entire body writhes
through such pleading need
to scream their essence unto the world.

Visions mutate into surrealistic creatures
within the metaphor chasms of the brain,
fingers twitching, nervously reaching for a pen.

Words flow from an insight's rising pool,
transforming into desire's slave
furiously rattling the chains of fiery, mood metal
simmering within ecstasy's pot.

Sampling the concoction, hopelessly ravenous for more,
spilling the leftovers unto a page
where they rise in vapors of lucidity
that removing others blindfolds when read.

Becoming a light shining
into the darkness of understanding
exposing the sky in one's head to worlds unseen,
all because a craving gnawing relentlessly at the soul,
never thinking of accolade or riches
just a whispering fingertip
speaking what grew in a moment of inspiration.

Guarded

Ebony guise
armed intentions
hands knowing violence
badge
for wings.

Thunder

Deafening explosions ripping across the sky,
leaded clouds gather in gloomy distant clusters,
mind senses deluge's pending display.

Feeling the sound's power within as a form of renewal
booming ignites the heart with a visionary new pulse.

A Light Forever

Though shadows come
with such terrible darkness,
the heart can still feel love's fire,
it never dies no matter how we change,
for God is the one who brings its flame.

Tomorrow is never more than a hope,
a gift we receive with the dawn,
today is the present we can rejoice
enjoying its treasure every second.

Sadness comes in its own schedule,
but we never have to feel alone,
for the soul is felt by so many,
touched and eternal,
shining though we are weary,
a garment that will last forever.

Rest in the quiet peace of knowing,
how many voices are lifting up
the praise for one more life
which Heaven created
and will shine constantly
as a star cherished
never to be forgotten,
always special and a blessing.

Tales Of The Tongue

We licked the horizon with our tongues
swiped it clean of dirt and doubts,
our love would be a broom
to brush away every obstacle
as stories spun saw only paradise
among the thorns and thistles.

Oh we spoke of rose gardens to sleep
and pools to immerse our hearts
in the subtle intimacies of night.

But words began vapors
because our time together
just turned into a wind
without any power
for driving us back to the place
our hands held the morning
as our own private heaven.

Wasn’t the trail I imagined,
not the journey for two dreamed,
merely a step of prints that reach a sign
with a detour to different destinations
where our unspoken thoughts
said, “just passing through”
instead of I love you.

And I Shall Not Dream

And I shall not dream of medals for my chest
to adorn my heart with the pride of their gold,
but covet the glow from the trophies of the soul,
which radiate from the light of discovering within
as the victor that wears a crown over the self.

For I can race among the many throngs
who measure life by a single shimmering wreath,
yet never find in its glory any true peace.

The greatest joy is from competing completely,
totally expressing the harmony of mind, body and soul
where all you are flows through the challenge
and there is peace from utterly conveying your essence
that overpowers the need to boast of the success
because you find it in the full expression of all you are.

By that calm from any effort that is totally consuming,
wholly tapping into the pure core of being,
brings its passion and contentment
from having tested what dwells within
with a zeal for harnessing every ounce of your gifts.

It is the laurel of inner revealing that has its own curl of lips
unconcerned the addicts of vanity who view awards as a deity,
they will fade and vanish in the winds of time,
ultimately be replaced by another predator of shine
while the one who wins over selfish desires
is a champion for a lifetime.

Midnight's Flight

Midnight's flight in ogre screams
shadowy shrieks that shred the stillness,
pillow pants of gaping gasps,
sorrow's shroud smothers with groan in silence.

Moans and murmurs rise from closet chambers
tones of terror to torment my threads of thought,
night sewn with phantom fabric with mourner's sleeves,
kite of sandman soars towards cemetery scenes
spirit sinks into stinging cesspool of sobs
where funeral fears float as dirge musicians.

Prayer for providence release uttered
as a fleeting chant,
lost in the claptrap shouts of mental gnomes.

Fueling the fires forged by fear
chimney inside the heart burns
snorts and snarls intuitive resurge
symphony from despair's composure
writes melancholy's music
played repeatedly in piercing notes
frayed of light or hope.

Singing in guttural lament
the resonance of resignation,
awakening to a zombie's clarion call,
air bristles with sun's rejuvenation.

Perhaps a song will be played tonight
where banshee artist don't rehearse
and life is a melodious harp of serenity
instead of an off key shrill of sadness.

Impossible

Innocence has eyes
undimmed by doubt,
able to see what is impossible,
belief's tender orbs
always watching so intently for magic
where older gazes are blind.

Down the small trail her cherub face
danced in trust through the garden's scenery,
following the angel voice as always,
being the one which watches over her soul,
until coming to that special hearth of enchantment,
imagination's misty gold kissing her thoughts,
greeting a creature, one of countless seen before
that lived only in creativity's lair.

A place where a child sleeps
and heaven whispers possibility's dreams,
remembered by those who never truly grow up
living with youth's passions and joys
always beating within,
who go on to spread its charm
as poets, painters and the speakers of light.

God's love takes so many forms and shapes,
blessing in a variety of inspiration's inner songs ,
only heard by those willing to accept
the world is more than what a day reveals,
inside is held the key in hope's locket,
opening doors to places the Lord creates
for those whom He blesses with special site
to embrace what others claim can never be.

The Wisps of Love

Even when the heart
has given up and did stop
a soul's love shall not part
lingering to caress like some ghostly mop.

One last brush moment to say I care
though we can only feel them
by a chill in the air,
or an image familiar that does not offend.

Sacred ties bind our spirits to another
sometimes that energy is still felt
when coming from one who cared for us like a mother
warming our thoughts, making our sorrow melt.

We might react at first with ice upon the spine
fearing this phantom presence who face we know
that we sense was once someone cherished in our mind
but now has gone passed where all life can go.

Yet, what better form could they ever say
good bye to one they will miss so much
than by some parting hug in this special way
letting us be aware life dwells beyond the grave's touch.

I know this from my own moment of wisp
when my mother's ghost appeared after her last breath
just a second of saying so long by a haunting kiss
giving me comforting about life after death.

The Voice Within

I am a heartbeat
that has a sound often lost
amid the shouts and screams,
which ring out from so many sources
come with their pains into my head.

Yet the echoes of my throbbing
still linger and refuse to be silence
as I remain that voice within
every searching for my place
among all the masks that exists.

And even when the roar
rises from so many mouths,
even when machines and other sources
smother the world for attention
for me I continue to ring my inner chime
because it is part of who I really am,
so share it to be sure
that I don’t get lost while treading water
in that sea called humanity.

It’s enough at times to know
how what lies in my essence
is what I try to express,
sometimes with embellishments,
which convey some diversity of me,
but always so what is seen
really will end up being what I am.