devils lament

so today you stand before me
so very guilty of your crime
you loved and were so innocent
time and again you wont repent
time again i have to try you
the sentence always is the same
to be drunk dry by the ageing
vampire who shuffles slowly by
eyes dim as misty time itself

drinks in gurgles careful not to
kill you only leave you stumbling
weak so you cannot strive again
so your innocence is not your
fault so i can take from you what
you wont abandon your strength is
offensive in extreme so it
will be sucked away and your love
can be taken from you without
your giving

in the end too weak to rise
vampire sadly close your eyes

caesura

spring fall lurch
together
on a day
that’s neither
but feels like
both

solemn is
hollowness
in the yard
with proud moms
and pops

drunken red
nosed stumbling
around the
children who
slide and run
while uncle
barely can
walk

rain puddles
filled only
yesterday
tiny new
swaddled tight
dreaming what
they heard in
mommas womb
wondering
what is this
dry and new
world so

Materialization

How to say those things
which we have in our minds
that this is the season of change
and it is our lives
and no matter what we do
this today which seems so familiar
is really a slightly different
tomorrow which we dream of
or dread
the breath that is the breeze
is scuttling bits of paper
across the ground and we
follow them looking for some
larger meaning analyzing the broken
stick with the white grip like end
that was Excalibur in a better
moment but is now just
part of the morning trash
that swells the ground around
popular places like the little summer
house that is romantic in the dark
but rusting metal and empty bottles
sullen dregs in the dawn
and assures us that all is
exactly not what it isnt
and very not really as
it appears

nice hat teardrop

he is trusting the shadow
that it will not hold him back
so natural bright will burn
lazy sleep that will make
shadow itself incandesce
and expel him from its
womb of death which plays
toy like with the brighter
dream and lures him down
like a beaten man into
numbness

the sleep that comes to weary
souls even they are only
weary of their own uselessness
and comforted they sleep through
workless days and nights
or become so busy with
dangerous doings of no
meaning that swallow all time
and effort which they talk
endlessly, complaining about their
troubles and hardships which
they have done to themselves
or possible chance that they
might be done harm or that it
could happen to someone they
say they know

gobbling time with wasted
breath which was sour from
within and possibly just
needed to escape they grapple
for control or to try and
trouble others for they
think this gives satisfaction
without the trouble of
meaning to lives
wasted on useless pride
which giving opportunity
draws no benefit which it
only could if they ever saw
something besides their small
and useless selves

and knew a larger picture in which
the train arrives and people
move about doing something
or nothing and somewhere somehow
there is a word to add that makes
it light or draws a picture hat better
than the one they are wearing or
could ever buy or dream of
in little lives that try for the
nothing they achieve

but to try is tiring and
the question is always there
burning like a black hole in empty
being the same empty he is trying to fill
but to stop trying is to
fall in line and fall asleep
doing that joyless dance at the
Zombie jamboree
and therefore not to try is
to loose all hope of any joy

thoughts

Whats there to
think about, a
lifetime of
victories and
mistakes
hangs suspended
in air like
a tortured prisoner
and all that
wasted time
spent fighting
boredom
is the fire
under his feet

I will not
quietly
succumb
to that whichs
like all else
just because
thats whats done

God save us
from drowning
ourselves in this
pool we pour
full of
mediocrity

change the sheets
in this
bed of life

Torture
metaphors
squeeze
similes
shave
phrases
for every
drop that
heals this
dull sentence with
enervating thought

Thanks Gulnaz!

This is what Gulnaz gave to me and I gave her all that I got. Now I give it to you! Visit Apple Pathways and enjoy!

The quality of color

There is a green that
smells like rain clear air,
that puts shoes
on my feet and
takes them off,
it calls to me
from the mountains
in the earliest
days of summer.

quarter time hymn

and in the new lit dawn
you shall enter
the glorious
spreading out
anesthetized cities
sleepy with dull electric light
left on like an afterthought
of the tomorrow and the
today that we are
already forgetting
as you have
written your poems
and stories to
tell again and
anew against
empty coffee
cups and large
salons where you are
comfortable strangers
on the collective
loose

to tell of
things which
we all can
see if you
look at us
in the stark light of
morning past the
dawn that tells of
you and always
has
for you are poets
story tellers
and fools who
have night for
dinner and
dawn for
lunch with
humble biscuit for
that is
your part in
dirty city
trash collection
doubtful
hopeful
dawn

where you
stumble to
crash in the
trash dumps
where we wont come
because it
isnt done like
a mountain busicuit
or pot of rice
still hard
still you are
dark and
frightening in
our view
because you
have thought
something frightening
about us
and you
and tomorrow
which is far scarier
for it is our
kids for which
we tolerate
today

with patience
behoved of God
for you know
no such
form with
our fast
flying bullets
against slow
porch swings
self hate
slow kid things
that pace our lives but
tell us nothing
which is all they know
for tomorrow is a
duck
too late
im shot
song

it is here and
its gone
and you
were there
hot tears
like candle drips
singing this
first light
late night
song
and we
were in
your arms

Uncountable You

Every poem is a mirror
That takes you where
You’ve always been
In ways you sometimes
Don’t expect

The glass can show
Like riding on the
Bus and looking
As the city passes
Seeing things you
Know are there
Telling you you’re
Going home

Not lost but
Traveling.