Tales

Thuds in the thistles,

leaves bend without a wind,

shades holds the breath of monsters,

steps follow their footprints.

 

Heart pounding so hard on the stones,

can’t cease the blurs

from the corner of the eye.

 

Pocket holds a lollipop,

will it be a sword

to keep that beast away?

 

Maybe feet of wishes

can outrun it’s teeth,

sure wish big brother

hadn’t run so fast ahead

because he’d be more tasty

like all boys would be.

 

Glimpse of tent at campsite

only thing that fights the tears,

plus a chance to tell mom

how a sibling’s tales

of man eating creatures

made the trees so scary,

a little hot chocolate

while seeing him yelled at

will be the best story of them all.

 

Fetch

Let me retrieve a wagging tail of tome,

call it friendly and faithful,

because it can snarl and growls its words,

but I can go and make it play dead.

 

I love the control without question,

the simple stratagem of silent sayings,

they can bark inside their covers,

yet never have any fleas,

don’t need food or being taken for a walk

or require the use of a leash.

 

Still, they don’t lick your face

and let you know what strangers are new,

so that warm, loving fur whimper

does feel so good inside

even if it can’t tell one

all the secrets of life.

 

Perhaps a book on canines

can truly be the best blessing

add some sounds effects for that doggy illusion.

At least it won’t require a pooper-scooper

unless the insides really reek.

 

Now if only people were as loyal and true

that way our books would have to be

something that make a better companion

than the ones who are the strays

ever coming into our lives

who unlike a book or dog

might really deserve to be neutered

and won’t shut up or obey.

Trade Ins

The sales lot within the eyes

always looks for bargains in the face,

mortgaged hearts prepared to pay

what price is listed in a catalogue

where lives are discounted and replaced

every time a new group

come off the assembly line.

 

You find out when the dreams dissolve

after the grins get worn and engine rattles

there never was any warranty,

no guarantees how long that parts will last

or that when the demand for use

will simply look for something new.

 

So we live with plastic in our bones

instead of unbreakable iron,

know that it will never be

more than a cog meant for a specific need,

then sit back and merely move

as the motion and power required

because no matter how iron our essence

sooner or later a junkyard waits the bones

while what really thrive in the soul

gets a reservation where rust doesn’t exist.

Layers

Icing on the outside textured to appease

shaped by other’s hands

until all I was in their eyes

was something they could swallow.

Felt so cold and lifeless

even with their honeyed lies

just a clone creation

who web underneath,

slept on clouds and roamed stars

that no one wanted to know

for that layer was their design

and nobody should truly think

of what they didn’t craft by their hands.

 

But inside whirled a wind

a storm of passions and thoughts,

it just knotted up inside

from never having it release

the forced twisted up my soul

because it couldn’t exhale.

 

Now and again it leaks out,

little glimpses of those sobbing breeze,

each breath in sorrow and love

kept within that no one wanted to feel,

so in the layer of that lair

I just curl up in a ball

and dream.

They Were Out Of Cups

Was it my fault

the AM/PM was out of cups,

plus the Seven Eleven too?

So I did the best I could

went by my bud’s house

only all his cups were dirty

just had to be creative

that should be rewarded,

it’s called using initiative!

 

Well that is what my boss

claims you need that

in order to get promote,

now he’s saying

my inspiration sucks.

 

Can I help it

if my buddy only had

these really big white buckets?

Or that were dirty

thus needed to be sterilized?

Alcohol is that perfect thing

for making sure it’s really safe.

 

Okay so we got so busy

sampling that Jack Daniels used

forgot to empty them

before adding diet coke.

 

Really was an accident,

sure sucked that nobody at the picnic

bothered to complain,

course they all smiled a lot

what a pity

the one dude barfed on the boss,

otherwise instead of losing my job

I might have gotten a raise

for taking that dull event

and making it so much fun.

 

The Story Teller

Once a year near Halloween

at and old historic hotel called the Mission Inn,

so legendary for ghost and eerie inexplicable happenings,

would hold a special fund raiser for a local need

that they would call the “Ghost walk.”

 

Down dimly lit alabaster corridors

people would be lead by a mourner dressed guide,

to some corner or other cavity of spooky feel

where a story teller would share a ghostly tale,

always clad in black and looking so creepy

words spoken in scary descriptions

made the icy fingers climb the spine.

 

And adding to the sense of specters everywhere

were the sounds of moans and pleas for help

in such deep haunting sounds

as they came from unseen sources

out of bushes and shadows.

