Candles In The Closet

Closet monsters kept me
from poking inside its space
when the dark would come,
so I put some candles
on the shelf,
then lit the wick
to be able to see
into the blackness.

Only I remembered
how flames could burn
could cause harm
if you got to close
and never went near the closet
just being too afraid
of fire.

Falling Through The Sky

She chased an angel into a hole
during an afternoon of silent dreams,
paradise was filled with mazes
and detours through bushes
where tears clung to the leafs
since Spring lives forever in the mind.

Oh roses bloomed upon the weeds,
there was a garden in the moaning woods,
it was all the passage of love
into her secrets and fears
just longing for an embrace
without a knife or whip.

But the blanket of slumber
was woven in fibers
made in the clouds,
they had grown tattered
over the years,
yet she remembered their feel
when she was still a virgin
with ladders in her head
able to reach heaven.

Now she sleeps
as that small child,
a little afraid though hopeful,
because the heart still breaths
the air of fantasies
so rich and pure of promises.

Tomorrow the morning
shall dress the day
in images that glisten
though tarnished inside,
still she stroll and have visions
from her own private haven.

Wonderland lives,
for nothing can steal
your imagination.

My Stumbling Thrum

I come before the Lord
and He takes me as I am,
lets me see Him
in a way that I can understand.

And though all Heaven and Earth
are under His rule,
unto me He appeared
without intimidation
or covering me in shame,
for those were the rags
worn by my own wounded heart.

But His mercy and love
became a light to shine
through my torn garments,
they revealed the gems inside
though unpolished and unknown to me
for I was so bruised and broken
my eyes had no vision for inner truth.

Now, in small stumbling steps
do I yield to His grace by faith,
not as other than sinner in need
of His salvation and help.

So within His Holy Spirit’s breath
revives and reveals those pearls,
all so I could in my own joy
give all I am into His hands as offering.
The faith, the tarnished thoughts,
the praise and sacrifice of lips,
where my succor of gratitude
is whatever He shows me
out of the closet in my heart,
becoming the drum of my talents,
which beats by His will.

Each day He shows me a new beat
from some facet I didn’t know.
It is enough to tarry at that altar,
letting Him grant me a flame
to each candle of gifting He created within,
only for the pure and simple purpose
of helping me feel His power of anointing
where I cherish it being used for His glory.

Refuges

Beneath the tarnished tints in terraced terrains
the heart keenly discerns a deeper beauty,
so knowingly able to intensely savor
a peace that dwells within any scenery
when the gaze inwardly explores
the refuges of truth residing in the soul.

It never comes instantly
upon the path of pilgrimage
through the many labyrinths and lairs
along the way to any sanctuary of light.

Doesn’t matter if the abode has a kingly ambience
amid its chambers of veiled clarity,
for it is the view intently taken
that learns with an inquisitively passionate pursuit
to always delve for the real quintessence
even if the façade before the mind
has an image dilapidated and decayed.

For the seeker who craves an astute sojourn of enlightenment,
real serenity comes not from avoiding what inspires irritably,
but by harnessing havens within
regardless of if the sight that surrounds
is interestingly intriguing or just a listless image.

Swinging

My grandson
goes bananas
when gets ice cream,
calls it “monkey”
because his mom
acts like a chimpanzee
when sharing a bowl.

Not Quite Like The Brochure

They thought it looked lovely
in the travel agent’s brochure,
an oasis and sanctuary of real serenity.
With a staff who were available both night and day,
plus a very special form of entertainment
for a very budget package vacation price.

So the Mr. and Mrs. Gullible
were off to enjoy their trip,
why they thought the screaming door bell
a very creative welcome device,
also found it very amazing
how the maids all were able to float through the walls,
which were a very nice shade of red
that seemed to flow like blood.

Bed was very comfortable
even if it did hover off the ground
and rotated in a circle all night long
while some voice moaned underneath
about loving to devour hearts.

Meals were a tad on the lean side
since they were transparent,
but they didn’t mind since wanted to lose weight anyway.

They came back and recommended it to their friends,
Mr. and Mrs. OMG What’s That?
Figured they could use a break
with having weak hearts and being treated for extreme paranoia.

Next year the Gullibles can’t wait to go on the desert retreat
where the dirt glows at night in nice shade of green,
owned by some leisure expert by the name of Toxic Waste.

Tomorrow

If tomorrow came before my eyes
with every vivid detailed it held in its hour glass
could I cope with the sight of suffering
suddenly seeing some of the people I know
become corpses as I viewed their agony and death?

