Category Archives: Poetry

The dead don’t hear you

The dead don’t hear you

While they lay in the grave

Their parts done

‘Til the end of days

Sometimes you call

And sometimes you cry

But the dead don’t hear you

No matter how hard you try

They’re dead and gone

So let them go

Cold and and bone

In the dark down below

Plague

And now it’s here

In rippling current

Spread in waves and moving torrent

Soft wind spreading

Slowly moving

Pollen

Pollen

Yellow

Floating

germinating

Strains

Of disaster

Breeding swollen fruits of death

By the bushel

By the basket

Breathe

Breathe

Breathe

Breed

Speechless

 

Writer’s Block, Flow, and Some Views on ‘the Muse ...

I have since been accused
Of stealing words from my muse
Thoughts and strains
Not my own
Rhythm and rhyme
Verse and poem
Stolen from the purse of a muse?
I am speechless

Crazy man Jack

Bark at the moon and bite at the sky
Moon and fire lighting your eyes
Wild at heart
Wild in body
Clothed in smoke
On the fourth of July
Concussions booming
Powder burning
Sparks flying
A dogs hearts yearning
Chasing rockets, dragons and Lions
Brown muscled beast
Born to baying
Work ‘Til dawn
Then lay down yawning
And dream the dream
Of the hunting dog tired

In Flanders Fields

By John McCrea

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Warm bread

Oh, bread of mine
So enticing
Warm yeast rising
Brown crust darkening
Tender white
And steaming hot
From the oven
Comes my desire
Waves of heat
Barely seen
Yet Still waving
Pouring off of
Fresh cut slices
There you sit
My soft warm pleasure
Hot and waiting for my butter

Fast ride

I’m riding the line
Smokin’ rubber
Squealing tires
120 in the middle of the night
As fast as I can go
Into dark curves
Seen only
By the double yellow line
I can smell the engine burning
But I can’t slow it down
Smoke
Smoke
And no fire
But I’m ridin’ the line
With no where else to go
In the middle of the night

A roadside memorial

She couldn’t touch him
Not for one moment
Dead not on the cross
But at the crossroads
Crucified on the splintered tree
Speed
Speed
Rubber
Metal and grief
And he was buried in an empty coffin
Trash
Like a beer can
And his mother
The only one who really cared
Never even got to see him

I’ll capture thy my Timothy

He cast himself against the rocks
And the waves and the cold
Ground him into sand
Yet still
As a man
He tried to stand
But the surf
The power and the fury
Of the earth
Pounded him
And pounded him
Until he could no longer stand
And slowly
Wave by wave
He was taken out to sea

Poker night

Echoes from the past

Bounced off of dim, tobacco stained walls

Make their way

Into my room

Poker chips and laughter

Clinking and choking

Just as happy

As the room full of family

It chases the darkening night

And childhood fear

Like whispering smoke

It’s breathed from the dragons ’round the table

Downing whiskey and stories

Laughing

Not knowing

But singing sweet lullabies

In the dark

Singing down the hallway

Sweet goodnight

Clara Bell

She was a child when she left

But when she returned

The man she used to know was gone

He had grown old

His bones thin

His belly fat

He still laughed

But the light in his eyes

Had grown dim

But still

She laughed along with him

And smiled at him

And pretended

That they were both

Still young

Late night music

My pen is my saxophone

Played loud and lonely

In the night

Tunes of sorrow and joy

Running like honey

Singing sweet songs

Brass and breath

Heart beat and pen

Leaving languishing notes

Trailing in the dark still of night

Cold toast

Cold toast and salted ham
Just sitting in the sun
Warm skin
And hot coffee
Bringing in the day
Soft boiled eggs,
Breakfast honey
Suckled like morning dew
Brown beast,
Muscled madness
Laying at my feet
Just waiting
Perhaps
For breakfast in the sun

The drunken pen (Version 1)

Why do you lie

While I sleep?

Telling things

That I should keep

Oh, Drunken pen

Trailing ink

Telling stories while I drink

Where are you

When I wake?

Gone, gone

But the ink

Just the ink

On paper traced

nothing left

But stories, Stories,

To be told

In the dark

Never, ever to be shown

in the light of day

But drunken pen

Why do you,

Yet sober stay

So far and  far away?

Voting day

Raven Standing on a Gallows with a Swinging Noose on a ...

You have lied and betrayed

To get your way

You sit in power

And still get paid

But there are footsteps

Marching

Beat by beat

This time

On a different street

And they are coming

Coming for you

To cast their vote

Around your throat

On the wind

And in the sky
Floats all the breath
Of every man who has ever lived
Or ever died
Pasted onto the pale blue wind
Sometimes raining
Sometimes shading
But always and forever there

My muse shanked me

I wouldn’t write
Not a word, Nay one
Until she caught me in the corridor
A dark hallway for sure
And put her blade to me
Sharp and cold
To the hilt
One push
One twist
To make me feel the pain
So now
And only now
Do I sing

 

(With a nod to SGT. M)

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the moldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the moldering Past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.

D-Day of love

And all that time
And all that love
In the end
Came to mean nothing
And the dreams of the young
Oh, those passions
Died on the beaches
Shot down storming life
Killed as surely as any man
Put to their end
And they bled out
All that they had
Tattooing the sand
With all their crimson hopes
Until the next tide
Erased them all
In shifting colored eddies
And washed them out to sea
To be gone forever

Shades of Amber

I’m hoping that she lives now in the green pasture
That’s nestled into the curve of the forest
Outside of the dappled dewy shade
And hued moistness
The blue sky running like water above
And the lazy trickling creek running it’s course below
All the red clay gone
Cut through to shale and rock
By the water that cares nothing but to run
I hope that she has a place here
A place in the meadow in the Sun
A place to be warm
After all the cold she had in life