Tug Of Wars

Hearts so sealed in harmony of beats
totally tied to each other
unable to be separated by time or test.

When the urges sound their tones inside
how it can cause a stretch in the bond
for passion has its own threads,
which can be a string to lasso the mind
slowly tugging at the will
quietly creating a rope over the desires,
which causes such urge to go
in the way it draws and appeals.

Oh perhaps the forever vows of unity
suddenly are shattered by the way
this strand of seduction
is able to strangle every craving for oneness.

Still when that moment passes
and the lures have evaporated
again two hearts will laced in their single throb
as if the past never happen
being totally ensnared
by the same connection,
which had made them so feel merged
before any scissors of conflict
came to try and severe that twine
of solidarity’s cord.

Ladders

Cellar sight groping where light is just denial's myth,
stumbling over ladder on way to resignation's corner,
footsteps heard pounding from main floor,
singing a chant of basement splendor
to drown out their tones.

Smell of baking pastries from kitchen
claws at insides, reminders of feasts
missed by dining on canned goods requiring no change,
enough, the mind regales,
for steps on rungs leading to taste
carry danger they might break.

A thousand voices utter their staircase horrors,
sounding more hideous in perennial darkness,
clutching the tattered rug used as mattress,
it is covered in dirt and full of holes,
but still better to the hands
than risk of splinters if climbing towards next level.

Tales told in head to appease the panic demons,
but the noise clamoring from above
becomes a wand to weave over the anxieties.

Desperation's warrior possesses the spirit,
deciding it better to die on way to hope
than sucking on fear's formaldehyde.

Our Legacy

When one looks at the portfolio of human legacy
is there a spot that screams, “I’m fine and in balance,
totally consistent with what is ideal behavior?”

Not unless history is all fiction
and there are no people
who are compulsive, demented, murderous,
depraved, debauched, and generally off center.

Truth is, we are all normal
if extremes and bizarre behavior are your standard,
it is only when we apply some insane label to our perform
that it gets out of control.

Just look at war and all the other passionate hobbies
of what we call humanity’s heart beat,
do those bespeak of wisdom we can take pride?

Einstein once define insanity
as doing the same thing over and over
while expecting different results,
yet this is almost a second nature aspect
to what we do so often.

Like working at the same job
where this is no hope of change,
still dreaming in your head
you’ll get a promotion and be happy
though after ten years it has never happen once.

Henry Drummond one said,
“Life is the capacity to relate to one’s environment.”
I can’t think of anything saner
than to accept without anger or frustration
how we all live in this strange fun house planet
so might as well smile and find the fun,
probably won’t take away the sadness,
but at least you can enjoy it more than other ways.

Elysium

Strolling featherweight, adrift as a cloud
across a sprawling golden meadow,
turquoise sky stunningly intense,
air embalmed in lilac and almond scents.

Breeze carries very fret to four winds,
infused in the sweet caress of serenity's fingers,
ashen images of concrete cages vaporized
by this succor of mercy,
a vision of pure release,
passport purchased by petition
from mind's psalm for butterfly plumes.

Second of Elysium's essence
one blink of winged whim,
gazed with inner eyes
in the stripes of cell bars shadows,
waiting for word from attorney
over release
because of excavated evidence
of innocence
found in ruins of Jurist prudence
crumbling citadel.

Oasis reverie revised
to fantasies of vindication freedom
over being found guilty
for crime didn't commit.

Dot this!

Oh my the puncture to my persuasion
when some contest judge with more anal eyes
than creativity's elation
fusses over a comma or semi colon,
spewing a literary surgeon's drool
upon my poetic inspiration.

As if the world of quills
will be destroyed forever in a maelstrom of grammar violations,
if one fails to pen with their exacting precision
all the jots and tittles
their minds can bear to be without.

When was the muse slain
that flowed beauty in thought
where it captures the breath of something divine
without the dread of a missing period
killing the flower of a stanza's blooms?

So let's have a — of thanks
unto the comma police,
let them brand our souls with question marks,
tattoo a semi comma on our derrières,
emblazon a period between our eyes,
brand an exclamation point upon our chest.

