Patches

Little plastic boxes with packets of seed and soil

promise emerald blades from a few drops of water,

just a impulse purchase in the grocery aisle

for the cat who keeps eating too many other green things

any possible leaf or petal

that she thought would work as a substitute.

 

Even when taken outside

was never enough of a lawn snack

to prevent those teeth marks on the plants.

 

Surely our planned distraction

this cultivated mini-plot of turf

would truly pass the feline taste test.

 

We wanted and till, even prayed,

couldn’t hurt if it spared our indoor potted garden.

Then in a few short days

those sprouts appeared

now we dreamed of freedom

no more worries over her treating

the fauna as her banquet.

 

Once that box’s seeds were fully grown

it was time to place it where she could easily reach it,

then sat back to watch and see

how all our efforts would be rewards.

 

Only our pet was not impressed,

walked right past that container

on her way to have some other treat.

 

We sat our experiment outside

was nice to look at though not of much use,

but at least it didn’t have to be mowed.

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.

Golden Deceptions

Legalism's false lips

uttering their prison paradises,

leaving trust's broken wings,

in cathedral shadows.

 

Divine judge

issues truth's pardon,

freed

always haunted by myth

that salvation and masochism

are synonymous.

Amnesia Whiffs

Spell of lips to suggest

eyes can go blind about something witness,

but the seductive whispers with their amnesia whiffs

only work as a temptation

as human nature does the opposite,

which makes sure the last thing you do is not remember

when told to magically erase what you saw.

He Wants What!

I don’t care what that food critic threatens to say

his request is an insult to my Cordon Bleu way,

for he wants ketchup to put on my Spinach soufflé

and filet mignon prepared in a fudge sauce sauté.

 

Wasn’t enough to put up with his last visit’s request

for chocolate ice cream to put on that chicken breast,

as he barked his demands like he wasn’t our guest,

then complained about getting chocolate stains on his chest.

 

But I could handle that if it didn’t also ask for M & M candy

to add to my gourmet sauce with special herbs and brandy,

said it those sweet little lumps will make it so very fancy,

which he says will make it epicurean like it was extra “Francy!”

Scrapbooks

 

Time’s tome lies upon a shelf,

it bleeds, it breathes, it moans at night,

inside are the snapshots that come alive,

they take on a voice,

how those sounds summon wails and songs.

 

Each day I feed tokens from my sanity

into a slot upon the cover

to try and keep the contents

from possessing my mind

and sucking away my frail threads of peace.

 

If only sightseeing in life

was an act of willing choice

where any images collected

came from amusement parks

or festive special feasts.

 

But the journeys into hell’s fun house

that were marked as hospitals

leave souvenirs as nightmares

that claim a fee from sleep.

 

Wish I could discard that book

only it is chained to the heart

just left to keep feeding that

remembrance vending machine

to buy a few moments of amnesia

when I can insert some photos

of the places I wish I had visited.

 

Still have a reservation at paradise

keep hoping to escape to it someday

even though it will cost me my freedom

at least it won’t have shackles,

which burn their scars on my brain.

Hat Tricks

Surreal clarity celebrated in irony logic

feasting in the oxymoron bliss,

finding laughter where others see confusion,

gleaming something elegant in the chaos,

what glory to never be stressed by life's bluntness.

 

Seeing Lewis Carroll's world for its subtle truth,

there are episodes of angst riddling life with questions

we can struggle without success to analyze,

admiring Mad Hatter acquiesced reasoning

who really wasn't mad at all.

Honey

The sun is a cookbook,

but we write its recipes,

seasoned by our thoughts,

dreamt as dessert or leftovers.

 

It’s taste determined

by whether our lips

expect sweet or sour

and we look for honey

even among the lemons.

Wasted Moments

Finger fumbling with pen

still debating

of sending Christmas card

to son

hadn’t talk to in years,

since that argument,

but finally sends.

 

Phone rings,

she hears, “hello mom,”

tears fall over squandered times

when pride prevented

love’s reunion.

Secrets

Petals dancing on wind

blow by lips to hush

the flowers hidden in the heart.

 

If only Spring

wasn’t when they were planted

in forbidden soil,

now even in the middle of any day

they blossom before the eyes.

