Out in the cold

The numbness of my toes gives my bladder an unknown urgency
and whenever it snows, there's an annoying old ache
in the joints of my knee.
I gotta go, I gotta go, creating designs in the soft white snow.

I shake hands with my armpits and give myself a hug
while dreaming of down comforting
in a cottage nice and snug.
Steaming hot cocoa would be much better to greet
than the steam I find rising down there by my feet
But I had to go, had to go, making dents in yellow snow.

My zipper might stick but as long as the prickling
sensation leaves my fingertips,
Oh, how I will be content raising those spirits to my lips.

It seems like miles to go before I'm home,
back from the track nature called me to roam.
Following the trail of a carriage
out passe a snowy field.
Here, they've gone a bit deeper.
I wish I had seen the man yield
As he gazed out upon this frosty scene.
To climb up in his cab would've been so serene.
Oh, how grand to sit in his place
away from the witch's tit against my face.
In a comfy chair by a fire, falling fast asleep
But there are so many miles and the snow is so deep.

Too busy at business to hitch a ride,
because of the call of nature
I was left by the road side.

Death by Anticipation

It's night. I wanna write. It's right to write at night.
-Now, your teachers, your degreed personnel,
will tell you that's not poetry.
The degreed have decreed what we read
in regards to poesy.
They don't even teach that word anymore! -poesy.

It's three a.m. - Rob Thomas says I must be lonely.
I wanna smoke and I want a Coke
and I want someone here to share this with me.
I want someone here as a friend.
I want someone to hear me and to know they're listening again.

Are you that someone?
You are, aren't you. You are just like me.
A little scared, alot alone,
...and maybe just a little horny.
By god! - the teachers shout - That's not poetry!

Then what is?
...Can you hear the crickets chirping?
Silence all around because
...because the answer can't be found.
-And I smile and down another Pixie Stix.
I'll try my best not to preach.
Don't do drugs. Don't drink.
I agree... but don't think?
I have too much learning left to teach.

I guess this could be "An Ode to An Insomniac", part two.
...but it's not the nightowls I'm talking to - it's you.
You're in there and you don't even know it.
You have a life to share but sure don't know how to show it.
You're waiting for something.

-Am I right?
Are you gonna look up from your reading and think
...I'm right tonight?
You're not into poetry because
...well, frankly dear Scarlet, because it doesn't make much sense.
Society is walled and enjoyment only comes
for the other side of a privacy fence.
You'd read it if it sounded cool.
-If you didn't have to decipher it and in the process blow your brain.
You'd like to read it if it liked to be read
but all you read in class is real mundane.
Except Poe, he's cool.
A little Dickenson and Plath.
...We could all use a little Dickenson now and then
just as we could use Calgon in our bath.
Take me away!

Plath killed herself- so misunderstood,
but somehow ... you could relate.
The degreed don't see it's scary to you and me
that we could wind up with a similar fate.
...that sometimes we feel
we're getting close to it's too late.

It's three a.m. - it is too late.
This is my third cigarette in a matter of pages.
Of course, this is handwritten and longer
and may never be reviewed by those all-knowing sages.
Too simplistic. Too unrefined.
That's life! Listen... just once, listen.
The poetry is there - and not just at the end of the line.
It's in degreed and decreed and read and regards and word and anymore.
It's in so many areas we haven't been trained to look.
In the hard d's and double b's and the repetition
...the repetition is the hook.

Hang yourself on it and free yourself from the stagnant ground.
Understand- you're enjoying this!
For once, you're enjoying poetry
...who cares if it's because you like the sound.
You're reading it, aren't you?
...and you're still waiting.

Waiting for what? What's the writer's point?
What's the poet really trying to say?
Why is "Death by Anticipation" such an appropriate title?
Why did he end the last stanza unrhymed that way?

I'll tell you why
...but you already know you feel it.
Not- you already feel you know it
- You already know you feel it!
...that's the second time I could have ended the rhyme
and used the word shit.
Just for fun, for s and g, but I didn't do it.
I want this taken seriously.
(Can you find the rhyme on the first time?)

Enough! No more prolonging what we came here to do.
- We came here to wait.
But you felt that, didn't you?
You knew you felt it and you suffered through.
In my smoke-induced haze
-with a common speech and phrase.
In all my morning glory
-with the nightowls hooting my story.
I feel I should end the next line or two
..."with a demon in my view."
Edgar Allan Poe's "Alone".
Discuss that last stanza in class.
And discuss discuss and last and stanza
And discuss last and stanza and class
And when the candied apple fun is done, kiss
...that last verse goodbye.

Because I did not come here to moan and cry.
I did not come here with a plank in my eye.
-Alert! A Bible verse! This ranting just gets worse.
I did not come to preach or teach.
I just needed somewhere and someone to reach.
I hope I touched you
...in that way that makes us giggle and unable to say.
S and g, that's what it's about
- but not in its entirety.
You feel it, I feel it, we felt it before.
...we won't touch it for sake of propriety.

They say don't rock the boat, especially if you're in it.
You may get a little wet.
...but you want to get a little wet, don't you?
We all want to get a little wet at some point, at some time.
We'd like to get wet in a reading.
We'd like to get wet in a rhyme.
-Hell, I feel like jumping in a lake and leaving the canoe behind!
...and it and wet and get get get
and you and canoe and time and rhyme.

I am now out of Coke and hoarse from smoke.
- which is the most awful habit, avoid it if you can.
I am still alone but feeling better.
Much more refreshed - and so ever much wetter.
Still a poet. Still a man.

