After the Chapel

Nobody ever says I do
to tears, the bite of cruel words
nor the pain of being rejected.

Vows uttered by trusting, loving lips
always dream of happy endings,
only seeing two hearts that remain as one,
never getting lost to debt,
differences or disagreements.

No promises are prophets
for where the future will go,
it can grow as a wine
you savor and cherish
or turn dark and cold,
aching inside from the emptiness,
not feeling anything burn inside,
passion just left in pillow tales,
whatever thrived on wedding day,
now a silence between two strangers.

When that bond is broken
is when two live fall into a crevice,
wandering in the darkness
wondering where love’s light was lost.

Some never climb out of that emotional death,
slowly slipping away in their minds
until one day they say good bye
often in fiery resentment.

I chose to stay,
though the years weren’t kind in terms of joy,
but though it doesn’t bring the flowers
one craves in a nuptial garden
and at times the sadness suffocates,
part of me still clings to the album
where I once wore tux and she a white gown.

Still holding onto the illusion
some sunrise will come
when the heartache turns again to kisses.

Her Ashen Kiss

She thrives in the night of dark fears,
always listening to the dread of souls.
For eons had she heard each secret
kept in the heart and held in the mind.

Of death she holds the reaper’s ashen kiss
just waiting for the opportunity
to place it on a mortal’s body
in a way that will produce the more terror.

But the grave is not the end of her power,
beneath that soil is her macabre, ghoulish realm
where she sucks spirits for her afterlife surprise.

And her mood for cruel and wicked treats
is saved for the ones who fall into her abyss
because those who truly loved and were loved
have wings to let them rise into the sky
beyond the reach of her ageless grasp.

The rest are her eternal playthings
whose maggot infest, cadaverous forms
become exposed to the joys she seeks
in ways that summon only nightmares.

Only sobs come to the wicked who weep
since there is no immortal type of sleep,
just this gift of pure agonizing torture
before sinking each year deeper
into her vomit chasms of immortal pain,
which she feast upon as her idea of ambrosia.

Parroting

Eyes that see the letters and photograph each symbol
then paste them in the memory’s album as mementos,
they are the lines of facts carefully preserved,
accumulated and accessible for being repeated
like a rehearsed speech that reflects what another
thought, felt, lived, tasted, breathed and died about.

When enough sentences have been collected,
enough tests passed to prove you learn to recite them,
suddenly you are a parrot with pieces of paper
to hang on the wall that say I have a degree.

But even without the parchment or grades,
the mind who takes those details
and stirs them like a stew in a mental pot,
is the one to truly digests and consumes
each aspect and flavor they have to offer.

It is the brain gourmet who needs more
than a snack of data to honestly be happy,
can’t live and feel alive inside
unless knowing the intimate facets
of each information morsel being served.

For that is the one who truly
discovers the truth in the artificial
so it is real and full of genuine meaning
instead of just something you had to swallow.

Rest in Pieces

Here lies George,
Pete's other head,
wife having it buried separately
not taking any chances
that the cheating rat
might get lucky
after death.

Predators of Dross

Kiln creations of mad scientist metallic mindsets
sent in silvery deliverance array
a steely siren of security facade
searching in steady prowling dictates
to find hearts forged in the dross of dreams.

Automaton strumpets serving
the foundries of cryptic collusion,
aluminum foil theologies
minted methodically as universal utopian panaceas.

H G. Well's prophesies silenced
by the thud of iron rigor mortis spirituality,
tread mill inquisitions
sculpted as vice grip conscription
for the cerebral filings from the conscience
embedded with imminent domain expendability.

Conglomerate gospel erects its statuesque icons
legalese millwork meanderings
rationalize conscience genocide
as refining profitable from dross.

All completed on a time clock template
inscribed with greed's emblems.

The Story Teller

He was short and round with thinning gray hair,
a matching beard and voice that magically soothed.
From his lips Camelot and dragons were real and alive,
unto our impressionable ten year old minds.

We hung on his every spellbound word
as they softly painted such incredible stories in our brains
where goodness prevailed by noble knights.

Oh to us they became the fodder of our dreams,
the pure fire of imagination’s furnace,
which burned each night when we were alone.
How they carried us to worlds
filled with all the things we never saw,
happily they became the tales embellish with creativity
of our lunch time conversations.