As long as they promise
to put quotation marks on their tongues
and bear a little sunshine in their criticisms,
find that heart they dipped in sauerkraut apostrophes,
while trying to remember that using all those little marks
won't guarantee you a seat in heaven,
so don't condemn others to hell
for the accidental misuse of the punctuation spell.

Scarface

Wounds leaving their witness
upon victim’s profile,
sermonized knives
carving guilt’s scars,
spiritual criminals terrorizing innocence,
religiosity’s mobsters
using sinister interpretations
of scriptures
to enforce their theft of souls.

Eye Of The Storm

Tear drops soaking holes
through the parchments of decree,
those constitutional scrolls written to control
that spread as a shroud with utopia mirages
over the freedoms in our day.

Craving the refuges beyond those words
that flow with peace’s tides
into an inner harbor of reveries,
quietly moored in serenity’s scenic allure
amid the rumbles from life’s cymbals
where one can float as captain of sailboat
calmly swaying from the gentle touch in tranquil tides.

Detonations of dismay destroy the bliss,
fiery eruptions recall the episodes,
stealing laughter with their haunting explosions,
which echo through the long night of unanswered dreams.

The mind’s eye pierces the smoke,
waiting until the fire subsides
to again ascend the soothing sea within,
for there is a port in the heart,
nothing will ever destroy
what you can see so clearly
while anchored in a boat you know was built,
from the wood you cherish as life.

Then no matter what paper
shadows the spirit,
one can always swim in a place
of light and hope,
facing a sunset to fears.

Fundraisers

Those car washes to help the high school
were such a good idea,
only no one expecting
how the suds would work such magic.

Got pretty strange
when the English teacher
and women’s PE coach
let the lather and soap
wash away any restraints.

Sure did help with donations
after they got in the backseat
to do the windows
only they got steam up
instead of looking clean.

Next week they are having
a bake sale,
promises to be a big hit
with the cookies they will offer.

The Gates Of Ever

I am a gossamer sail on a celestial sea,
drifting as a featherweight soul
through the gates of ever.

The locks held in my mind
to realms where my heart is a wand,
a pure magician of imagination
and all my wishes become images,
alive and intense,
lovers who I missed along life’s path,
utopias my deepest longings see as reality.

Sometimes I drift into an abyss,
swirling in creatures with claws and flames,
they scorch and gnaw
while dragging me downwards,
descending into a cesspool of fears.

Morning comes as a hot air balloon
riding it back to the sunrise,
still possessed by the portraits
painted by my desire’s brush.

In the noon of my thoughts
how I crave to enter those gates again,
hoping day is really the dream
from which I will wake up.

Found

I found a dollar bill in the sand,
grabbed it and held it as if it was gold,
but then my mind got trapped
in a tangled web of doubt and fears,
wondering who has lost the dollar?
Would they come back to look for it?

Quickly I searched everywhere
for the chance I had been seen,
then my brain started worrying
over the uncertainty that came
as a whirlwind of ponderings,
which I could never explain or answer.

The stress and paranoia
About all the questions
that I could see solutions
Soon destroyed my sense of thrill
from this moment of fortune.

Eventually placing the bill back in the sand
and walking away,
for there was no joy when there was no peace
so when a gift was covered in question marks
it for me was better left alone.

Masterpieces

Oak wood paneling covering the executive boardroom walls,
part of the plush and luxuriant decor in the Dracula den of profit blood suckers,
each day a confessional conclave for clandestine cravings,
the wet bar their well for drowning guilt's echoes during leech rivals
as they plot another feast of greed using power's fangs to drain lives.

Alone, the head of their corporate coffin for the conscience sips his bourbon plasma
sitting in the room, gazing at collection of art masterpieces that surrounds him,
attempts to adorn with beauty a soul that died when first victim was drained
insides never numbed to stakes of stress, bank account no solution for lack of peace,
silently subduing the secrets of the heart, which longs for spiritual paintings never painted

Terraces

Ascending life's staircase
not watching the landscape that was passed,
more concerned over tripping,
eyes focused on next step and what is to come.

Reaching a terrace on the pilgrimage for finding light,
a rest stop of contemplation
looking back at where one came,
to finally how far one has come.

