Twilight

The mind dives into a sea of seconds soaked in tangential, azure hues
swimming in the fermentation from the wine of surrender,
world quickly submerses in an aqua transcendence and tranquility
drowning the ogres of day and demons of night
beneath the effervescence of a turquoise spellbound vision.

Reality succumbs to the eyelid fluttering screenplay
memory's ghosts and goblins icing the veins
are baptized and reborn as marine life fantasies of serenity,
till the only feeling bubbling inside
comes from a bath of warm astral flavored nectar.

Night demands to shroud with its charcoal veil,
suffocating daylight's surety over the senses,
though one fights the ominous darkening thought chimera
till they are slain fear cadavers, casualties of a sigh.

Haunting branches of our mortality
stroke intruding reminders about one's lack of wings,
never assassinating the pulse of enchantment
when traveling between time's horizons,
with a ticket purchased at
twilight.

Solitaire

I shuffle the deck received
because life lead me to that game table,
though I’m all alone
and no one is watching,
still I play since I can't stop,
something inside compels,
within I feel that power draw
just to see how the cards will unfold.

There might not even be
any aces in this deck,
doesn’t matter, I really won’t stop,
since I get joy from the playing,
it's the skill to test and discover
the player I am inside
that drives my spirit to try.

Which is why I don’t need any rules
over my fingers choices,
for my purest joy
comes from doing my best
regardless of the cards,
when I leave the table
what I did with each act
is the thought that stays in my head.

How it brings peace
from doing it right and honestly
this keeps the happiness glowing
as a success I feel
regardless of what hand I was dealt.

Midnight’s Dawn

Night burned
with a lunar embryo,
it screamed into my darkness,
then eclipsed the sun
as a silhouetted shroud,
draped over any illumination.

But in the blackness
I at last stopped closing my eyes
then allowed them to absorb its silk
and finally saw a dawn
amid eve’s ebony textures.

In Print

Indigo tinctured passions purged of precious veracity plumes,
spread before the mind's buffet of Oz appetizers.
Parchment sky painted with brewed vicarious malevolence,
soaked so slowly into the soul,
spirit falls into purgatory dunk tank
filled with figment skeletons of one's tormentors
living under one's bed.

Exhale the panic with caffeine scent
perhaps end of the world won't come
with a period.

Stuffing another pop tart into one's fears,
maybe that childhood teddy bear buried in storage
can still hug away the demons.

Putting on gray business suit,
knight of revenue's wrinkled armor,
fighting dragons with a pen,
azure blood stains on ledger
in numerical valor
another inked fantasy
replacing the spine.

Dancing in one's underwear
through a lustful vision,
where a succubus of your dreams
thinks you are a god
and life of heart beat squalor
is summarized in its thunder
by how many socks in your drawer
have found a match.

Relief

She opened the door ...and with tears and a smile, finally said:

Honey they can save our car,
only next time
don’t ignore
that check engine light.

WARMTH

Gazing out the window towards a pristine tundra of bleached terrain,

with the freezing temperatures creating their icy vines upon the glass,

my insides shake from an hint of 'brrr'

that stings to the very marrow of my being.

 

But in the moment of inhaling Nature's wintry artistry

from the safe, seclusion of my hearth in toasty comfort,

my mind can't escape visions about menacing glacier dwarfs

bringing forth the ice cube taste of an artic blast,

making my aching bones feel like a snowman's limbs.

 

Still, I know there is always the flame that dances in my head

as I cling to memories of summer's sizzling hope,

before lighting the traditional candles of seasonal, festive rant

to keep smoldering the embers of magic and passion.

 

While I attempt to cushion myself from the frigid gnomes

my brain imagines lurking in the drifts

using blankets, fire and a bubbling froth,

within I sense a subtle tongue of snowy dialogue

hinting at how real heat for the soul

can not be chilled by any frozen brush of January.

 

Its vitality is most alive in the textures of a brisk, frozen faire

where warmth simmers more acutely in our consciousness,

giving life a greater story, despite the alabaster coldness,

till we breathe with the essence of the sun,

no matter the raging blizzard

outside or in.

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.

Quivers

To stand on a hill with a glistening golden bow

and a jeweled quiver full of silver poison arrows,

is to feel that inner surge in power over the world.

It is to hold that mound over others with such intense zeal

because your preeminent skill and superior prowess

shall surely give complete dominion

over every minion of miscreant leanings

who is to your eyes the way the rest of the world appears.

 

But in the bushes lurk the lives burning with ire to get even,

those dreaded vigilant rebels and ardent assassins,

how easily it is assumed a flight in darts

can end that threat to any reign,

while feeling so confident

there is nothing that will ever

take away the rule claimed.

 

Corpses of challengers

lie as fatal testimonies as they rot in the sun

with the missiles sent so masterfully

seen sticking out of their bodies.

