seven small finches
~

breath on windows
spelled numbers cubed

tiny parts, tiny days
the song is tired he said

~
some days it can melt you
~

the way
light falls on
the inside of your arms
as you brush your hair
creates an ache for
parts of you
i do not know

i must be inspired
you stay

~
morning's purple
~

its torn, bloodied lip
motionless

and dawn ridicules us
clouds balance out color
before storms

he predicted it,
the way seismologists can
with tremors of the earth.
he predicted she would leave
and wouldn't excuse it
or write him words to weep with,
she would simply disappear
the same way she arrived

he will drink her away,
find some small corner,
sit and face remorse
in a smudged, dirty glass
and he won't stop
until the feeling dies

or he does

and all the words
are falling
through the floor
water is seeping
into every crack
walls bulge
with wide-eyed
ideals
no matter what
you won't be back
it's ok though
i can handle that

as a matter
of fact
it wasn't you
who broke
through
for every pane
for every ache
it's all still intact

did i ever mention
the way you
affected every
little thing i did,
i do-

This empty feeling comes and it goes,
its swift and its subtle as a vine of ivy that grows.

My emotions lay bare, naked and free,
with no attempts to hide them,
their transparent like me.

An open book for anyone to read,
my thoughts splayed wide open,
for the sadistic to feed.

My story no different from ones of the past,
sometimes its tragic and sometimes I laugh.

No different from anyone, when you cut me I bleed,
afraid of my feelings, I'm afraid of my need.

hot lick of sun
rests in the freckled brace
and sharp bone
beneath moon wished flesh
swims

the green depths swallow
the discourse
jaunty pain
like the blade tip
Your fingers peirce
your words delve
wounds

shadows swirl like black
birds hungry on the carcass
death is smiling
through the sticks
tangled like love

trace words
upon my shoulder
this cascade
uncertianty binds
us

and the sky is filled
with little clouds
racing the wind

I used to know a man named Ned
from hunting years on his homestead
two hundred acres and a bit
he had inherited all of it

What fields there were were strewn with stones
as white and thick as old bleached bones
his father farmed it years ago
a hard place to make crops grow

So Ned set all the fields in pines
planting right up next to kudzu vines
which grew thick along the old field road
a dusting ground for bird and toad

The news lady speaks,
and I'm almost listening ...
but I want her focus here,
and here.

Politicians,
puppets for lobbyist with the most,
money makes the world go around,
the world go round
the world go round.

Where have all the trees gone
I wish the Library had midnight hours
Wonder if she bought cookies
Why are people so cruel

The news lady speaks of murder,
with a straight face, and a very
kissable mouth ...
and the world goes round.

Silence is uncorked…

Man we almost had it once, power I mean,
strong union men, owners heard our voices.
Sixties or seventies didn’t it almost seem,
we had a great chance a lot more choices.

This is indeed a statement political,
see I’m an angry man getting much angrier.
Forgive me, what you’ll hear isn’t analytical,
my intent, to get through your comfort barrier.

Feeding her baby
she kisses her good night
thanking the Lord for his blessings
then watches the Moon
from her cold bed
longing for the kisses of her Love

Somewhere in those stars
her knight lies prone
shorn of their love in its bud
bathing her in warmth
with his cascading light
playing on her probing fingers

She dreams of her knight
singing lullabies
stroking their baby to sleep
waking up in joy
to see her toothsie smile
teething on his medal like rings

The sun lights the darkness,
The rain cleanses the earth,
As we too make the journey,
With death there is birth.
Bitter sweet memories,
Unfinished dreams,
Incomplete promises,
Life just seems cruel and mean.
It does not matter their age,
It is hard to let go,
Knowing as you hold their hand,
No longer does energy flow.
But somewhere out there they have a purpose,
In that we must trust,
They were needed elsewhere,
Not condemned to just dust.
Maybe a new angel,
Was needed in the sky,