Sunday, January 31, 2010


Sensuality and sinister foreboding-
sensations, almost audible
through bone and blood.

Cracking and creaking,
each rib snapping into a new position
protecting and steadily compressing
that which lays inside.

Amidst all the real and imagined horror
the beating thing and it's metaphorical spot
in your mind
hurt more than bone splintering
and flesh peeling-

they call it the blues
they call it loss
they call it heartbreak.

No riff from scarred hands
can wipe away the cold sweat
that washes over in the middle
of a hot, summers night.

Sitting in a dirty, humid kitchen
knuckles white, gripping a cool glass
of foggy lemonade
swallowing greedily ice an all
deep into your soul
but only citrus steam forms
on the back of your eyeballs.

It's not for you to cure
or fight off-

close your eyes

let the deathly hands of grief
drag you into the wave
out with the tide

That same beating thing
protected by shattered bone
and raw flesh
will bring you back to dry land-


Thursday, January 28, 2010


Protest songs, ill-defined
implying cadences uttered by the swaying and swelling
of angry crowds shouted till cords are raw,
screaming a desire for
sudden change
at all costs.

Guitars were picked and harmonica blown
to massage messages into the minds
of those that turned a deaf ear
when the issues were forced.

Banjoes and tambourines,
mandolins and steel guitars,
silenced by a black listing
when lyrics delved too deeply-
Un-American to question another man's
misguided crusade;
to admit defeat.

Three voices of change
cast away into a void of thick air
pure, country music, questioned
for being against the murder of innocent
and the recall of loved ones-
to come home.

A single tear brought on by an echoing chord
a flash of resent from a nerve strummed
and the hardest men given away
as their feet began to tap

A suggestion is put forward
a nudge in the right direction, to
please look up, into the burning sky
at the hard rain looming

Truths only noticed by the ones looking;
wars that cannot be won,
marches that need to be ended.
We will bring them home,
we will further question our readiness to fight
another mans war.

We will stand with eyes closed,
listening in the pouring rain,
for answers-

blowing in the wind.

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

Good Morning

Sharing a bed-
kids have it right;
we mucked it up.

Friendship and support,
linen forts and secret missions.

Nothing felt better than laughing,
sometimes crying;
camped out in a circle of three,
hoarding cards and ice cream.

Walks of shame were never there in the morning;
only the slip-sliding of socked feet
racing to the kitchen-

mom was making waffles.

Feelings wouldn't change when the sun came
even if you woke someone up
with a pillow to the kisser.

We adults have it wrong-
the companionship is gone;
replaced with pomp and circumstance,
lust and primeval passion.

There's no room for the dog
and the morning coffee outweighs a morning kiss.

How does it all get better?
How do we reclaim the days of innocence?
You don't, you make due-

so skip the coffee;
go for the kiss
and make waffles.

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

The Failure of Senses

The latch is broken, the window is never clear
but I can see beyond the hazy glass.

I see what it is and what it could be;
what I used to think I needed.

There is a figure there, near the glass
its breath rising and falling on the pane.
I want to write messages of love and joy,
hearts and initials in the condensation;
but the figure moves off again.

I place my hand against the cool surface
my forehead resting beside it.

My eyes are sore, tired of straining to see past the fog;

for a moment,
I feel the warmth of another hand
and I look up to see the figure
reaching out, its hand pressed against the outline of mine.

So near.

I think there is a heart warming that hand
and a consciousness placing it there
but something in me is still wary;

could this thing
be the work of a candle's flickering light?

casting shadows?
forming false hopes?

Monday, January 4, 2010

Eastern Shore

Hands slipping from cotton and leather
sliding along old knotted wood
creaking in the breeze.

The ocean stands in the distance
grey, impending, but oddly silent;
its violent waves falling on deaf shores.

The seabirds are little more than kites, hanging there above;
even their fluttering feathers and open beaks
lack their usual light hearted revelry.

This happy place is now more like a fortress, perched on the edge of the world
and I am small, standing at its gates
the cold air stinging my narrowed eyes,
and the water beginning to lap at my feet.

An Old Key Turning in a Wooden Door.

Strange happiness-
content with the absence of sadness,
the obliteration of memories' touch;

The celebration of a vacant spot within-
a newly hollowed space,
not-so-ready to be filled.

They say you look better,
gaining back color, tone.
Your eyes are brightening-
this is a good thing;

Moving mentalities
shifting cargo to and from different trains of thought
gaining steam towards an abstract destination;
the strange happiness,
now based
on blind faith.

This is all foolish,
but most things are.

The horizon will make it's way to your feet,
your color will settle over time
and your mentality
will hop
its last freight.

Life moves with no help.