Years passed and maturity brought its own reality,
yet through it all that word sorcerer’s power lingers
each time I look at a group of trees or bushes
and still recall those stories of fantasia's strokes,
quietly hoping to see a fairy or pixie hiding among them.

Little Surprises

Girl brings home
stray cat,
planning
on how
to get daddy to let it stay.

Creativity will be tested
after fluffy
finds
father's paint supplies.

Artists of the Edge

She lives within your ache,
carefully soaking up every secret forbidden desire
making them into an image
that she can beguile with spells
focusing her dark powers with all her energy
for turning the statue
into a force
which will burrow into your soul.

Until it pushes and possess all you are,
stripping away ever inhibition
letting the carnage of passion's carnivorous inner demons
unleash their savage lusts
in your fingertips.

Mind will slowly slip away from its reality
body becomes obedient to the bewitching
walking out into the night
searching to be a sacrifice
to her darkest joys.

Waking in the morning
somewhere unfamiliar
feeling violated and uncleaned,
trying to return home
ever nagged by the sense of being watched
and having a macabre image of one's heart
clutched in a grotesque statue's mouth.

Wednesday Afternoon

Outside the sky is overcast and the air cold
it adds to the gloomy, lethargic mood
draped over my mind like a tablecloth
and inside my house I am alone
just filling the silence with old DVDs.

They can’t rid me of the heaviness,
the sense of pointlessness to existence
in this quiet emptiness of my bedroom.

My brain stirs a fantasy
to try and revive hope
only it drowns in that deep, dark void
of where I fell when age
took away any sense of being young.

Today is another replay of monotony’s song
can’t forget it or kill it
since it lives within the afternoon.

So I slip into a dream
about tropical isles and happiness,
it lasts for thirty minutes
before I envision sharks attacking,
another conjured fear to spoil the illusion.

Perhaps if there was some escape
from dying one day at a time,
a chance to run away to a paradise
my house wouldn’t feel like a prison or morgue
where I was a condemned prisoner.

One more gaze out the window
and I see a bird in the air,
how I wish life was that simple,
no sorrow or loneliness
merely a flight so peaceful and calm.

Tomorrow I’ll look for feathers to cloak my despair,
for now I’ll let my imagination
climb the stairs to a world without
these dark moments of constant unanswered questions.

The Petals

She bends to pick up the petals
that she had strewn during her Aunt's wedding,
Grandpa not there to give away the bride
after he passed away a month before the wedding.

Her heart misses his love and great sense of humor
remembered his encouragement that she could do anything,
which helped her to not fear walking down the aisle in front of a crowd,
carefully collecting the rose fragments while reception is taking place,
feels a cold kiss upon her cheek, and a familiar voice say, "I'm so proud of you,"
tears stream down her cheeks from knowing Grandpa came to ceremony after all.

Fans Of July

Winds stir with their sizzling,
furnace breath,
the air carries a heat
that bakes the skin
beneath a blazing relentless sun.

It’s all a flame,
which gives so many reasons
to dive into a bowl
of mountains in ice cream.

Sisters

Celestial siblings watching the world in dutiful caring gaze,
through their collection of crystalline spheres,
where their ageless eyes study each thought and image
as their immortal lips whispers a sweet song of inspiration.

One is the golden sprite of vivid dreams
waving fantasia's finger
to give every soul images of hope
that tomorrow can be a future
blessed and full of faith's sunshine.

The other is the guardian giver of night,
who brings her evil shades over spirits,
making their heart turn dark and full of vile desires
until the eve of lust burns to make them
flow from their hands in wicked incarnations..

Yet, they are eternally devoted sisters
bond and burden to touch mankind's conscious,
shedding a tear of sorrow when seeing
so many lives that fall into the sway of darkness
and never open their eyes to the light.

For they are twins of divine intent,
using their powers to teach and guide,
bring hearts yet enlightened,
a gift to see the difference
between good and evil.

Happy when their time's crystal balls they watch constantly
are filled with love,
which is their greatest wish,
sad when they see them cloud over with hate.
Setting them aside on heaven's shelf,
until a day comes
when perhaps a different gaze
will heal the murky image.

Pardon my Buckaroo

Old west fantasies
lived out in ghost town celebration,
tourists treated to gunfighter showdowns,
stagecoach rides and visits to saloon.

Caught up in the moment,
happily cherishing
every "howdy partner" slang
while putting on their cowboy hats.

Staying around with drooling anticipation
for the big event,
a barbecue at the fire pit next to corral.
Even had band to play
favorite cowboy songs.

