Pressing Buttons

Esteem's membrane, cold and bleached,
always seeking affection's sun,
to feel the warming tan from passion's pigment.

Transient vows of redemption scrawled by fancy's quill in diary,
mind gazes at tomorrow through hope's foggy window,
riding life's elevator desperately praying for chance seductive encounter,
hiding the hollowness haunting inner essence,
shell of truth within covered in denial's masquerade.

Pressing button for expectancy's basement
while praying another rider's heart will take her to penthouse.

Nectar

Hovering affections affix their wings upon a waft in wishes,
feathered desires dream their honeysuckle eyes,
hummingbird subsistence craves the albatross glide.

Gardens gleamed for their mirages
how the heart aches for a zephyr breath of miracles,
arresting the stagnant morn.

To imagine the sky is broken of its barriers,
no rift to bar the soul,
and sup on the elixir of stars
aloft beyond the stillness,
serene in sail were nectar flows as cloudy reveries,
sweet liberty of naked self
soaring as a new creation.

What love springs for knowing life
when gazes grope for more
than a flutter through stale stems of monotony,
daring to spread the plumes in pure passion
for caressing the crest of sky.

At last to stop dwelling in the ephemeral realty,
narcissist fears overpowered
by the sheer force of cascading obsessions,
surrendering to the narcotic sway of ascending persuasions,
silently in stunning clarity
kissing the face of tranquility’s airy thread,
because inside the true aviary essence
escaped fear’s nest.

Happily flying that place of freedom’s scent
where nothing drifts before one’s view,
but the sight of one’s shadow
drifting across the landscape below.

My melted ambrosia

Oh there is no taste better
than from warm melted cheddar.

Having graded it over
some tortilla chips,
letting its smooth texture
swim in the mouth
till I feel its every sensation
intoxicating beyond words.

It takes me on a journey
of unbridled cheese lust,
becoming a dairy mistress
to my chips,
as I use them together
for such a succulent
moment of pure delight.

Then wiping the remains
from my lips
with my fingers,
licking them clean,
the sensation arousing
in glorious passion of gratification.

Just a snack you see,
but one that brings a smile
of incredible ecstasy.

Netted

Honeyed taste
clung to the mouth,
knowing it was venom
didn’t kill the writhing embrace.

One last line so hard to discover
because poison
that throbbed the heart
is an addiction
without exit sign.

The Scents of Dawn

Though tears travail in thunderous stains,
hearts we love only render their fangs and pains,
eyes can still open yesteryear's scrapbook,
to reclaim the scents of dawn that once flamed with promise.

And inhale again the fragrances of their comfort,
which gave life its joy unto that day,
the perfume so regenerating that lifted and healed,
coming in many places and many ways,
no single source sharing its aroma.

Inspiring the strength to know
the valley where camping not a deed to tomorrow,
instead holding onto the visions inhaled
from past strolls in meadows,
when flowers bloom within,
their beauty gave off a smell of anticipation
for talking another step.

So even if cactus have claimed the path,
weeds replaced the pasture's green,
they are, as any aroma merely fleeting seasons.

Within the well from which the mind drinks,
there is always the next droplet of refreshing,
a rain to drench any stain or wound.
Moving in expectancy's rush,
will to wander where thorns abound
aware they are never a place of permanent ground.

I Bleed The Night

I bleed the night
of the rumbles in rhapsody
rising out of the midnight crypts
like a resurrected soul,
like a stunned metamorphosis caterpillar
bewitched in the sudden spread of wings.

For I am the ear of mortality
hearing every insect grope,
every blossom’s waltz
as they fall deeply into my heart’s membrane
writhe my spirit with their resonance
though the darkness move through
my mental alley of decay.

Yet, there are grays amid the ivory and onyx lines
and it is where the spirit is stained,
it is where the words are born as beasts
whose talons find their targets
in the recesses of my quill chamber.

And ensures the tale of wretched light
where blackness was sovereign
so all the mars are exposed
each story unfolds its treasures
with beauty beguiling in its bewildering array
for truth glows and is followed
through the sewer flooded with diadems of life
because the artist must stroll by sense
feel the precious pangs
that others aren’t curse to consumed.