 

Doesn’t do any good to cut them

because the blooms of regret

never wilt.

Blood Shot

Tendons of tales tied to the eye

secrets the pupil dares not tell,

holding one's gaze tenuously in place,

fearing one grain of truth's dirt

will rub raw the charade.

 

Orb's feigned probe into sincerity

fails to find the vision's future.

Heart keeps pumping the conscience

into the glances,

but the face can't hide

the contortionist's need

to pour out the flood of hidden flaws

onto the page of time

so readily read.

 

Veins in the whiteness of one's frailty

visible so easily

as the mind is aware,

tint in hues of the blood of guilt

shot into the moment

when lips bleed

what stares can no longer hide.

Departures

When the sky

burns acrid scents,

roses found

cleans the coldness

to stroll towards gardens

Resonance

Melodious messages were pressed against my neck

like a pedal pushed when stepped upon by a foot,

exquisitely excruciating in its skillfully mastery

in how musicians of power can play another person

as if they were an instrument prepared to sing,

just use that sustaining stress lever

to ensure their resonance complies

with the notes on the rhetoric sheet music.

 

I used to cling to the illusion

there was a chance to be a composer

who was free to use life’s keyboard of controls,

allow my mind write its only masterpiece,

give it tones that conveyed my soul.

 

Only the clan of cloned conductors

refused to grant me a chance to practice

on any stage or studio

unless I let them to place their name

upon anything I created.

 

Realizing to my chagrin

you don’t have to have a piano

in order to dampen the harmony

of a person’s serenade.

Sunshine Snow Envy

I live in Southern California

where the snow is mainly plastic

found in globes,

see it on postcards,

use lots of ice in my drinks

to sympathize with blizzard victims.

 

But we are prepared to bear the freeze

when the temperature dips to fifty degrees,

 

might be sweating underneath,

still that winter fashion cries out to be worn.

 

Then toast to the near chill

with a round of egg nog

in front of a fake fireplace

and the electric lit up logs,

sing I’m dreaming of White Christmas,

while pretending we really wished

that landscape outside was icy ivory

instead of browns and greens.

 

However we will root for the heater addicts

among the places where its below zero outside,

we’re with you all the way,

just before we decide

if eating ice cream

is truly showing enough emotional support

for those December lands of human popsicles.

Sky Diving

Before the clouds
I fall,
a dove in ivory linen,
dipped air pollutants,
trapped in a hole
beneath the shadows of eyes.

Murmurs suppressed,
in muffled gasp
from the charitable ghosts,
over the death of wings.

Slumber swims a wine sauce,
no one offers a life preserver,
would they
if they saw the initials “SC”
on the hidden belt buckle
or knew the pocket
held a bag of reindeer dust?

North Pole flight is months away,
benches the perfect listening post
for naughty and nice list.

My Five Items To Have On A Deserted Island

Agnabus Flagellation - An anorexic nun with a messianic complex who talks to an Angel, Seraphoogle with the help of her rosary bead.

 

Hespibah Wickerphelgm – A witch with a multi-personality disorder than has visions of brimstone hot fudge sundaes eaten by eye of newts.  She claims she can turn fudge into dragons who sky write profanity in Latin.

 

Edna Cramqueen – A woman who can read palms, but suffers from permanent PMS, thinks she is the reincarnation of Attila The Hun.  She can scream cuss words in seven different languages.

 

Melody Mayhemmistress – A psychotic fitness trainer who believes in astral cannibalism and vampire jazzersize.  She finds as long as she takes her meds that only she can see.

 

My other item: Six year supply of Diet Cherry Coke

 

Angels we have heard, while high

from too much rum egg nog,

sung carols with slurred voice,

even Scrooge boss acted nice.

 

Rum balls made us hear wings

even gave a halo to secretary

named Easy.

GIVEN

It is the moment of comfort

when we sleep

in the arms of false security

hopelessly content

that our walls

will spare us

any affliction or torment.

But the mirage of control

often evaporates

if we dare

to fly

beyond the question

mark

landscape

created

by our excuses.

Perhaps

there is a joy

found

through accident or folly.

Skates

I got freedom

through roller blades,

like a flight without wings,

a prefect passage

away from my crevices and groans.