 

By the continued success pride swells inside

from having been so victorious,

blissfully assuming will always be the champion

despite the fact the arsenal in that pouch

has been exhausted.

 

In the midst of the drunken celebration

totally ignoring the vigilante

that is approaching and carrying a rock.

 

One bash and the reign of force is ended,

for while you can conquer by superior weapons,

sooner or later they get depleted

and the arrogance that causes an erosion in your safeguards

becomes an invitation for revenge.

Harmony

Life in our apartment complex

could be so very tranquil

as long as you didn’t mention

the subject of hunting season

or the problems with the ozone layer,

for we had two groups who truly hated each other,

one devoted to saving the earth

so very passionate about endangered species

and protecting the landscape from abuse.

 

Then there were the outdoorsmen

who cherished  fishing, hunting and camping

they had their SUV’s and ATV’s,

all the camouflage gear you could buy,

didn’t care about endangered species

unless they got a chance to kill the last one.

 

Most of the time they just avoided each other

succeeded in living next to each other without screaming,

until that day they had us vote on converting

our neighborhood meeting house

into something else.

 

Oh the environmentalists wanted it

made into a New Age, meditation and inner healing center,

while the sportsmen

insisted it would be best to be used

for a museum fill of their taxidermy trophies

in order to teach kids about nature.

 

Well the verbal clash waged for hours,

fist fights avoided when the manager overruled both groups,

with our communal hall turned into an pool table room,

which actually got both sides approval

up to the point they found out the manager

was charging to use the thing,

it united them both in a single cause

and for once we actually had harmony.

Better In Time

Knives get dull,

people eventually forget,

the snow melts

and fires finally die.

 

How we try to recall

when the crisis is lingers

it will get better in time,

then we exhale that stress

like a promise we lie to ourselves

that the pain will end,

sadness shall cease.

 

But the scars still remain,

broken hearts seldom go away,

improvement is the path of healing

where we don't deny the wounds,

rather to treat learning as the progress.

 

Because even in spring

there are signs that winter came

and to see it with eyes open

is to embrace change

with all its flaws and values,

while not pretending

hours will erase the past

instead of accepting transformation

doesn’t always translated into

into the death of every problem.

 

Bed Bugs

Anxiety's thread talons tear at the night

they even infest the light

diffused by veils

held over eyes at sunrise

when the paradise insects in the head

keep crawling over the skin.

 

Vultures hide between the sheets,

vampires roam under the bedspread

as the subversive cerebral moans

of mental spells mean to alter the past,

create new plots by placebo phantoms

who slither as brain serpents

through the slumbering sands.

 

There’s no cure for those claws

because they grow inside,

monster when misunderstood,

but fairies hiding among the pillow pillars.

 

Perhaps there is a flyswatter

that can squash those nagging specs,

only they will never die

since they are fleas of inspiration,

which bite with their toxins

you either feel as visions

or the creeping urges towards darkness,

always left screaming

when you only lie on the mattress

rather that kiss the cotton

and give into the cravings.

His Harvest

Windswept waves of amber

swaying in the goldenrod intoxicating

within the touch of the mill's long afternoon shadow.

 

It stands in silent vigil

over the tales of autumn gold,

where a gentle being honored nature's essence

by tenderly turning the wheat's harvest

into flour used to feed both heart and soul.

 

Taking a portion of every labor

to give to those in need.

His wife would often bake fresh bread

from the kitchen behind the mill,

the smell inviting and freely shared

just like the love they had for all.

 

Each day brought the sight of ardor's passion,

sacks of flour sitting on the dock,

sounds of grindstone grounding the grains

amid the joyful farmer's voices

who came to have their crop

transformed into something marketable.

THE BRIDGE

I stand

at the gate of tomorrow

looking for the toll keeper of knowledge.

The calendar’s tale

has tainted

my fancy’s vest of eve

and I remember

when this bridge of sight

lead

to more than thorns.

But the night

of my illusions

approaches.

So I carry my fear

stalking like a ravenous predator

into the distant

refuse of uncertainty,

regarding a day

as footsteps

stumbling and forgotten.

 

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.

Unlocked Cuffs

I still feel the shackles cut deep into my wrist

each time I get a new memo for management

to add another link in that chain

they hold over my life.

 

It is a prison where there are no locks or guards

since survival is the manacle they hold

around your time that they own

not concerned if you enjoy being their slave

since reality is a desert of employment.

 

There was a time when I dream

of a job full of reason to go to work

a place that made sense and inspired

not just added stress to the day

made each hour so miserable and sad.

 

But that was when youth had possibilities

before age became a pair of cuffs

in terms of getting hired at other jobs.

 

Now I shuffle off to that place of labor

never expecting more than a paycheck,

while seeing that same empty look in so many eyes.