Would I thrive on seeing each new invention
while having to also watch the horror of evil
inflict its wounds upon the world
and observe each scream or plea for protection
though having no power to stop the crimes?

And what fate would I face
if I dare to warn of some catastrophe?
History shows most prophets
end up being silenced in some terrible way,
plus knowing that horrible event was coming
surely would eat at my insides.

Perhaps I would suffer the usual malady
of knowing things you’re not meant to know,
eventually ending up in padded room
until my sanity was destroyed.

Yet, how could I not dare to look
despite all those risks?
Can’t imagine I could resist
because I would still hope
that view might give me a chance
to help someone before disaster struck,
even if it carried a consequence
just never know when it might
undo what was a potential tragedy
and in the process
next time I gazed
there would be a different future.

My Box Of Droplet Diversions

I have my leaded sky treasure trove
of ways to cope with those downpours in droplets,
first is my collection of DVD’s,
only the ones I can get for five dollars each
so filled with the lamest and silliest movies there are,
just helps to turn my mind to mush on stormy days.

Then I have my assortments
in those old magazines and National Inquirers
where I can look up those annual psychic predictions
about the future fate of the world,
so far it is it is psychics zero in terms of accuracy,
but it sure is fun to read again
about the aliens who were supposed to come,
the utopia that they claimed was going to happen
even the cure for every disease,
which makes for a fun laugh to read again.

Oh I also have my list of special phone numbers to call
like the customer service people at the cable company
love to dial them up and ask something absurd
such as if they have the life after death channel yet?

Just no end to the distractions a creative mind can imagine,
pity some have no appreciate for that inspiration,
doesn’t seem like those people at the pizza take out place
have much of a sense of humor
when I call and ask if pizza sauce really causes warts
or if they give discounts for road kill toppings?

Alas it is hard to be a poet on some showering times
because not all appreciate my efforts
at a different kind of expression.

Unforgettable

When the flakes of wintry memories
fall in the long, silent nights of questioning,
slowly brushing with their icy thought
from those moments spent
forced to walk through drifts
alone and unsure when it will ever in.

The phantom flakes of those encounters
still sting the face in their icy reflections.
while inside the rainbow glow in bright remembrances
flows outward like a waterfall
over the times after the blizzards
that life thawed and felt alive again.

How it reminds how even when the winter bites
with its cold, frozen touch,
it doesn’t keep the heart from holding onto
those colored ribbons
in the precious portraits,
which always leaves a tattoo
of countless spring colors in hope
upon the mind and sight
about times that always follow January’s storms.

You can see them like a make up
always visible in any reflection
as the stripes that leave a glow
so you don’t forget snow doesn’t last forever.

Changes

Walls crumble yet we build them anyway
over the soft path of our minds,
over the gardens of our nights.

Some see seasons in every view
always ending in winter
without a chance for changes,
others don’t stop looking
deep beyond the obvious
aware it never stays the same
and in the most solid of landscapes
there can be quakes.

To stand and watch
is to let the mind walk
even through walls
because the footsteps
of those who travel
have passed through
those barriers before.



 

Fathoms

Depths of the heart sunken below the tides,
far beneath the tarnished sky,
out of reach from the ravages in polluted soil
while dwelling in crystalline domes,
so hoping to submerge the beasts inside.

But you can’t drown the mind under waves,
eventually the utopian lusts of this sea oasis
slipped into a stale climate,
it is never enough to watch the waters and fish
and let them gently nudge the spirit
into imaging swimming among their realm.

What claws within breathes its own hunger
suddenly there is the dread of claustrophobia,
then comes the insanity of panic,
until you can’t bear the walls surrounding,
completely desperate to touch the earth.

And then the others watch
from that haven of glass
as another desperate life
opens the portal to the ocean
to rise upward to the imagine freedom.

It is merciful if the sharks attack
even if they run out of air
before reaching the top.

For if they survive to tread upon that surface
one has to face the brutal reality of its hostility,
at least until one gasp too many
brings enough poison into the body to end the misery.

 

Dreamed

A place of ever
beyond this fear,
a place of joy
outside the hurt.

Dreamed
in the heart
where we always
hope
it has breath and reality
on a plain
where always
is the state of being
lived without end.

Trinity

Man teaches his idea
of a triune nature,
interpreted as the mind, body and soul,
persuaded it is essential to clarity,
even including the word
as the name of college in Hartford, Connecticut.

He tried to make the world obey
a triune element in power,
by land, see and air
when tested his first nuclear explosion
at a city by that name located in New Mexico.

All the subtle diversions
to try and cope
with the revelation by faith
of seeing three deities as one,
attempting to mimic that concept
in his own mortal versions,
which never create heaven.