Then rages the eyes in meandering metaphors
can’t resist their images
so all life becomes a verse
where nothingness is the prayer
to silence the raw, brittle coarseness
from the bowels of earthen existence.

Oh to come there is a rendezvous
dreamt as prophecy,
somewhere on the journey I fall
only without speaking my descent,
being are the postcards of my languishing
amid the power and privilege of unveiling,
perhaps I slipped away
from that stone,
but maybe I just reached to high
until I left behind a shell
while finally fluttering,
crown left as a shadow
whose mark is never removed.

Rainbows

Expectancy's influenza
infects with flu of faith
and inspires rainbow reveries.

Discarding
angst's umbrella,
anticipation hands
searches for hope's pot of gold
after tempest downpour.

This is for your own welfare.

That is not a request
for my ink does flow
in demanding tangents,
which can't be ignored.

It is for your best you understand,
my rules and thoughts
will improve and enhance,
so why not surrender
give in freely to each stanzas sway.

I would not wish to meander
through a mental mine field of portent
one might risk by disobedience.

All of this is to offer ultimate freedom,
perfect peace
because once you have
willing allowed my dominion
then you can live without need for worry,
just relax and enjoy
while I tend to all your needs.

Is servitude unto that noble desire
so much to truly ask?
You'll find in time
my shackles of restraint no longer bruise or hurt,
just as I did
when the one with power over my life
made it one of debased esteem.

Now I have inherited this process
from my progenitor and obey his legacy
otherwise there could be no calming order,
merely chaos from self determination's
futile fruit.

Deluge

Booming roar ripples air,
showers drench the soil,
puddles swell on grassy plain
flashes of light fill the sky,
hearts flood from deluge
when football game
storms with adrenaline’s power.

This long night

This long night,
this sudden shadow,
a mar of ashen trepidation
served on a visionary buffet of extremes.

Decayed twilight vows
leaves morning's ruins
erected altars prepared for slaughter
of last eve's fumbled strategies
for winning messiah lottery
at local cathedral convenience store.

Anxiety's escape hatch opened
to zoo for stallion deliverance
out of melancholy's sewer treatment plant.

Stumbling precariously into abandoned play land
where scribes of pubescence
claim bones of forbearers died from terminal risk.

Anticipated wasteland becomes park of self discovery
inner epiphany scroll unfurls with intuitive fingers,
sagacity's lights glows from dawning lucidity,
wisdom's language written with butterfly strokes in tranquil hues,
peace drapes over conscious with still voice assurance,
passage in spiritual pilgrimage booked unknowingly
from steps out ignorance's dark chasms
and into park always thought was graveyard.

Mr. Whim Met Ms. Chagrin

Ah the match made eternally
if forever was a neurotic hypochondriac goddess
who lived by the currents of the wind
and found truth in a cookie jar
filled with sugar free cookies
that moan and sob don’t eat me
because that were made by a ventriloquist baker
with a brain disorder of irrational surreal phlegm fears.

Alas true love came anyway
right on time in a bus headed in the wrong direction,
didn’t matter at all to Mr. Whim
he was chase butterflies with a shoe box
singing I’m got a lovely bunch of coconuts
while holding a hula hoop.

His collision with Ms. Chagrin
came when he fell over her sleeping body
because she was trying to find out if the soil
had any zombie seeds in the weeds,
she had just come from her therapist
with another prescription for feel good blue placebos,
which replaced the yellow ones
since she complained they gave her fruit shaped warts.

Now it all is bliss and they are living happily ever after
over at the mall under inside the information booth,
they are never on time for bill, work or operations,
but it doesn’t matter
since they hired a helper to keep their web site updated
and that makes sure they have enough income
so love means never having to say
I’m sorry for my erratic satire
it was really meant as a drama
only nobody stopped laughing long enough
to listen to the sound of clouds
when the moon was sick with the flu.

Immersed

Heart now wears
passion's crimson lace.

Reposed at yesterday's pool
where loneliness' ravens
fed upon her sorrow.