 

On our journey we stopped to hear one old woman

she looked so ashen and never stared as us in the eyes,

spoke a story about an aging maid at the hotel

who had fallen down some stairs

and broke her neck then died about midnight,

next evening seen again

still walking her round to clean.

 

I could sense the fear in that guide,

something was truly wrong,

quickly she rushed along to the next spot,

but I came back for a peak,

shocked to see the woman had vanished!

 

Words whispered between guides

before that spot was not on the walk again.

When I went into the hotel lobby

so I could use their restroom

on the wall were photographs

from the past

they had images of people who had worked there.

 

My heart nearly stopped when I saw the one

who was of the woman who told that tale,

only the date on the frame said 1923!

With shivers I walked towards the bathroom

truly in need of being relieved!

 

Getting To The Root Of The Problem

Oh dang Ethel what am I supposed to do?

My kid has studying botany

and metaphysical arbor history

thanks to that weirdo teacher

of that New Age,

Liberal, Politically Correct,

green peace environmental fanatic,

save all living things no matter what lunatic,

who says

that trees are reincarnations of people.

 

Can’t use a roll of toilet paper

or even write a note now

without my daughter freaking out

and crying it once was somebody’s mother.

 

So now every time we go out

just to shut her up

we got to plant something.

 

Sure not looking forward to next year

because I hear that bozo mentor

is some health food addict

that things eating animals is a sin,

not sure I’ll be able to handle

if we have to start growing cows

after going to McDonalds! 

Dead Men Tell No Tales

Ahoy thar ye accursed worthless scum and dogs

we shall give em another round of broadside,

and hoist the Jolly Roger o’er those ship logs,

plunder and pillage their deserving hide.

 

Come on mates take another slug of rum,

our cutlass needs to drip of blood,

there’s treasure we shall steal as a tidy sum,

and bury it beneath some secret mud!

 

Oh it’s the pirate’s life for me

when we mates of that bottle have drank

then sail on that briny blue see,

before making some cur walk the plank.

 

All those maidens all will be ours,

the men well string up just for fun,

then our blade will leave some scars

when we loot and burn until we’re done.

 

Now we’ll comb the waters for ships

till we find our next victim to attack

then do a jig on those corpse’s mangle hips

afast thar’s no city we won’t sack.

 

The Captain is hungry for new meat

another vessel sunk with torn sails,

its crew another our cannon did defeat

they’ll never talk since dead men tell no tales.

 

Oh it was the words that came to me

while sailing that ship over at Disney,

on that Pirates of the Caribbean sea

wearing a fake patch for added jubilee.

Ignorance

There’s such beauty in keeping the eyes closed,

where dust and decay get stuffed into a box

and that canvas of blackness

can be painted into a beautiful tapestry

filled with images that are so alive

even if they aren’t remote real.

 

Oh the music hummed to silence

the creeping sounds of little feet,

those rodents who exist to eat away

at all those collections of clutter

 

carefully stored within the mind.

 

What bliss bewitches

in its beautiful delusion

when you can just pretend

all those strange disturbing noises

really don’t exists.

 

Just keep on seeing pristine paradise

thought the little rumbles rage

swallow that fear,

subdue the anxiety,

how wonderful the feel

when you only visualize

pure and perfect,

never allowing any possible creatures

to come from underneath the bed.

 

And it works so well

right up to the point

that small animal actually moves

because you can’t ever know for sure

if it was an attempt to react

unto a predator

who will seek to eat

both that snack and you.

Fire In Paradise

Volcano sauce

on beef and cheese,

corn shell bite,

flaming taco heaven.

Shut Up And Take The Keys

Oh the asphalt wisdom,

this miracle was suppose to inspire,

a GPS tracking system

any gal could easily,

find her way

from point A to point B.

 

But it didn’t allow

for a male ego

who never plugged

the darn thing in,

and thought six beers

at breakfast was just fine.

 

Cruising down the road

while swerving from side to side

then reaching the same point

where all his buddies had wrecked,

ignored that sign about road closed

that wife had pointed out.

 

After the pile up

managing to convince wife

to say she was driving,

since he had four accidents

on his record,

couldn’t afford another.

 

Thus another tale was told

at the bar,

wife getting the blame

to hide his shame

more from sleeping on the couch

because he never listens!

Angles

Directions bent in sudden hard changes,

world falling of kilter before the eyes

doors left ajar by the jolted reality,

walk feeling slightly dizzy from the angle,

gravity and balance skewed to please.

 

It was so easy to feel that off centered stance,

was the perfection and paragon of our truth,

because life was out of control,

never other than slipping off some ledge.