Ambience

To bask in the soft, subtle shade
of smooth and still cerulean seas
bathes the heart in the pride of living
awakening that peacock soul
in stirs of the conscious clarity.

One moment of blessed breath
besets the heart in breathless moments
when filled with the turquoise tranquility
that brings that scenic ambience
into the soul with its satiating spell.

Shared so enticingly in a communal gathering
where wounded and downtrodden spirits
find the filling radiance of an encounter
as it inspires the silent vigil in union,
which works its soothing magic.

Oh call the soul by a plaintive sigh
unto this balm of bluish bliss,
for it sings in the mind
with its alluring azure tones
bringing the calming caresses.
They flow like a tide
over the seconds of visit.

Swelling from the splendor surge
bonded in the traveler’s steps,
quietly slipping into a dream
where the hour is worn as a diadem
exquisitely felt as an enraptured expression.

The Celebration

Where there’s an election, there’s a celebration
of success yet to be born or achieved,
knights and princesses dancing in their regal attires
to victories claimed that are never won.

Scaffolds erected for the former nobility,
whether they are guilty or not,
because executions allow the blood to cover
what will be tomorrow’s mistakes.

We get drama and pathos,
action in words, tear streams of speeches,
lies to blindfold to the exchanging of cash in bags,
marching in song around a flagpole,
on top of poor they want to forget,
history books rewritten to insert
the future only existing in a vision totally out of focus.

What a glorious spectacle besets the display,
pride and passion so well acted,
perfection air brushed by media spin doctors,
so nobody will notice the flaws.

For one moment in time
patriotism is center stage as a sick comedy,
wanting us to believe on this occasion
a true sage of solutions
will walk across the public stage
and manage to build a utopia on the dump.

Then after the pomp and circumstance operas,
comes the parade of booths wearing tax shackles,
so many having fallen asleep during the party
they never make it to the ballot invitation.

Afterwards we live with the hangovers
pocketbooks getting the tab,
not exactly what was intended
as meaning for the bill of rights.

It’s a process, a platform,
the boundless panoplies of politics,
served as entrees at democracy’s tainted buffet.

Unto The Lord Of The Impossible

Heavenly Father
who controls both earth and sky,
that breathes life into all creation
for whom nothing is impossible,
we praise your mercy
and petition in humblest words,
to touch with loving hands of healing
this heart who is so need.

Make a miracle before our eyes,
so it will bring honor unto your name,
grant us this request
let it be the redemption from the reaper’s grasp,
which only your divine power can provide.

By your grace we know
every creature is special
in thanksgiving do we claim
the promise of your word,
declared in your holy name,
“Jehovah-Rophi,”
where you are revealed as,
“I am the Lord that Healeth Thee.”

May you shine the mercy of this truth
upon this moment and soul,
in Jesus name we pray,

Amen.

They Said It Couldn’t Be Done

Pride and presumption piling their pillars
against the sun,
hand carving glory by plots and plans,
oh the victories claimed before they are won,
where fingers empowered with arrogance
decide they can treat fate as a puppet.

But God has so many strings
hidden from our view
tied to our lives and so easily yanked
as we stand on a shaking precipice
proudly declaring it can never collapse.

Words of defiance and absolutes
boast the concrete foundations
of our lusts,
nature a trickster
often used by the Lord
to achieve what we claimed
couldn’t be done.

Of elements we never tame,
yet treat as predictable,
His finger stirs such rude awakenings,
so even an insect can topple a mountain
if manipulated by a divine hand.

Regardless the pages of man
written in head scratching episodes
mortal thought still clings to notion
tomorrow will never have any stories
with heaven’s ghost writer
penning another surprise ending.

Heaven’s Chapel

In Heaven’s chapel the angels sing,
of the sacred bond
between a knight and his queen,
two hearts God wrapped in a lasting love,
a union His hands
have tied from above.

On that blessed day
when vows of golden word are woven,
His raiment of joy
drapes their spirits,
eyes locked adoringly in purest affection
as the ring of complete devotion
is slipped so willingly
upon the heart.

A cake of happiness
is baked in a divine oven,
served with bliss for icing.
May its taste forever linger
in a flavor that is never forgotten.

And as the years
help the fondness to spread
hold its warmth in constant embraces,
cherish that precious time when you were wed.

It is beauty only marriage truly creates,
two lives always on a honeymoon,
facing tomorrow as passion’s flowers,
which will constantly bloom
in endless, wonderful hours.

Sunrise Miracle

The rays release their illumined relief
upon the chains that once imprisoned his life,
now the cell door is open and tears stream
finally the injustice of his innocent
being wrongly punished
has mercifully ended with an exhale
of pure, rapturous joy beyond any words.