Love's lifeguard
giving swimming lessons
until immersed in joy's water
instead of tears.

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.

Oh Sweet Syrup

She smiled with a trust me curl of lips
I had no idea her words were all false,
after all she was a follower of the Lord
wouldn’t ever do a thing wrong,
so wrong didn’t include
never telling the truth,
stealing, overcharging,
falsifying documents
and a host of other “choices.”

What a snake, a venomous hypocrite
with a self-righteous syrup
to pour over all her sins
each time she said another fabrication
one more pure caustic canard,
ready to point the finger at anyone
to keep you from noticing
how she was stealing your wallet.

And when she was visited
by the state authorities
for violating the law
from using a license she didn’t own,
again her toxic tongue
just spew more disgusting words.
Can’t say the number of businesses
workers and others
who she betrayed, told false things about.

Guess she went back to the sewer where she came
hope she eats all that foul garbage she made
rots from the inside as she so deserves,
but lives for a long time
in such agony and misery
eventually being run over by a bus
left crippled and in the care
of some psychotic nurse
with a passion for abusing her.

My Little Secret

How could I ever dream
that cute round face
who came into my candy shop,
would win my heart
then take me for a marriage
beyond my imagination?

There I was Ms. Emma Enchantra,
happily making sugary jolly
for so many boys and girls,
when into my place appeared
a man named, Kris,
he had me at that twinkle in his eyes.

I have to admit when he said
that he owned a business,
no way did I envision
it being at the North Pole
and my goodness all those elves
like having so many children to parent.

Settling disputes over who took the last cookie,
listening to their complaints over cleaning reindeer stalls.
Then trying to pass around the merry,
(my own special recipe in the chocolate,
such a life saver on those long nights
when the elves get bored singing their songs.)

As for my dear hubby,
such a sweet man he is,
but so in need of a little help,
it was my idea to come up
with the naughty and nice list.

And having him put presents in stockings,
was my solution to that letter from a mother
about kids never washing socks.

Plus it was in a chat with some fairies
that I came up with that dust mix
to make the reindeer fly.

Oh I let the legend give Santa all the credit,
won’t mention those times he had flu
and I drove the sleigh,
thank goodness elves donated some beard hair
to make the fake one I wore.

Alas, Christmas is about magic
so that I always keep it going,
letting my extra help
be my little secret.

Remembrances

Heart gathering
love’s mementos,
living remembrances
in birth of your child,
mementos that always
preserve
their happiness.

Bad Company

We raced through allies in the dark
stayed out beyond midnight in the rain.
At home the words dump acid
spilled venom on your dreams,
only you felt the wind in our run
though hate with caustic lips
tried to burn it out of your heart.

How could it be otherwise
when all that was ever know
from those eyes full of rage
was to cover my wings with stains
pick any loose feathers
then complain they littered the floor?

Now shall we know the sun
once your eyes stop being closed
even while seeing the images of complaint
burned so deeply into your brain.

Come away from the graveyard of hearts,
rise and escape that tomb they made
since my flights always were viewed as rebellions,
but how often I showed you the clouds,
carried you where they said never go.

Tomorrow is ours without those spider webs
without the silky snares for your heart,
perhaps in my arms you'll still hear those sad songs,
cries that other's false wounds are meant to give guilt.

Doesn’t matter if to them I am a criminal
or they will always brand me with lies,
because once I’ve love you enough to help your soar
then as a dove you will be by rumor and lore,
as the gift my heart will have for you,
my angel, my love, my goddess and dream.

In Daze of Days

To feel the song the sun sings in shiny notes that warm the soul
in airy tones that cast their lilting spell over mind and heart
with a visual orchestra charm that lifts spirit beyond any noon's light
enables eyes to find enchantment even in the middle of the night,
hearing a flute of thought when we dare to believe notes are magic
and look at each day in daze of they symphony playing before our eyes.

Keys

Afternoon skeleton keys of inebriation
slipping on its honey through a crack
in the mind’s door to yesterdays
as a journey of signs
read on the highway in the head.

But the ride was never alone
another’s hand was also on the wheel,
got to find the arch under which to pass
on this cruise out of sobs.

