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When the earth is gone
When The Earth Is Gone.
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INVISIBLE INK NIGHT
Sitting in the dark of night
floor lamp glowing near my shoulder
pen is poised prepared to write.
Time tics...night just gets older.
Ideas flit through empty head.
I've written of them all before
deepwoods dawn, an old homestead,
spring time chores, recluse's door.
Lined pages refuse to fill
and stare back at my tired eyes
while my pen hand remains still.
"Inspire me!" my muse cries.
Much Love
There've many moons
since the founding of the world.
Myriad of stars seen by eyes
like sands under the sea.
People loved, wrote poetry then killed
since Adam and Eve produced
a fruit called Cain.
T H R E D O R I G I N Z
Pockets of shadows
the light spills in from the hair
straying
the shadow
where dark pupils on grandiose iris
beauty lurks
like lush orifices of intellectual
fires twinkling at the twilight violet of
dusk
magic wonderlands
from a harsh chain link
desire
a hand upon
the denim pocket
the other on the
handlebars of a dream
worn boots
tired shoes
like souls
worked smooth
via vie the wind
and rain
portions of the allusion
and allegory
of every angry
Conflict
Conversation off-keyed
by misinterpretation.
Take a bow and leave
or stay, crushed
by accusing words
that give birth
to more frustration.
Is there any question
where lies my choice be?
THE ROSE
THE ROSE
the petals cling to the Rose
as one by one they fall
pale is the color of red.
languid the kiss
lost the velvet touch
sad is the fading bliss
Day and Night
The unrequited yearning
Aching with burning
As days abound keep turning
It twists into deepened hurting
Becomes fruitful in its wording
And with celestial flirting
Develops dreams that are vivid
Lustful, sweet and livid
In this bounty you prove driven
As I cry all is forgiven
Even with my entity slightly riven
I accept what is given
The World on a String
Stop the earth and please
let me off.
There is a fine line
between lunacy and
brilliance;
between sanity, serenity and the
ability
to change the world.
COUNTRY CLUB
Wide watching green eyes dart around
a child among those getting grey with age.
At last allowed inside this club,
a first turning of my young life's page.
Sitting silent on a splintered bench
on a chill November day.
Father, uncle, older cousins,
brother, most now have their say.
The air is thick with drifting smoke,
hand rolled cigarettes, pot bellied stove,
but thicker with camaraderie
as the men tell tales, a treasure trove.
Voice of Rage
Sitting on the throne,
spitting on truth, spreading lies!
There's treachery he choose to hone,
under the cloak of disguise?
Shamelessly, he steals
from the people
who yield their trust to him
and uplift him before the world?
When even the poor are slapped with taxes
with such disregard to their needs,
his dignity is a mockery, presented in tatters
by an overwhelming greed!