What irony an earthquake was his pardon
ironically he the only survivor in the penitentiary.

But as he wanders our of the ruins
and into the cold winter desert,
all that shines like a fire in his mind
is incredible euphoria of freedom and the blessing
from forever vanishing from that undeserved cruelty.

Reveries

Pangs of the soul in embryonic swells within
as gyrations of passion’s seeds fermenting
from the reveries percolating in the heart.

And fear strangles desire's umbilical cord
slowly transforming the mind's inventive angel
that is the winged vision of future feel
until it stings inside as a steady ache.

Wishing out of regret to cease the torment,
writhing from its fetal truth of unborn creative stillness,
yet the womb of will wants its child.
The offspring of what love has wrought
in the nights of entwined thoughts.

Torn between letting go and dwelling
at the intuitive ward in maternity of expression,
always agonized by the pain of waiting
for life to come unto what is imagined.

Every day of another dream left stillborn
is another morning of struggle.
But the poet is the muse’s surrogate
and being a parent of verse
finally comes in its delivery.
Sometimes sweaty,
sometimes with misery,
though always proud of your infant’s life.

 

Those Little Motivations

Oh the inclinations in inspired insinuations
the beauty of a depraved and demented artistry
to meander the miscreant musings in mental misinformation
so to ponder and proliferate and preponderance
in a plethora in pseudo suggestive phenomena
that would prevent my goddess of the now
from wandering away from my lair in love’s façade.

What stratagem of stupendous seduction
would I render as a risked regime,
which would make my angel of my current obsession
be so content and calm under its control.

But if lurking detectives in the bushes,
bugs placed on telephones,
cameras hidden in air condition ducts
didn’t give me enough peace of mind
then I would naturally induce a few inspirations
such as some mind manipulative meds
slipped into her morning coffee
or perhaps some other mental persuasion
added to her cereal or other meals.

Ah the magic it would work
should I need that extra comfort
of a release from any worry,
unless all my prowess of cloaked antics
just didn’t proof to be
as fruitful as I would have wanted.

In which case I suppose
it would be time for a change
until I found that perfect match
With someone more susceptible
unto my sorcery with pills.

Castles

Chiseled affections from quarry of groans
used as surety's marble in epiphany's staircase
so one can ascend unto the fortress sanctuary of reliance,
and accept the rule with discernment's crown
prudently clad in lace for seduction or wake
depending on if knights brandish a liar's swords.

Landmarks

In the middle of wandering
before the raging sea in doubts,
there is that point of power,
overwhelming, stunning and spellbound
where suddenly you reach
some landmark of discovery
a place where you can see
what will last regardless of the tides.

And those hands of revelation
grab your heart with such intensity
so no matter what else comes
inside you become a rock,
solid, unmovable and filled with peace.


 

Upon My Heart

Upon my heart blows the Holy Spirit’s breath
with the whirlwinds from the past,
the wisps of thoughts weave through my mind
with the ghost from the valleys that I trod
so I can pauses and let my soul inhale
His healing breeze of saving light
until my lips given song I praise
over how He gave me strength
through every shadow and tear.

In that celebration of His deliverance
I slip into psalm of thanksgiving,
by faith I reach out with arms of trust,
cry Selah and Hallelujah,
before me flees the floundering in my heart,
inside I feel His redemption heal
and in the Lord’s radiance of love,
do I feel that cleansing of my sins,
to look upon life as a new creation,
only filled with awe and joy
because my Savior has come into my life,
made every weed and stone a gift
where my eyes and essence bath in that power,
which He touches to bring relief.

It is the baptism of believe
unto a revival of renewal,
a believer’s holiday of such rapturous grace
that casts away any darkness.

Then I hear with my spiritual ears
His word recalled as truth’s manna,
every grateful for its nourishment
with the sustenance of salvation,
ever becoming the Myrrh of indwelling
able to lift my sight beyond its cares.

Temples

Odysseys of inner iridescent travel into a metaphysical labyrinth,
the spirit moves while sleeping to seek truth and the candle of love,
deeper into those corridors of thought drifts the mind as traveler
until the mural of cosmic collections appears with its revelations
to paint the illumination of peace’s genuine stars so clearly
and in that moment of pure clarity and unveiled revelation,
the soul’s eyes discover the temple of life where joy dwells.

Ghost Writers

Diaries written with pen from mother's heart,
men chasing dreams silhouetted by spouse's face,
pages turned in time's chronicles,
ink scrawled by creator often victims
of fame's memory loss
who dwell in the habitats of maternal watch.