 

At least my buddy’s verbal tool of leveling

made it so and it all seemed so real,

while we titled our behavior and slide our minds

so what was off center

had its own sense of normalcy.

 

Heart filled with pride,

insides a glow with freedom

to heck with what was acceptable

we were going to strut by our own position,

no matter how crooked it seemed.

 

For a miniscule season of bliss

there was euphoria in our veins

from this passage by our will

along that degree of difference,

blessed to feel so independence.

 

Death came to our defiance,

some dozer raked over our fantasies,

but when you’re fifteen

nothing seems to make sense

and everything is sideways,

only problem is parents

have their own tools

for making sure you eventually

are forced to stand upright.

The Deafening Roar

The deafening roar

of a hour’s predator,

resounds in thunder

so intense and powerful,

you feel it never stop

its boom in your mind

or cease to shake the heart.

 

But it is a noise,

a note of disquieting tone

that will have a hush

and fade in its life

until it is not even an echo

within the ticks of life.

 

Just another cymbal

clashed before the day,

who will be drown out

by all the throngs in stress musicians

played before one’s ears.

 

And tomorrow’s clatter

from each bell and whistle

will ring their own attention,

for a single sound

they will become

one more solo of disharmony

quickly swallowed

by the next music that comes along.

Dark Parachutes

Silver wings streaking through the air

below the war torn soil so far away

the explosions for bombs dropped

not even notice by the finger

who released the lethal payload.

 

Another mission in fatal rain

across the turquoise sky

back to barracks and dinner

ghosts of corpse strewn in pieces

and their last breath of screams

subdued by cocktails

while watching latest movie,

a comedy that silences

memories of those possible deaths.

 

On the next mission

a missile strikes the fuselage

engine fails and pull the release

on the injection seat.

 

On the sail towards the earth

below the smoke and ruins

grow so ominously closer

before hitting the ground.

 

Dazed by the collision

pistol drawn and stumbling towards

what  is left of that village.

 

Slowly passing by

several bodies of men

presumed they were enemies.

 

And then the next dead

is only a child

a little girl

the same as the pilot’s daughter

today had been that little one’s birthday

she held what was left of a doll

her lifeless eyes stared at him,

he feel weeping on the ground,

his mind hearing in his own daughter’s voice,

“I love you daddy.”

 

A Different Kind Of Free

Is there yet a place

where words mean what is said,

that liberty doesn’t have strings

to wrap around your expectations

so nothing is given

without a price tag

or the bill on what was marked as free?

 

I want to know lips

who bless without a fee,

don’t offer gifts tied with bows

you have to pay in order to remove.

 

When the chains are truly removed,

not hidden from view

and hearts don’t carry cuffs

for restraining what you hope,

then perhaps we can finally stop cringing

anytime somebody offers help

through a simple act of loving charity,

because we are so conditioned

at knowing they always

have so many unspoken conditions.

 

Then share a time

when we don’t have to be slave

in dread of lies and deception,

just be able to accept

what is provided

while not having to worry

about an added charge coming later.

Lines

Tomorrow is a blank page,

it was for my mind to sketch

what I believe can be realized

within the tales told by my dreams.

 

Impossible is the critic

who sits on the shoulder

and barks the curses

to terrorize and discourage.

 

But I refused to allow

this nymph of failure

a chance to force my fingers

into writing lines

in the dark hues of resignation.

 

For faith is the editor

of my soul,

can easily have the power,

which will erase those scribbles

then make sure they are replaced

by ones that scripted

in ink that flows

with extraordinary tints,

viewed by the eyes

as golden rays that can set fire

unto any shadow, stain or night,

until all you can see

are the images of what might be.

Doomsday

What burns in the mind

as ravishing roaring rage,

the embers of terror taunting

from prophetic embryos,

oh the sacred sights

of apocalyptic numerology,

who spin the spine

in their tribulation catharsis.

 

But wait!  Mind please regurgitated

time’s quintessence,

wasn’t this passage of paranoia

already spent on year equations,

which cast the world’s doom

that never happen?

 

So give me soul, give me dreams,

just give me a sale for nine days more

at the ninety-nine cent discount store!

 

I lust the opulence of crap,

that pure adrenaline of bargain beauties,

let me drool over plastic cheap trash,

give me ecstasy in the sweet balm

rich in paltry toy pleasures.

 

Grant me paradise amid those aisles

where the second thrills are bountiful,

it will be the incense of my soul

at least until it breaks.

 

If by chance some seer

lucks out after a thousand wrong guess

and this 999 makes us all demon vomit

then I can enjoy it with a throw away phone

along with some really crappy batteries.