Then came the one memory
all never expected,
outlaws charging thirty bucks a head
for the dinner.

Patrons grudgingly forking over cash,
gobbling down meal,
but quietly dreaming of necktie party.

Zebra Crossing

Was a dastardly plot I admit,
seemed funny though
after several rounds of Jack Daniels
with my buds.

Living in a small town
where nothing much ever happens,
deciding to crank up the joy,
by secretly spiking the town counsel's
refreshments.

Who knew the insanity that would brew
when they tasted that juice,
passing new laws right and left,
what lunacy did ensue.

So now we have this crossing
in front of city hall,
sign declaring it's purpose,
never as humiliating to some of us
that live with the consequences of our whim,
as when we see the clown in his old clunker
stopped and waiting
at the lines
for a possible zebra to come by!

Sweet and Sour

Passions poured forth like a river
verses leap from the page,
each line a masterpiece
dazzling as a jeweled thought creation
beyond what any comment can describe.

Ah the ecstasy oh the joy,
Shakespeare please stand aside!
Was my thought
from some flattering honey
in a complimentary phrase!

Alas, my eyes
have learned a lesson
to thus forever recognize,
how the bigger the contest host's
flowing comment
of such super praising size,
the more you can count
on being trophyless,
despite the ego fueling words
that were obviously just a big fat lie!

Directions

Diligently deciphering deduced decoded details,
selectively studying significant symbolic signs,
intuitively ingesting intellectually induced instructions,
methodically measures mentally massaged mindsets.

Forever yours

Faithfully dove, you I do love
Obedient to each need
Release your heart in my soul's cart
Ever, for you I'll bleed
Valiant to kiss you with such bliss
Each touch becomes my wing
Regaling you long with passion's song.

Yes, for you do I sing
Oh please my dear, never have fear
Unto such plan I cling,
Rejoice and fly, being one sigh --
Sweetheart? OOPS, dialed wrong ring.

Hope's China

My mind tastes
the pungent lament
stirring the images
where hope's china
ended up shattered
and lying on the floor.

Super glue
comes in fancy's tube
using it quickly
so it will dry
before a breeze of fate
breaks them again.

Landscapes

Serenity craved from extracting euphoria
from the countless countrysides cerebrally explored,
while editing their supposed quality,
then eliminating every detracting element.

Finally composing a perfect landscape
for the habitation of the spirit,
quietly storing each new addition
as reference goal library.

But they become exploding designs,
which detonate in the head
once images no longer appeal as enhancing
after you tried extracting quintessential portions
in order to construct
a private preserve in calm
that might help in escaping life’s demands.

In the collapsing piles of reality’s storage
within forms an evaluating record
of the facts collected.

Real tranquility only arrives
by not excusing one’s ignorance
or attempts at explaining away blunders
as other than mistakes.

Calm kisses in the consequence
where a haven of truth
gives its own sincere and enduring validity
over the illusions used as visionary paint.

Must be the Rain

Steel facade
forged by father's hands,
strength an iron act,
covering for inner child's
tissue paper heart.

Dam carefully controlled,
sorrow's waters
never allowed to flow,
fearing the stream will rust
the shield of one's
defiance armor.

Face carved
in stern concrete silence
eyes bearing the flame
of resolve,
being the knight,
warrior and victor
if only in one's mind.

When night smothers
the sky of pretense,
all the ghosts scream
their failure memories,
voice whispers cry, "mommy"
so no one else can hear.

Reservoir of suppression
ruptures,
single saline droplet
appears on the cheek,
trying to save face
by claiming,
must be the rain.

Rest in Pieces

Here lies George,
Pete's other head,
wife having it buried separately
not taking any chances
that the cheating rat
might get lucky
after death.

WHERE THE TIDE LEADS

Upon the stirring,
muddy waters
of affliction’s gushing gale
i float on an endless course
to isle’s imagined
while dreaming of life preserver
surety
that is a visit
from my youth.
There is only
the tyrant current
guiding my treading soul.
Leading it
by fate and fortune
along a tide
where life has no pride.
For drowning
is a danger
no matter how well
you can swim.

Little Surprises

Girl brings home
stray cat,
planning
on how
to get daddy to let it stay.

Creativity will be tested
after fluffy
finds
father's paint supplies.

Must be the Rain

Steel facade
forged by father's hands,
strength an iron act,
covering for inner child's
tissue paper heart.

