words

Quiet words.
spoken for one to hear
and mull over.
To soak in and apply
in life.

Quiet words.
Spoken to one in fear
of being over heard
for their meanings tempt fate
in consequence.

Loud words.
Spoken for every ear
but never heard
looked at as a sweet threat,
tasty, but rots to the core.

Loud words.
Spoken from mouths in leer
ing scorn. Callous in its volume and
intention.

Quiet and loud words.
Same letters received
differently. Some remembered.
most ignored.
most never truly heard.

Zeus's backyard

Soft and white with strands of gray
that trace a jumbled path across
the sky. Blue sky roughly peeking
through gaps in the picket fence
of Zeus’s backyard.

My thoughts soar through that yard of cumulus
and cirrus clouds of imagination.
No direction.
Just flying.
Just drifting.

Sinking my toes through the hoary
thickness and dabble my fingers in
the pearly cotton and laugh as
my worries drift away on the currents
of the Anemoi.

A morning race

We woke with the sun and raced
west with the sun’s rising. The dusty
yellows lighting the path ahead as the
truck bends and weaves along the
old cracked highway. The bumps and beats
of the tires competing with the soft monotones
of morning talk radio. A subtle cacophony
to keep the driver awake and slightly alert on
the long road trip.

A temporal ceiling

The ceiling for the temporal,
a cobalt grey canvas painted
with lofty white shapes that
serve as the world’s roof.

The stars we reach for,
the otherworld destinations
we dream about, that pie you so
often hear about, all
at home in the limitless sky.

So far away in time and space,
but so near to our ears
and eyes. A liquid less sea holding
all our dreams and fears.

The horizon our ultimate destination.
the reds and purples of dusk our time
to go. A farewell show to our loved ones,
the ones to leave before us, the ones we
beat to the punch, and the ones just
embarking on the opposite end
of the world’s horizon.

Lost directions

I can never go back.
The map is lost
amidst the clutter of the day
and easily forgotten.

Piled under bills and
moved according to priorities
and tasks that can’t be avoided.
Little ideas of insignificance
weighed down by the burden of
tomorrow until it vanishes,
Compressed to nothing.
nothing but a memory.

Life

Life.

Short in its brevity,
once here, and then
once gone.

The elderly waves goodbyes
mirrored in the helloes of the
newborns.

Life.

Cyclical in its motions
of vicious monotony, but
refreshing in its beauty.

It moves as the sand
held so briefly in our hands.
No matter the strength of grip
they disappear ‘til all that
remains are the impressions
of memories once lived.

Knife's twist

It’s real now, the knife’s
Twist no longer metaphorical.
A long, sickening and dulling piercing jerk. A twelve
inch blade that’s pierced my heart
from side to side. The blood that
once rushed at the sight now coating
me in a second skin.

A stain that will never come out. Fade
with time it may, but come out, never.
An ever constant reminder of lose.

Always here, but never present. A ghost
of you that will haunt evicted heart til
the day it dies itself.

I haven't been there

Can you see in your
mind’s eye the places
you’ve never been to?

To color the landscape and
build the structures and
scenery.

To feel the blades of
grass on your feet as
you walk through your
minds picture of your
future destination.

To hear the calls of
birds that may or may
not live there in reality,
but fly freely in your
view of it.

Black

I can’t get out
as the black threatens to consume.
Beckoning to engage in a deathly bout.
It’s a foregone conclusion that I can’t be free
as my fears bind me stronger than shackles.

Imprisoned in an existence without action to
float through life like a falling rose petal.
Slow
and
Lethargic.
To hit the ground with no visible impact.
terrors taking away the initiative
to jump out
and live.

Afghan

I walk the cold streets
under the pocketed afghan
of night. Aimless wanderings
in an attempt to rid the insomnia.
Night after night of jaunts
through the sleeping town. Every
nook and cranny found, every Shortcut
traveled in a search to release
the memories of days and love lost.
trapped in my mind as my feet move
of their own accord. Trying to find the
Path back to the way it used to be.

A Red Chalice

The chalice filled
with the blood of life.
No sipping allowed.
Let the juices run down
your pouchy jowls as you
gulp. Coat the stomach
in a flood of vitality
that seeps into the rivers of
the body, to sustain
til the next time.

The purpose

Writing shapes my life. I see things in commas and periods, apostrophes and line breaks. I look at things and see how they would shape themselves into prose or into poetry. But it does me no good if it never sees the light of day, never walks the minds of unsuspecting critics, never breathes in the air of other's praises, critiques, and defamation's. So have at it, if you hate it, rip it to shreds, let me know. If you love it, tell me. Help shape my writing into a better product. Give it a life of its own with your thoughts and ideas.

There's going to be a blast of selections to peruse at first as I post stuff from the past, but after awhile it'll slow down. Enjoy!

The Empty Road

The empty road punctuated

By the bluster of a busted

Muffler. A dark night sped

Through with naught but a

Pale fingernail to light

The way.

We chat non committingly,

meaningless words used to

fill mouths, not ears. Ignoring

the absence of that just

accustomed too sound to forge

ahead.

Tradition holding sway.

keep it on the inside the

unspoken mantra silently

uttered as we've grown to

see the truth as irrelevant in

the face of appearances.

The dark silhouetted oaks

and pines a grand jury

passing its unwavering

justice. The moon a

purveyor of judgment that

looks down in consternation

at the weak route we take

to keep up the appearance.

An empty mansion that

exudes success but hides

the poison run rampant for

generations. A weakening

of the foundation that's leaked

into every bent nail and board

in the house.

But still we chat. Both

knowing the other knows,

but unwilling to choose the

right words. Rather words of

ash that settle and stain us deeper

and deeper. Unaware of the sentence

we had attained.

Unaware by a choice.

So home we go, to our

individual rooms and

individual thoughts.

Back to avoiding each other.

Back to acting the part.

Back to keeping it on the inside.