Yet insides feel the same,
except for a few extra aches,
until be greeted by a friend
who comments on the changes in one's face.

Spreading thoughts and expanding vision
develops places we live inside, but seldom visit,
air carries scents never noticed,
retrospect sun shines in shadows for first time,
mind unfolds the bed sheet of insight
sleeping with new appreciation
for details missed along the journey.

Maturity is when we know
by deepest intent of reflection,
truths where once we only thought
of myths and fantasies.

Worn with a weathered cloak,
age's reminder that knowledge
doesn't bring immortality.

Happiness inhaled in the surrender
unto a peace that comes
when understanding expands our horizons
and tears alone don't consume our day.

Secrets

Garments hiding
bruises,
parent's marks
kept secret,
avoiding
worst beatings.

Reefs

In panged heart I knew the time had come
to scuttle my old rusty four wheel, compact dingy,
find a mighty luxury vessel
for sailing proud upon the asphalt sea.

Paddling my leather swim fins
over to the used car sales parking reef,
treading the current of opportunities,
and find that special coral motorized beauty.

Then he came in my direction,
such a grinning vision of pure confidence,
reeking of Scope and Brute aftershave,
I knew his predator leisure suit stance,
circling me in ravenous eyeing lusts,
smelling blood of profit
nearly drooling as he exposed
his set of mouth ivories
speaking their viper promises.

When I asked about warranty life preserver
and the proof his teeth marks
weren't on the contract,
all his comrades descended upon me,
clearly prepared for a feast.

Each one ravishing my flesh of questions,
jaws of assurances consuming my will.
Pulling into their office for the kill,
my wallet's blood spilled on that paper.

Driving away in tugboat they said
was sailboat,
another survivor of their pitch's shark attack
with 60 month payment plan as bite wounds.

Please pass the pudding, Ted is dead

Oh how the Christmas season showed
each year at our office party,
what bounty they did host,
that we might all feel so merry
and find some sweet release from stress.

Only things went a tad off center this time,
was that sidedish of broccoli and cauliflower
swimming in some sauce,
it tasted different,
but only had a small amount,
unlike that health nut, Ted,
who prided himself on not being a drinker.

How he gobbled down most of that offering,
and then ended up slowly starting to slur his words,
then I notice other foods also covered in the same sauce.

Wasn’t long before things got crazy,
people staggering around,
rambling the strangest things,
one secretary rambling
about how spandex
had cause her to get a divorce
because her husband fell in love
with a gal at his gym
wearing a pair in pink.

Meanwhile one of the bosses
suddenly decided he was an artist
using napkins
to make sketches
that he claim were an elephant
dancing and holding a tuba,
but looked more like the devil.

In the middle of this insanity
I noticed the caterer looked like a hippie
and finally sort out that his idea of seasoning
was to add drugs to what he cooked,
(the price we paid for trying to go cheap on cost.)

Asking someone hand me the chocolate pudding,
which I knew was from a can,
watching Ted passed out on the floor,
wondering if a picture would work as blackmail
to help replace bonus I didn’t get.

Of Pure Light

What’s His Name

To sit as the same desk you’ve sat for years
and still not have them remember you name,
those who control promotions and careers
that only remember the same people,
the rest are just corporate chattel,
no more important than the furniture.

Oh they even have an employee of the month,
but it is always one of several people,
who are the ones that play their games
spend their hours being pawns
because it is the only way to get attention.

Any who don’t agree must endure the reality
over how you will probably be lost on the lists
of employees thought as useful,
people who only count to be seen as dispensable.

It is to live in the subdued anxiety
about how those attacks of athazagoraphobia
have to be subdued for one more shift
since you can see in the eyes of others
that feel the same way
a silent stare of strained anxiety
while they wonder the same thoughts
how long before I am a victim
among the executives
of their version of amnesia
about those who they regard
as a simple mirage,
which will eventually go away.

Forever Satire

If we were never to know a chortle from mishaps,
find a smile in irony,
look at some creatures and wonder
was this really the work
of a serious craftsman of creativity,
then our eyes are blessed
when we embrace
that between the thou shalls and shall nots,
all the rumors of thunderbolts,
every dread of divine judgment,
which never strikes us dead,
but keeps us terrified at night,
the Lord really did make satire
apart of this life.