Quills coming from their wombs,
bequeathed by sacrifice, held in child's well,
the skirts of her influence
covering every field and lair,
femininity flourishing in secrets of their care,
never exposed to limelight's glow.

A world unfurled in manifold
quilts of expression,
its fabric sewn so oft by fingers
weaving out of love
all the stitches of inspiration,
who do it not for wealth nor attention,
but because the artistry of her instincts
bears her craft without blessing of equality,
having left on life's stage
a play for which others take a bow,
done without being credited as the author.

Plucked

In silence we sit and crave the choral caress
of the pulsing viola inside the chest.
Just a simple pluck by a solo’s tone
that brings its sounds with thrumming touch.

And we quiver in that quiet,
which suddenly shakes our stillness
feeling it resonate in such spellbound strums.
Oh what dulcet chimes are played
when the lips are heaven’s musician.

It is song we might have never heard,
but once it rings within where we live
all the world hushes from the vibration
as we are transfixed by the mesmerizing melody.

Though we may have slept through chaos,
though we might have dwelt
among the clamor of mouths,
once we know the hymn of inner sway
how it stains our soul with its serenade.

For we wake to the charmed concerto
moving us out of our lethargy
then into a chamber music’s airy float.

Peace hums its soft lucid strokes,
love rides the mind from the creation
while we are washed by the waves
of tranquility’s flute.
Happily dancing us across the clouds
by its harmony of wings.

Thus the rhapsody echoes
when it calls in our emptiness,
nothing filled by that bewitching bliss
where each chorus completely inspires.

 

The Luster of Decorations

She fought against sickness
to chase her dreams
of being a marathon runner,
fighting out of bedridden starting block
where the cancer had left her crippled.

But her heart refused to give up,
months of treatment
faced with courage,
finally overcoming and battling the pain,
at last restore to be in that race,
receiving the ribbon
for crossing the finish line,
brought for the pearls of tears
their luster of joy from survival
a décor she would cherished forever.

Rhythms

And time changes
the feel of the skin,
the visions of the mind,
the throbs of the heart.

Into seasons of circumstance
where I climb to Everest moments
then others to sink to such depths.

I only get to ride the changes
accepting them
is the maturity
letting yourself drown.

Threading The Pulse

Slabs of concrete strewn in precious
for the solidity of transit dreams
to rise the wings of impoverished lives
out of their ruinous vacuum
and find liberty in the warmth
of a metropolitan womb.

It’s another vision,
another duty to the populace,
slicing through the sprawling urban canvas
just to breathe hope where it has vanished.

One more pillar of progress,
a single thread of pure lifeblood
added to the stitches already sewn
that shares a promise of prosperity
without the peril of commuter stress.

In the steady streams of seconds
where memories are scarred
by rage and chaos,
minds become an architect of passage,
which will add some joy
unto alleys of angst.

How the city of Angels
through its elected guardians
keep crafted new chances to fly
by corridors to ambition.

Soon more eyes will watch
their world shrink in its obstacles
because a few with genuine charitable ambitions
forged by concrete and steel
one more path out of misery.

By a new dawn shall they ride the light
out of their deep shadows of need,
stopping where toil and passion
can find a jewel of opportunity.


 

The Charmed Succor Of Soul Healing Canticles

In the solemn stillness
of sacred ceremonial sanctity
where a stained spirit
finds its saving sanctuary
the voice of the soul
sings its scriptural hymn
rich in notes divine
washing anew fragile believes.

Reaching inward like a rare vintage wine
to inebriate with a soliloquy of light.
Lifting the weary hollow life
from its vacuous quandary
unto a winged wispy wandering
among the airy parapets of celestial tones.

This is the precious dawning
though salvation’s sunrise
guding out of the deep
darkness of doubt pangs.
A song that is written
by its chanted veracity
summoning the healing
for carnal infections.

Through a precious and frail interlude
roaming the ethereal terrace in the mind
what beloved communion collects
out of the chaos in mortal thoughts.

Refined through its purest inner voice,
softly strolling the beauty
though a faith reviving serenade.
Summoning the serene harmony
that yields the eternal whispers
with their ageless gold revelations.

Oh rejoice the calm of angelic flutters
stroking with their inspiration feathers.
It is when the moment rings
an euphoric mesmerizing meditation.
Yielding a love that flows
out of the earthly distractions
unto euphoric visions of golden streets.

Flares

Lights shot from the mind
streak into the nights of ignorance.

Spirals in the blackness.
little firefly archways
across the dark,
reflecting on pool of tears
swam in midnight’s solace.