 

Was such a glorious glide

until a wind pushed me

towards a hill.

 

There’s little joy in

racing downhill

when you use to walk

if you have no brakes

and only a wall

to make you stop.

Euphemism Hunting

Let’s slay any word

that might stir some anger,

doesn’t matter if one out of a billion

get upset over that name,

it is enough to justify

the silencing of everyone,

so to preserve a single person’s feeling.

 

We’ll use the political eraser

and wipe away the familiar

clean the slate of any offense

even if the mind still remembers

traditions under that now abhorrent synonym.

 

Down with men at the end of occupation

its gender-neutral or else,

nobody is other challenged today

rather that curse with some crippling condition,

as for the December festive season

that has to change too,

we still get to be happy,

just not merry,

because of the risk

someone will take exception

unto anything Christmas jolly.

 

Oh it is a wonderful litany

of every whim in exception,

where does it end?

No way of knowing

since it seems some term

eventually develops another meaning,

perhaps we could use chalkboards

instead of conversations

unless somebody see chalk and board

as a euphemism for something bias,

then I guess we can simple not talk at all,

at least that way we would only upset

those who can’t speak.

Don’t Tread On Me!

I am the freedom loving Captain Yul B. Bombed

in my basement is where so many guns accrue,

dreams of shooting liberals make me feel calmed

and anyone who loves our flag of red, white and blue.

 

Can’t say when I’ll have another of my Vietnam flashbacks

though if you’re a long haired weirdo I’ll shoot you just the same,

because I know there’s some commies out there planning attacks,

besides everyone does something worthy of my sniper’s aim.

 

That camouflage green jeep that is parked in my driveway

is a nice storage spot for my secret stash of the plastic C4,

which I’ll use on you if you insult the good ole USA,

making sure it explodes the moment you open your front door.

 

At nights when those voices come I go out on my patrol

sneak through the neighbor’s bushes to check for any threats,

thank goodness we have a sewer I can use as a foxhole,

then use my broken walking talkie to call for a strike by air force jets.

 

So be careful when you come around my front porch

be sure you are a patriot and don’t look like any freak,

otherwise my flamer thrower might make you a human torch

thus ending another possible homeland security leak.

 

We will get along just fine if you obey my every command

since I can’t think without giving orders unto everyone,

now don’t tread on me or disagree with my democratic stand

or I’ll end up burying you after I reply with my machine gun.

 

Thunder’s Tears

I remembered the first rain

it fell like a cool mist

clung to our skin and made us love drops

think and breathe their texture

dream of walking naked in a downpour,

find some soaked grass to lie

and let our lives swim that sea

of showering, sultry sensations.

 

When the drought came so did the silence,

eyes once serene and filled with thirst,

ever craving another cloudburst

slowly drained of their watery spell.

 

They grew cold and gray

bore as a tempest gaze,

then I felt the thunder rage,

a maelstrom of brooding,

broadcast in the lightning strike comment

that ripped apart the calm air over our hearts.

 

How the warnings made me quince

from the pain of knowing

we would never share the drizzle again.

 

For you had put an umbrella between us

it would always keep you dry,

except for the tears that flowed

when those booms you suppressed

drenched the parched soil of your soul.

 

Sometimes I still stroll

beneath they leaden sky,

look for some puddle

where once we shared those splashes,

which washed over us

in a reason to embrace.

 

Though I still can shudder

when the explosion happened above

without the one who made them deafening

they are just distant drums.

My Emptiness, My Shame

Today I’ll get to hold another’s dreams,

guard them like they were my own,

carefully preserve those many treasures

and never even complain

when my reward is to have it all taken away,

every item I protected

be removed with not a single care about my feelings,

where is my celebration for my faithful service?

 

Do they care how it leaves me so empty

then gives me such agony

from having a chance to feel each of those object,

get so used to its feel and appreciate its worth

just long enough to become so attached,

so utterly obsesses with that caress,

only to have it yanked from my presence,

not sorrow expressed nor regrets received.

 

How it all starts out as torture,

while they take me down each aisle,

slowly they select all those fabulous gems,

but never do they think of what I like,

merely content to grant me the tease

of that temporary caress without a chance of possession.