Dam carefully controlled,
sorrow's waters
never allowed to flow,
fearing the stream will rust
the shield of one's
defiance armor.

Face carved
in stern concrete silence
eyes bearing the flame
of resolve,
being the knight,
warrior and victor
if only in one's mind.

When night smothers
the sky of pretense,
all the ghosts scream
their failure memories,
voice whispers cry, "mommy"
so no one else can hear.

Reservoir of suppression
ruptures,
single saline droplet
appears on the cheek,
trying to save face
by claiming,
must be the rain.

Closets

Jester's face
carved in chameleon caricatures
kept in panoply of poses,
stored inside the cesspool confessional
where conscience treads water.

Nodding verbiage
prevents potentate's strings
from strangling,
never revealing
one's true portrait.

Always hidden
beneath sanguine shroud
so rage's textures
remains visible
only on fantasia's canvas.

Possibility's cocoon
turning crypt
epitaph diary,
a work of fiction.

Predators of Dross

Kiln creations of mad scientist metallic mindsets
sent in silvery deliverance array
a steely siren of security facade
searching in steady prowling dictates
to find hearts forged in the dross of dreams.

Automaton strumpets serving
the foundries of cryptic collusion,
aluminum foil theologies
minted methodically as universal utopian panaceas.

H G. Well's prophesies silenced
by the thud of iron rigor mortis spirituality,
tread mill inquisitions
sculpted as vice grip conscription
for the cerebral filings from the conscience
embedded with imminent domain expendability.

Conglomerate gospel erects its statuesque icons
legalese millwork meanderings
rationalize conscience genocide
as refining profitable from dross.

All completed on a time clock template
inscribed with greed's emblems.

One

One
second
spent soaring
crimson currents
of love's sweetest streams
gives the soul flight towards
skies where the heart surrenders
its pulse unto a greater light
until bird within finds dove above
renewing bond with eternity's plumes
kinship's feathers sailing sanguine lightning
discover eagle's nest inside mind
where life rises to heights unseen
no longer just fleshly veil
searching as a seeker
looking for needy
feeding them
with care's
seed

Chaos's Twinkle

Clamoring for celestial's clarity song
searching the shimmer for its notes,
convinced the universe vastness
must have some composer
who will explain every sparkle and glow
in poignant piercing pricks of profound.

Then this divine entity of starry artistry
could explain life on this mortal hunk in space,
maybe give a chorus of light to silence the chaos
so it would be more than time of enigmatic statements
ending with a huh, for a period.

Seat to cosmic concert
on reserve at eternity's ticket booth,
praying all the afterlife prophetic musicians
were listening to delusion's serenades.

Astronomy

That fated moment
my telescope of longing
saw your constellation of bedazzling beauty,
I felt the love shine
deep into the black emptiness
where I had drifted forever.

Inhaling your radiance,
never dreaming it would die,
how could I know to burn so bright
meant the light would be consumed?

In the wake of the black hole
which you fell as an ebbing flame
was I also swallowed,
my heart felt the death
as a hollow shell of pulse.

Piercing

Pain burns in torrid, tense throbs
blood boils from all the surges
in tear filets upon the heart,
sobs never ease the agony,
no cure found in medicinal thoughts.

Tomorrow soft, tender moments
will be a balm of vows,
but they will be suddenly disrupted,
by the knife of self infliction's guilt stabs,
slasher victim, no police report filed.

Colonnade Story

Feeling utterly soaked to the bone
by the lingering dew of longing
my heart is impaled by the sabers of power
who bleed my soul of hope and dignity
as I serve as slave in their greenback castle.

It was built by greed upon the jagged isle of need,
and I pause in my misery to gaze out a window of dreams
that overlooks the tempest lake of unanswerable questions
where one can drown in its tainted waters of guilt and doubt.

Deep in the castle's lairs of fear confessionals
where I spent hours whitewashing shadows
the walls murmur with the boasting of tyrants
till a vision stirs in my suffering soul
about the archways to Elysium's love
which dwells beyond that toxic pool of pondering.

Then the agony brings an image of elegance
adorned with the garlands of tranquility
as echoes come from its gossamer celestial columns
rendering me transfixed by its unspeakable beauty.

By the caress of more than brick and stone
where I sense the eternal awaits to be known
the pains of power's abusive foundations fade
as I imagine paddling towards the bedazzling glory
found through a trust in paradise's
colonnade story.