Radio tuned to every ballad
that is a saddle torch song,
it never kills the feeling
of being on rewind,
yet it allows the heart to hum
and vibrate another entrance
to the living room of serenity
where the television plays
epic happy endings
out of youth’s toy chest.

Wish this road was straight
had no detours into walls,
wish there was a destination
called peace
that didn’t end up
at some fast food café,
which only sells greasy lies
leaving a bitter aftertaste inside.

Paradise On Delivery

My boss’s brain is soaked in tequila
he sometimes almost passes out at his desk,
so they put him in charge of routing our deliveries
while he sits in a room with no windows
and uses a computer program to analyze
the most efficient order for stops,
but it has never been accurate once.

Our glorious chief executive is in his eighties,
still thinks it is the seventies,
they send him on vacations a lot,
many spent in his office
since he wouldn’t know the difference.

Most of our drivers have hungry eyes
that burn with resentment
because they lost their real jobs to the economy
then forced to work for minimum wage
behind the wheel of some van
with three hundred thousand miles on the speedometer.

It doesn’t take much to push them over the edge,
so many have to rent rooms or live in motels
just to keep from being homeless.
How they suppress their anger over life,
careful to restraint that fury
ever aware they can’t afford to lose this job.

In the vast network we call our delivery system
vacant lives manage to drop off their work
dressed in those uniform shirts,
which may be the only thing they wear
not bought at a thrift store.

Our banner of inspiration speaks our motto,
“devoted to excellent customer service”
Today another bitter wounded soul
won’t show up for work as a victim of greed,
crippled by depression and overdosing on drugs
from how we gave our patrons their money’s worth
though not worried if the help survives
since there is a waiting list seeking work.

Twisted Tracks

The pre-dawn world was slumbering peacefully
outside the dreams of the impoverished neighbor,
trying so hard to hold onto their hope
in the middle such poor housing and limited employment.

No one could have imagined
hell would visit that morning
when a train derailed on the railroad tracks
that ran along the edge of the houses.

Its one car containing a very volatile chemical,
when it ran off the rail
the explosion was so incredible intense,
blowing glass out of windows a mile away.

But that gas was lethal that rose from the wreckage
only the kids coming out of their homes,
still half asleep and covered in wounds
from the shatter glass
had no idea the poison they were inhaling.

Was horrible enough between the screaming and confusion,
babies in mother’s arms crying constantly,
yet when some started choking and collapsed on the ground
they had no help arriving
since the fire trucks were racing off to the train.

In all that terrible tragedy,
life was swinging barely by a thread,
ambulances finally summon,
paramedics rushing to help,
their medical help came too late for some,
fate the sad ruler of the disaster
where one child was saved
while another died from the air.

Oh the news conveyed the details
pictures included of corpses and damaged homes,
still it couldn’t capture the pain
the stench of the vile aromas in the air
nor the agonized eyes of those paramedics
who had to watch death claim some young life
as they tried so hard to help.

No one took the picture
of the grimaced fireman carrying that dead child
or did they show the tear at the corner of his eye
it was lost in important
because the fire, smoke and ruins
were treated as more photo newsworthy to the editor.

SKYSCRAPERS

Conceit's towers carved and culled
from quarries of human bondage,
hoisted as idols to self deification.

Their crumbling corpses littering
the faces of mankind's identity,
always outliving their architects.

Clouds of mortar and steel
one thought could fly
and wrench a crown
from heaven's sky.

Mounds of profile icons
horded as medals
of glory's vain victories.

Lifted as arrogance's citadels
above the cerebral city
where one has a throne.

They are the ruins of pride
which leave their echoes
from the voices of their creators
upon the minds
who see their decaying testimony
to the toil of tarnished textures,
final pillar to vanity's affliction
left as the rectangular label,
marking the place of one's grave.

Scissors

Little snips slice deep into the mind
they create the image of cookie cutter lives
expected to always be like a paper doll,
one dimensional and so fragile,
never able to think or feel
other than by some pattern.

How those tailors only follow
the lines they want
and if some part of you
doesn’t fit inside,
it’s trimmed away without care
so you lost part of yourself
in order to appear
as they want you shaped.