 

At night they all return to their homes

play and cherish their belongings

with me left abandoned as are my brethren

to that dark chamber were we can only dream

about the life we would have

if fated had blessed us with such joy

as to let us know the thrills they have.

Nine To Five

 

Dreams of gold

compressed into a time clock,

soul sold for a parking space,

to live in a box

taped, stapled and paper clipped,

ever telling yourself

tomorrow the prosperity genie

will come with a rope,

but between pay days

the dreams grow lean

left to rely upon the company pantry

for the ocean of nutrition

then swimming in that dry noodle mix

and using cheap caffeine to keep away.

 

It keeps the smiles percolated

so you don’t have to scream.

Prehistoric Steps

Prints credited to behemoth,

a creature not among the living,

don’t mind the kids at work

who want to bury me as fossil,

but these living bones

are a raptor!

She leaned over and whispered in Santa's ear...

can you bring me a  new baby brother,

the last one leaks,

I think he’s spoiled too

because he stinks a lot.

The Well

Alone in the dark chasm of night

I swim in well of indigo

feel the caress of quills

like silky slithering skin

slide across my mind

 

Vision come as a mural,

a vivid collage that moves and breaths,

has voice from the images

who constantly change appearance.

 

How do I deny this craving they cause?

It controls my fingers in gestures

ever forming words,

they call out their identity

as tales and verses that burst from my chest

can’t be killed by my will.

 

In the stillness rivulets of fire

consume my quiet,

they burnt their inferno

as prisms in radiance,

each hue speaks its own essence

until their echoes cry out

and consume me with their presence.

 

There is no life I can dwell

without the release of that energy

for it holds my heart with barbed vines,

which will not give me any calm

unless I submit my very being

unto scripting their portraits.

In the end,

when I have exhale their breath

I dream and sigh

while knowing like the wind

they will never stop being my life.

 

Two Am

Percolated dreams

served to insomniac thoughts

at the Denny’s 24 hour theater

where late nights

brew those strange creatures

from darkness

who give that cup consumed

such an amazing flavor.

Curtains

Perhaps tomorrow the curtains won’t be ghosts

who guard the gate to places without tears,

maybe they can become angels

that chase away the monsters who bring pain.

 

Even when teddy bears can protect from belts

and Santa can’t find leave a present

in a litter laden home of empty booze bottle

where there isn’t even a tree.

 

But you can’t kill a dream

though brutal hands try to leave so many scars,

the heart can still see where the wind flows

know there is a sky

beyond the cracked ceilings,

hold onto the butterfly whispers

heard from the fairy godmother grandma

before she left to swim among the clouds.

 

Love lingers in the echoes remembered

of tales about fairies and princesses,

sometimes when she squints

their castle appears outside the window,

one that she was told about in stories.

 

For as long as she can see it

today will be that darkness

only lasting until a sunrise

when miracles happen

as her granny promised

 

Lieberstraum

Germanic “dream of love,”

the lilting piano beauty of Franz Liszt,

played with such appreciate

to drown out the screams

from Auschwitz gas chamber

guard lost in the sounds

had no respect

for the music critics

about to die

in that fake shower.

Strange

Snippets held in their stares

of thoughts they barely say

who use subtle ways to slice at your heart,

make you kept alone and away

from that circle of what they call important,

parties talked about around you

where you are never invited,

laughter shared over joys hard

of which you are excluded,

 

Just a blur and shadow to be forgotten

because you’re labeled as “don’t touch,”

some leper of behavior branded as strange.

 

Always left out of any event

an after thought who doesn’t count,

someone whose feelings aren’t worth

any reason to care when they are wounded.

 

It burns to have those whips of rejection

lashed against your heart

because they have rules to follow

that you are never told,

but are always guilty of violating

where they mock you behind your back

while smiling in their placating faces

though you know nothing you say

will ever make them see you

as other than a pointless slug.

 

Moments come when you wish to scream,

“I have feelings and wounds cut so deep,”

only they end up gobbled by the wind

spoken in their cruel gossip.

 

Alone in the night

the scars still sting and the dark is so cold,

ever trying to find some warmth

in the dreams of someone hold to hold

who doesn’t put a knife in your back.