It’s just an issue of timing,
like perhaps He has a whoopee cushion
upon his throne,
or maybe some angels
spend time doing stand up
outside of flying and singing praises.

After all, when you consider it,
seems like the devil really is the one
without a sense of humor,
can’t blame him in some ways
given nothing he plans
ever comes out the way he expects.

So quite possibly
the real place called hell,
is that realm where no one can still even chuckle
and all they get is monotony ,
along with some really piss poor knock knock jokes.

Liberated Soul

I love order, cherish is as a god,
but tolerate those who are different,
unless they violate neatness.

Every photo frame on my walls
perfectly level and precisely placed,
not a single detail in my realm
having a hint of disarray.

Faithful deep within,
even my sock drawer is organized,
bills always paid on time,
dutiful recorded in flawless listings,
schedule for the time ardently obeyed,
no time for variation or the unexpected.

Feeling so free in my path
for I inhale the joy of my stalwart existence,
paper clips kept in concise chambers,
pens arranged by color and usage,
each detail of life methodically aligned
so no mar of moment might shred my control.

Have a twinge of remorse on my birthday and holidays
when I spend them alone
wife and kids elsewhere
unable to cling to the prefect life I have created,
though I'm confident they shall return,
have it scheduled for appointment
in my weekly organizer,
only hope they bring enough napkins this time.

Anticipation

Prospect's rivulets flow through cranial landscape,
phantom paramours of fairy god mother sway
imagined waiting in the cool rush
swimming its mercurial possibilities
feigned surety's waders left in denial's closet.

Sound of inner, "shhhh,"
dangles
from denial's seductive hook
as bated rationale for numbing intuitive paranoia.

Interlude of mystical speculation
dialogues against cryptic mental analogue
that dredges up cynic recollections
of trust's assassins.

Reaching river's edge of expectation's stream,
reality's stalker greats with reaper's sickle,
reverie corpse floats in aftermath visionary blood letting,
pic nic hiatus taken shopping at discount fancy's snack shop
purchase of formaldehyde optimism appetizers best seller.

Pilots

I wanted to be a pilot
winged adventurer soaring by silver needle
threading the sky with my jet trails of thread,
powered to stitch that cerulean canvas,
leaving my signature upon the clouds.

Oh I studied diligently,
trained arduously,
learned controls and levels,
memorized joy stick philosophy.

Of thrust I dream and eagle’s glide,
my heart raced from cockpit lusts,
helmet would be my crown,
oxygen mask for face guard.

So I felt I became an aviator expert,
ready to explore those lofty terraces,
happy I could say
there was a oneness between my spirit
and the air.

But when I sat in the passenger seat
for the very first time
while we lifted off to rumble
across that vast turquoise sheet
panic seized since I suddenly realized
how I had a fear of heights.

Shaking and dreading we would crash,
looked out the window
seeing a bird sailing so effortlessly,
realizing knowledge alone
would never replace
a natural passion to inhale
what didn’t need words to understand.

Messenger Moans

Was just to be a cyber hello on yahoo,
nothing intended or suggested,
unto that coworker in the next cubicle,
merely a few words of informality,
using mere customary phrases.

But she mentioned her child’s sickness,
I spoke of my wife’s distance,
suddenly loneliness came up,
two lives trapped in sterilized dreams,
snared in box with a wedding ring.

Can’t recall what made the fingers type,
that provocative hint,
then shocked by her reply.

In the middle of the day
deadlines breathing on the neck,
our keyboard became our mattress,
words burned their desires,
faces growing red with lust,
sweat starting to form beads,
squirming in the seat
from the flames in images.

How she added those emoticons
the type on those adult sites,
was something I couldn’t say,
but the pure agony of craving steamed in the view.

What game we played,
intimacy to the raw level,
just to see which of us might groan out loud
and expose our secret.

Mind so lightheaded with the inferno created
hunger so in dire need of satisfaction,
afternoon spent simmering,
our spouses both surprised
why work had inspired
a ravenous gaze in greeting at home.

First Aid

Arcane messianic opiates
callously crafted as coffins,
ostentatiously served
on legislative platter
as panacea's insulin
for suffering's diabetes.