Toss away the scissors they offer
I can make my own design,
one that won’t kill my identity
make it sliced, diced and in pieces.

Would that there were no cutters at all
and no blueprints for being
someone always dictated as necessary.

So sometimes we just have to dwell
beyond those razors and blades,
where we can craft who we really are
from what we see within
instead of what others view without.

Answer Machines

Oh the plethora of trite phrases
played as presumptuous recording brilliance,
seems the true sages of answer machine philosophy
are content to speak in simplest ways
providing precise point and purpose for their data.

But whoa is the ear that gets the number of some home
where the owner has to babble endlessly
using his redundant panoply of predictable prose.

Starting with the mundane and unimaginable,
“we can’t come to the phone right now.”
Like that isn’t obvious,
meaning they are too uncreative
for a thoughtful comment
or intentionally sitting their screening their calls.

Then comes the compulsory dribble
about what they are doing,
as if I really need to know or care.
Guaranteeing the longer the explanation,
the less I need the information.

Now if they think they are clever
they’ll add some other sound effects,
never once letting you know
what number you called
so you aren’t even sure
that you dialed the right number.

Meanwhile the wise
having a respect for time,
don’t pontificate their greetings,
just speak the facts without the baloney,
making it apparent
they are smart enough to talk
without showing off their damaged brain cells.

Gone with the Wind

Now Charley might have thought
Clark Gable was a god,
could recite those famous lines
like, “Frankly Scarlet, I don’t give a damn.”

But none of that
had anything to do
with his idea of “gone with the wind.”

Because he loved his beans,
loved way to many foods
that gave him
serious cases of flatulence,
which nobody appreciate less
than when he released
some really foul smelling scent
then went, “ah, gone with the wind.”

I suppose it gave him some joy
for use we just knew it was time
once he uttered those words
to find a place to hide from the odor.

And no matter how he loved to say it
just because he came from down south,
didn’t to use mean
when he let fly another nose hair curling aroma
he had the right to say,
“the south is going to rise again!”

We just eventually let him rise by himself
until he decided rising
wasn’t very good if you were lonely.

Down By The Amusement Park

Down by the amusement park
is where we first met,
but you thought I was there for thrills
when I was really lost.
So I went along on the roller coaster
only what you assumed was a face of joy
was really sickness pure and plain.

Yet for once I felt wanted,
felt a hand take mine as if we shared
all the same ideas of happiness.

Now take the tickets and used them
for I know it is all a paradise your crave
though it for me is just filled with pain.

Go and find the high you deserve
and remember me for what we dreamed
because I can’t survive in your garden of smiles
or you be able to thrive in my quiet.

It hurts to reach so hard for what you'll never have
then let go because it only causes pain
now slip away where I can’t go and we’ll both truly live.

Visions Verses Veracity

What I weight as real and true
is so often determined by the feelers
of the five senses
as they feed their information
unto the mind
and thus we know it is genuine
because of the data received.

But that is only the façade of the world
each layer that surrounds,
still inside the brain digests,
analysis and gleams for the profound
for we know there are facets and features
that lie beyond what we experience
like places we’ve never visited,
yet know exist by some means,
which our minds accept.

Ever ascending on that lattice of thought
are the rungs of insight
with each step another level in understanding.

They lead us to appreciate
there is more to life and all that thrives
than can be encountered
by the range of our senses
and that is the realm of more speculation
since it lies beyond the physical reference.

So we indulge in the assertions
each of us assessing their worth
according to our own values.

Though ultimate truth,
the absolutely undeniable veracity
is a portal through which we don’t always reach.

For it will for us depend
if we embrace issues such as life after death
where it is only understandable
any abiding factors that rule
are something we will never perceive or accept,
except as a matter of theory and conviction
until we are eventually in the domain
they cohabitate as governing elements.

Sleeping Angel

She slumbers on soft satin sheets
her silent snooze so convey such serenity
leaving me to have amnesia in the night
over the dark spell that bewitches her days,
forcing me to forget her banshee blast
when an evil wind seems to beguile her heart.

