They all heard the scream, ‘Someone’s murdered the butler
(or, if he’s not dead, he’s a really good actor.’)
So started my story, I just blindly wrote....
then fingers stopped moving, lump stuck in my throat
and stunned me to silence. The butler was dead;
slaughtered most foully alone in his bed.
Of such a weird crime, have ever you heard?

‘Tis the valet that’s seen as first suspect - absurd
that he be done in at the start of the show.
What now’s there to do, where can this tale go?

Two worlds within walls
once large forboding
not lost like now

coffee from the jar
the hands shake
and no words
part air
soft curses
fear

no mentions

a television
throwing out the
mill of sound

a spoons clatter
in the sink
and the glow
of flourscent
from the kitchen
counter light

slept days
nights
waking
and back to
the depths
snow outside
the window
the wind
in the trees
like a dream

one metrosexual
and one real snag
standing on the corner
huffin’ on a fag
one says bitch
and the other says ho
blown is the cover
of the snag metro

There used to be a girl who's smile was real
She felt the way that you are supposed to feel
She was filled with happiness and no hatred
But soon the ugly feelings escalated
She no longer smiled or even tried
All that she could do was hurt and cry
She never wore a sweater
Except in inclement weather
She used the sharpener for pencils
It wasn't, then, her favorite utensil
I miss the way that beautiful girl used to be
I miss her so much because that girl...was me

Changing Times

Suitable placards are not to be found
carried by those who protest
Hippie and Flower Child far underground
no longer aiding the quest

militant factions now cry their demands
while terrorists lurk in the wings
neither are certain who really commands
but both have formidable stings

the world that we live in has ample to share
with plenty to eat, drink, sample and wear
but poor are still needy
‘cos people are greedy
oh shame, to be selfish with ample to spare

original

I sit with him because he has no family
No-one should ever have to die alone
I hold his hand, perhaps to comfort me
He searches for his own direction Home

Both wife and children left this world before him
He stayed around for years with loved ones gone
and felt the bars of livings’ harsher prison
in what to him, each day, seemed like an aeon