Entitlement's refugees
herded into social tabernacles
having no windows.

Minions seeking shelter
given prescribed doses
of charity's vitamins
though transfusions
from red tape needles.

Irradiating esteem
because it was produced
by lobbyist's pharmaceutical house
only having formal
to make formaldehyde.

Marble

Ivory pillars illuminated by spotlights
form two rows of columns, like some Roman architecture,
that lead to double doors of a mansion in Hollywood Hills,
scents of gourmet cuisine blend with expensive wines
as naked bodies heap together in writhing ecstasy

It’s a party that happens every night
overdose deaths never even remembered the next time,
they’ll be buried with loving phrases on marble headstones,
which no “friends” will ever even see
because it would take time away for the next orgy.

One Hug

I have no fantasies of gold or power,
no single need for fame,
just would once in my life
find a time when kindness given
would be end in a thank you, instead of tears.

Echoes of sobs fill the void in gratitude
wandering the desert, alone and ignored,
with the never ending dream
that someday, some how a single person would actually
make me feel other than unwanted.

Hands

Inequity's ogre breath always stifled her air and smothering her dreams,
leaving her feeling so stale and full of rage.

How the ticks on time's clock had plotted against her,
always punishing with cruel seconds of unfairness,
until they left her scarred and resentful, a match so easily inflamed,
ready to find any form of revenge that might balance the scales of life.

Into her crevice of acrid moments
where her mind was snared by regret's talons,
she longed so desperately for one blessing in reprieve,
a subtle gift of grace to prove she wasn't cursed.

Unto her day, he came, not on a stallion
nor wearing armor,
but in her heart he was a knight,
to her a prince whose voice spoke all the gold to enrich her heart.

Upon the honeymoon of ecstasy
she dwelled, every hour a new dream,
discovering the precious treasure in love's gemstones,
which she wore as a necklace of healing and passion.

His birthday approached and she strolled the mall for the perfect gift,
and then saw him with another, they seemed so affection and loving.
How the anger burned out of control, one more lie, one more wrong,
this time she would not let it pass without punishment.

Baking a cake for his birthday party, lacing it with poison
ready to server a lethal slice for all, just to vent her scorn.
Quietly showing up at the party, face hiding her plot,
as he raves over her baked creation,
but before it is cut and passed around,
he introduces to his cousin, the one that she saw at the mall.

Now she must face the hands of fate's stopwatch,
praying she can find a miracle to undo her own act of bias,
wandering the warehouse of guilt,
looking for some scapegoat myth to spare her truth's parade.

True North

Compass spins in circular reasoning
crossroads crisis missing signposts
maps mutilated from wrenched indecision,
noon's face reveals the alternative paths,
shines its illumined hints towards many tales.

Inclination's needle dulled
by lack of insight's sharpening stone,
trapped in treadmill lethargy,
sight blurred from squinting at horizons,
shoes scuffed along procrastination's curb
while taking excuse's potty break
in outhouse retreat behind denial's bush.

Heart pumps so loudly to walk,
to find the journey's oasis,
but one can never taste
it's destination's well
until mind decides
which North Pole of desire
will be the vision followed,
when one stops being preoccupied
with just watching someone else
stroll towards where their own
discovered truths.

Medicinal

Apothecary theology serving feigned
numinous cocktails
from tainted panacea champagne bottles.

Orthodoxy labels missing dates,
location of vineyards seen
possessed of surreal images
with skull and cross bones
warning sign
next to ingredients
claiming death comes
when not imbibed.

Served on a pew buffet
once a week,
medicine man in cleric collar
offers sermonized guarantee,
elixir will cure every ill
as long as you have faith
vinegar tastes like wine.

His Stage

Piercing gaze
into life's secret eyes
stark stares bearing truth
he knows each heartbeat,
fears and thoughts
night's keeper,
finding his prey
no matter where they roam.

Reaper on his stage
waiting for final act
to play at deathbeds.

Mannequins Hearts

Bullets burrow in flesh,
bodies fall into mass grave,
cold eyes hold guns,
minds deaf to screams.

Swastika on sleeves
evil's narcotic for mannequin hearts.