Sometimes in that cold dead world

inside I let myself dream of escape,

the chance to know more than monotony

and the loss of enthusiasm.

 

Inside I find some reason to go to the office again,

give myself a motivation to add some energy

unto this time clock morgue.

 

Between the apathy and indifference

do I manage to hold onto my sanity

though not always sure for how long

since so many I work with

already seem to have let go of their minds.

You Can’t Hide From God

 

There were no scripture verses on the belt,

used to whip when the booze inspired,

but didn’t matter for punishment was given,

fierce lashings just because it was Tuesday

and you were guilty of some wrong

even if nothing was obvious.

 

For words always came with acid insults

before the beatings would occur,

just to make sure there was no sense

of having any worth

so you didn’t complain about the pain.

 

When the rage was spent

by the brutal hands so inebriated and sadistic,

afterwards would come the lectures

from the other parent,

the one who went to church

where she cared for so many other kids,

had to be sure I knew

how you couldn’t hide sin from God,

even if I had not done something bad

didn’t mean I hadn’t at some other point,

thus this undeserved suffering

truly was divine justice

in the depraved and demented view

of one who thought hurt was some kind of candy.

 

It was all the lunacy called religion

mixed with wine and perversions,

was hell in the shadow of a cross,

while being told the Lord loved me

only not enough to keep me from

those regular doses

of such harmful forms in vented hate.

Salutations

Where the world bears its brittle and brisk arrays

like a drying and scorching wind

until the heart feels so stiff and unable to beat,

just feeling left among the stones and driftwood lives

as it becomes a cold and silent wasteland

without any embers to heat the mind

nothing to know, but gray morns in solitude.

 

But inside dwells the dreamer of lights and clouds,

who will try to reach out and greet reality,

refuse to die a withered soul in rigor mortis hope,

truly continuing to express the passion and love inside

so it doesn’t get forgotten on the barren beaches

often strolled in search for sand castle miracles

 

One outstretched cry to face the sky,

one earnest plea to declare your identity

because climbing into a grave,

while still alive

is never the desire in any spirit of liberty,

which will still defy the stagnant landscape

and grope against the tides and time

ever clutching at the day

to let the life that has been infertile by fate

find a spring to bloom again.

Pieces

I hold the fragments of my life

like the shards of a mirror,

they are jagged and never truly fit together,

so I can’t see the complete picture

to totally understand their meaning

or the purpose for each piece.

 

Some are tear stained

from their shattered essence,

others possess the hints

at some image that is greater than myself.

 

Always left with scattered

over the place I call home,

just wishing they didn’t inspire questions

that had no answers

regardless of how long I look at them.

 

Riddles arise in my mind

each time I try to collect those fractured sections

out of the box within my heart

where I store their ripped and torn segments

in hopes somehow I can make them

all become some portrait I can understand.

 

But there is pain felt from touching them at times,

while others carry a feel of sadness

because I couldn’t solve their mystery.

 

Perhaps there will come a day of interpretation

when the Lord finally assembles what I can’t.

It is the only dream I can let keep me going

on the occasions I weep over my lack

of chance to see the truth that eludes me

in those parts that I can never make whole.

Thomas

 

He was tall and lean,

only twenty-two,

but his eyes looked so old and tired,

his voice was calm and steady,

never raised his tone,

didn't let it explode with emotion

as we sat it the lobby together,

two applicants applying for work.

 

Slowly his saga unfolded

while we passed the wait time.

There he was,

graduated High School at twelve,

possessed two doctorates by the time

that he had been eighteen and spoke seven languages,

should have been a professor somewhere,

instead of trying to apply

for some clerical job.

 

But his flame had burned too bright to fast,

plaudits and prophecies

predicted his zenith in brilliance

with an expectation he would become

some future Einstein in one of many fields.

 

Only they couldn’t predict the heart

or in his inward collapse from stress and pressure.

It left him scarred and confused,

a vagabond to academia

just struggling to try and find some job,

any position to earn a living.

 

Neither of us got hired that day,

I went home to watch television and check more ads,

no doubt he went back to some profound ponderings

while trying to find the exit

from this labyrinth in reality

where his genius had been trapped.

 

Inhaled

Heartbeat

caresses light

sense's membrane grows sheer

ghosts echo their orbs in the mind

ascending a luminary staircase

each step burning its own message

as breath grows lightning's touch

eyes see mirror's

heartbeat

 

Walking

by the profound

feeling its spirit swell

in flooding tides of revealing

insides become a blossoming garden

love petals move through fingertips

scent reaches others lives

new joys felt while

walking

My Bow-Widow Blessing

 

I sure do love my new pedigreed Spi-dog

so much better than when I had that pet hog,

no worries about needing a collar for fleas

since he devours them like me eating peas.