 

Life Imprisonment

The cell door slammed shut

with a deafening sound,

body collapsing in cold shakes of regret,

waves of shame drowning the heart,

tears rain from the cheeks,

head held in palms,

quickly plummeting in a deep abyss,

darkness kills the light,

echoes of sunlight dance

as haunting memories,

they are like a lovers,

who will never to be seen again.

 

Outside the bars

I watch the sky change

from a brilliant azure

and into an ebony canvas,

lost in the passage of time,

bled are stars,

no pardon waits this criminal heart,

nothing, but emptiness

fills the hours.

 

Sometimes hearing laughter,

others the sounds of music,

inside the ache unbearable

over the joy sacrificed

because of one choice.

 

Guards pass by with horns blaring

in the sounds of amnesty,

but I just remain in that cell

even though the key is in the lock,

all one has to do is turn it  to be free.

 

Only the judge in the head

never stops saying guilty,

for that one indiscretion

nobody even saw.

Spectrums

I dream in rainbow dawns,

my eyes slip behind prisms,

darkness befalls as a kaleidoscope,

alone, the mysteries of my thoughts

unfold as neon ribbons,

they tie the night as a lucid bow.

 

No one brings scissors

until the morning,

on the floor in my mind

are left the glowing pieces.

 

But the stick to my heart

as the luminous litter

of illumined transcendence,

while I pass from lethargy

to revival.

 

And in the shades of the sun

there flares those hues

left over from my pillow,

then I see

among the tombs of gazes

what love was truly meant to shine

and why fireworks should scream.

Fade To Bleak

My life faded in their eyes

as I became invisible,

not even a sound heard,

for they had already

walked over my heart

on their way to meet someone

who mattered.

 

All the flush of pain was fueled

when gazes turned to blindness,

and memories of promises

changed into amnesia.

 

Wasn’t like falling,

more like being pushed

then trampled to be sure

I never got up again.

 

How that weight felt so brutal,

all the heaviness crushing and destroying,

no hope tomorrow might change

this feeling of worthlessness.

 

As if being some piece of litter

only good for discard.

What beckons in that shallow grave

was a gnawing hunger to still believe

there is somewhere

a person who will still know my face

and care the dirt

ground into the skin

from having been shoved into the ground.

 

In that dust I breathed

something inside refused to be buried

slowly reaching for a dream

to hold as ladder to rise again.

Indulgence

I combed the concrete chambers

on an afternoon shopping safari,

among those little indulgence hideaways

replete with display cases of luscious opulence

for a snack of sweet luxuriant indiscretion,

 

The intoxicated scents of sugary spells

lured me into the bakery womb

where a maiden behind the counter

possessed of such lurid almond eyes

enticed with her tantalizing treats.

 

In her whispers clung the honey,

a taste that dripped from her lips,

while her fingers caressed my thoughts

slowly drawing seductive traces

over that morsels of extravagance

she suggested was available

should I crave something

during my visit,

which many never had a chance to savor.

 

A gasping exhale with closed eyes

followed by a sigh,

it exclaimed how she didn’t offer

this special delight to everyone,

then hinting that in the privacy

of her back room,

we might share a moment of exquisite pleasure

more known by noble souls.

 

So I took her hand with heart pounding

the cherry perfume she wore so enchanting

as we strolled to that den of private joys.

 

My mind raged with ravenous images

when I sat with eyes closed

to wait her promised thrills

unlike I had known.

 

Suddenly I felt her legs press against mind,

something pressed against my lips

it was so soft and supple,

what I conjured in my head

was making me shudder in expectation,

slowly letting it slide inside.

 

Realizing at last

this wasn’t the mound I assumed,

for it was a portion of her marzipan creation.

 

Silently I ate that amazing delicacy,

truly wishing it has been otherwise,

yet also impressed

with the mastery of baked magic

that she had woven with such skill.

It’s A Miracle!

Oh there’s no problem

at arriving some place before you left,

after all, once you pray

the guardian angels hold the wings

so they have their own watch

from God, you understand.

 

Now with the Lord

it s written,

a day is as a thousand years,

thus they have no problem

doing the impossible

since they have had all eternity to practice.

 

Course Father Time is on Heaven’s payroll

has to do what they say,

can hardly move a second

when they vote to take a break,

just like when Joshua and the Israelites

where in that one battle

and the scriptures declare

the sun stayed in the sky until they were done,

so whose going to argue with that?

 

Just have to accept

perhaps there are times

that the Lord needs some plane

out of the way quick,

in case He’s working

on a cloud sky painting that day.