My mind retrieves those mental portraits
of days when she did have wings
flew so far by the breath of dreams
her face composed with such calm and love.

Where did it die my soul longs to know
with dire ache of longing for what was loss
somewhere she faded in her heart
suffered the decay from her tenderness
and grow like leather in her senses.

Though it rips apart my insides
to suffer the ire she now vents awake
I still cling to treasure chest of the past
carefully filled with mementoes of smiles.

Doesn’t always slay the fire
once her flame of rage is alive
totally having power over her tongue.

Yet I ever for the sake of sanity
clutch the beauty of once was
allowing it to cushion my pain
amid the sorrow soaked sunrises
she rises on black plumes.

Happiness

Blessed with the fortune of a love filled heart
I see the beauty in everything around
It never astounds me how much I'm pleased
With the world, upon my knees

The world can be a cruel dark place
But walk with a smile, and welcoming aura
You will see this confused place
Turn to happiness on every single face

If my soul should dare to rise and soar so high
over the ruins I see as a wonder full of light
then I shall always chose to gaze with eyes of joy
upon each shadow and crevice that life can employ.

For what brings bliss flows from that inner well
where you drink its nectar through all occasions
ever ready to explore each day like it was a flower
whose fragrance refreshes as a gentle spring shower.

Slipping Away

It was like losing your grip
when the relationship ended,
no big speeches or long good-byes,
silence just swallowing
any embers of friendship.

So many questions trapped in the quiet,
a bag of regrets kept under the bed,
yet what seems to last
was the constant replay of memories
and all the words that were never said,
then there swells the thoughts you had ignored,
realizing there were more resentments
lurking in the bond
than you really cared to admit.

Sometimes urged to try and make contact,
but accepting there were so many wounds
that bleed and brought pain, which you ignored,
suddenly accepting it wasn’t a true friendship,
one more connection that was an illusion
time and distance awakening the truth,
exhaling the sadness of feeling used,
inhaling the future with hope
perhaps somewhere there remains
another life you can trust,
looking ahead with more anticipation,
because deep down you still believe
there are hearts you’ll meet
who don’t have only lies in their blood.

A Parting Toast

Lush jungle foliage surrounding the village,
a complex of white buildings and tents
where people dressed in ivory garb
came and went with tranquil faces.

Gathering at their noon repast,
clusters of hundreds singing hymns
before their leader,
hiding his drug addiction
behind his dark shades
while sitting on his wooden throne.

Their ears clung to each sentence he spoke
they were for them salvation and freedom,
the epitome of life in their minds.

Then his honeyed sayings uttered that command,
pass the juice for a final parting toast,
soon they would march together,
souls on their way to glory,
one sip the cyanide drink
before they all lied down to forever sleep.

Tears streamed down parents cheeks
as they gave the lethal potent to their children,
screams of those who panicked
before trying to escape into the bushes,
gunned down mercilessly by the leader’s guards.

Afterwards they too consumed that deadly fluid,
nine hundred lives strewn in a macabre parting to life,
some faces etched in that final horror by rigor mortis
when discovered later by officials
arriving in search of missing congressman
that had been murdered earlier.

Decaying corpses under the sun
saying so long from Jonestown cult compound
leaving behind a grisly goodbye,
relatives would mourn in stunned disbelief.

Cleansed

What stains cling to the mind
as the filth of mistakes
the recriminations of voices
you trust out of dependency,
but they only wanted to scar and hurt.

Yet their woes are also from youthful times
another dreaded gem of self abuse
polished and refined it is presence
so it almost seems like treasure
in one’s perceptions that are expressed.

It is never easy to stop reliving insanity
toss aside those claws that remain
from the moments that dug at the gut
that butchered innocence and ruined dreams.

But what joy arises from the freedom
when we can finally move to the light,
which shines from inside as our own sun
sees life in ourselves without blaming others
while vowing to enjoy true liberty
and not keep being burdened
by whatever was a parent’s frailty.

True victory is not the absence of wounds
or the pride of not allowing
what came before to control your life,
rather it is the simple joy
felt by moving on and out of the range
of the ghost who once controlled each morning.