 

Sure glad I found that new canned Alpo “fly meal”

and buying it by the truck load was such a deal,

just keeps my Bow-Widow full so he won’t try to steal

any bugs out of the mailman’s pants that his nose might reveal.

 

Course he’s got some different ways of playing fetch

on account of that web, which his tail tries to outstretch,

plus he don’t act like any canine when it comes to trees

for he lifts his leg and pisses poison when he pees.

 

Am kind of stressed over what happens when he mates

because he does seem to fancy tarantulas for his dates,

not fun to see his trying to getting lucky at my front door

with my neighbors awaken by his howling romance chore.

 

Can’t say I’m thrilled about when those arachnid gals have kids

because I reckon they’ll be crawling under plates and even lids,

have no idea how many come to a litter that will come along

only hope they don’t act weird and do something really wrong.

 

Wonder if I can have much luck finding them all homes

where they don’t build lots of nests as dozens of silky domes,

imagine people will get angry if a Spi-dog breeds enough to eat them

suppose that would not be remembered as a wonderful memory’s gem.

What’s That?

 

Never believe signs,

which say, “don’t touch,”

if they aren’t attached to a bomb,

for deceit is the means used

by those wanting to hide the truth

the thing they defend

is really not perfect or valuable,

just making it forbidden

causes it to become curious,

an object that demands attention.

 

Intimidation is the intention

to keep us from testing the sign

so we won’t find out it is fake,

that what it warns about

will never truly harm or hurt.

 

It is the hand that reaches

for the levers told not to pull

who is the rebel.

They are often hated for the courage

about not accepting deception offered

as the ultimate form of reality.

 

We might cringe when they tug

at the controls

with warnings of doom as consequence,

yet when they do,

how it suddenly creates freedom,

since it takes away

any apprehension that once

protected what was truly a lie.

Wasteland

I watched him sitting at the outdoor café

next to the busy city sidewalk,

he wore an old suit and sipped calmly on his glass of wine,

like he was enjoying an afternoon of leisure.

 

But I saw the unemployment envelope in his suit pocket,

guess he thought no one would notice

while he tried to hide that fear in his eyes

by sitting in the place he used to have lunch

when he had a job and dreams.

It was when life still hand ladders to the sky

and he thought himself a skyrocket of business,

soon to explode in the air as brilliant and successful.

 

Today he was holding in the panic,

suppressed that dread from losing his position,

kept himself busy pretending nothing was wrong.

 

So amazing how a few recollections

from an interview could inspire my thoughts,

still I remember our meeting

at the time I applied for work with his company,

all that confidence and ambition glowed in his eyes.

 

Wasn’t hired, though later got hired by a different company,

then read in the paper his firm had gone out of business.

There were no words I could think to say

plus doubted he would remember me.

Truly did eat at my heart to see

another life once filled with visions,

suddenly shattered and left in the wasteland

where you wander while barely better off

than the completely poor,

yet having been gutted of your tomorrows.

 

Might not be death,

though wasn’t living either,

just an island of uncertainty

left feeling so stranded, shocked and alone.

Hearsay

Verbal vineyards make the mind a mailbox for rumors

as they inspire assumptions as cancerous as tumors,

to define by speculation what lies beneath every mask

becoming a passion and pastime of gossip’s vain task.

 

One factual match is light to ignite a spurious flame,

which can move so fast and spread unproven blame,

until it takes something small and makes it a mountain

ever flowing with defaming slurs like a fountain.

 

By the time the truth is milled and muddled in the brain

what comes from the lips is an imaged so filled with disdain,

it sticks to the memory as a most vividly recalled mental stain

even if the details are like a mist and utterly other than plain.

 

Still despite the despise we might have for the music of lies

just can’t resist the lure of a bite from curiosity’s lascivious pies,

taste that creamy middle of misinformation’s murky filling

when it transforms the dull or bland into truly lurid and thrilling.

 

For some it is a preoccupation they treat as form of play

when they measure life’s joy in some juicy scandalous way,

make assassinating characters a hobby with such alluring sway

no matter if they map people’s persona so wrong by their hearsay.

Feather upon my palm

The raven’s poignant plume possess pure power,

while she strokes so swiftly with her seductive spell

from her flights of the heart so smooth and long

to leave a trace in feathery feel upon the hand

who holds that magic she offers

so flowing like the wind.

 

It leaves the gossamer feel of a lofty layer in lilting

that helps to lift the mind like a sail

farther and farther into the tempest touch

of sky born journeys in truly turbulent teases,

which stir the brain and awaken the bird inside

until hands can flutter upon a breeze,

move so higher and higher past the day.

 

How touching is the phrase or thought

so powerful and vivid in so few words,

a dream in essence breathed as a glide

where words have their own wings

once they are placed in the mind

and caress with such intensity.

 

Might not always be a moment

full of fury like a hurricane,

yet it always summons a twister within

when the raven storm strikes the eyes.