My point - if it ever did exist,
was on the last time I could remember being kissed.
- That was not for rhyme, I had my reasons.
Behind my ever flavorful view, I stewed in my seasons.
...I wait for that moment again.
I want to want a lover -but only if she is a friend.
I want there to be meaning. Iwant there to be history.
I want to pace like a tiger and her like a tigress
until I come to her... and her to me.
I want to lick my lips and feel ravenous
...and hold back from the pounce.
I want her to hold back and feel just as trussed
...and give her want, ounce by ounce.
I want to breathe deep and scared and excited
until my lungs almost burst.
And I want her
...I want her to help me hold on and wait
until she's ready to pounce first.

And I want you to see the view
from the smokey windows of my Pixie Stix soul.
And I want your her to be a tigress,
to pace with you, all-hearted and whole.
...And in that moment, enjoy it while it lasts
-but don't pounce too soon. Lest you forget
and are one day reminded of the last time
you kissed and missed the waiting
...so wait for it.

The Last Tea Party

A chaotic kaleidoscope of color ... signalling hope.
There is a withering change in the weather.
A party jacket worn, threads frayed and torn... now, beaten to a tether.
The tea cups are empty. The coffee cakes are gone.
A sigh settles upon the fallen leaves on the lawn.
The tea party is closing down.
The partygoers are heading back to town.
The Mad Hatter, who wears a frown, mourns the coming of the last tea party.

All chairs of the banquet are empty ... save one.
A shadow blankets the scene, brooding over all like the sun.
Sublime, melancholy but calm is the dormouse asleep in his palm.
Troubled dreams of a broken crown swim around an ebon head.
One undone by so much as a frown that took the Cheshire's stead.
A tablecloth covered in crumb. The fiction of a figure numb.
The March Hare, speechless, left remaining dumb.
And the tears that fill the teapot short and stout
rain upon a quivering smile in doubt.
The lid closes on what the day has done as revelers disperse like shadows without sun.
All is quiet ... save the lone, sad one
who whispers,
"The last of the tea parties, adventure and wisdom spun.
We may be mad indeed ... but we sure had fun."

Halloween '09

It's the creak on the floor just after ten.
Although the door is locked, check it again.
The dog just barked at something outside.
Should you check it out...or stay in and hide?
Because something wicked might come this way
And through the tears and fears, you start to pray.
In all this world, all the things I've seen,
I just don't believe in Halloween.
Did you hear that?...Or is it imagination?
Do you look down the hall with fear and trepidation?
Or stay in bed, covers up to your chin?
If you close your eyes, will they open again?
Are they in the closet...or under the bed?
Though you quiver and shiver, you shake your head.
In all this world, all the things I've seen,
I don't want to believe in Halloween.
All the ghouls, all the ghosties, all the things in the night
That crawl down the hall to fill you with fright,
That slide by your side and slither through your dreams.
Will anyone help you or hear your screams?
Because something wicked is coming - BE AFRAID!
There's more to it than your mind has made.
And it haunts and taunts you without going away.
Until it hears your fear when you finall say,
In all the world, all the things I've seen,
And I still believe in Halloween!

In a heart of love

In concentration, never falter
and your aim shall be your goal.
In love, never alter
the parts that together make you whole.
In wisdom, never question
the truth so honestly told.
For it is one of the last bastions
in a world where hearts were bold.
In feeling, never forget to remember
the compassion of another's touch.
That even the last remaining ember
Can fuel a fire if given as much.
In words, never speak the ones
that are meant to be taken back.
In fathers, mothers, daughters, and sons,
never be the ones keeping track.
In life, live every minute,
never fill your future with regret.
In time, give all that's in in it,
never letting a memory forget.
In a moment, put down these words
and share the stories you're dreaming of.
Never leave what you've heard
unspoken in a heart of love.

A pebble in the ocean

(with inspiration from Michael J. Fox)

Plip!
And there it goes again.
With a polite gesture to a stranger
Or a kind word for a friend.
One pebble of hope is placed
In an ocean of disbelief.
But then again, a single coral was all it took
To begin to build the Barrier Reef.
So I make my wish and cast my stone
Into the dark and deep.
And pray I'm not all alone
With the hope of a promise to keep.
This hope is why we love thy neighbor.
It's why we do anything.
An act of faith, looking forward
On what tomorrow may bring.
No single one of us truly knows
Which pebble causes the wave to crest
But we give a little every day
And try our very best.
It's why we're here- without a doubt.
Belief that opinion made fact.
Love for our Lord above and a promise of hope.
It is faith and its final act.
Culminating in a tidal wave,
A natural cresting force of emotion.
That washes over all mankind
And starts from a simple pebble in the ocean.
Plip.

Graduation '93

Change is a constant force
that happens every day.
From those of us who've just arrived,
to those that fade away.
In our lives- and only once
will there come a certain time:
The day that will change our worlds
and for which I've composed this rhyme.
When that fateful day comes,
there will be a few
Who will try to fight this change
and we will have to say, "Adieu."
For life will not wait,
change will not delay.
Time will pass those by
who attempt to stay.
While the rest of us walk on
and life begins anew.
As we face good times and tragedies
and problems as they brew.
From the well of wisdom, we'll look back
-far back upon today.
Wondering how we made it through
-ever living through the fray.
Until that future day arrives,
we must patiently wait.
For now, let us rejoice in why we are here:
Let us graduate.

I paint the sink

They say I'm not the man I was
And this is said with ne'er a blink.
I did not settle- but no man does.
Here, I paint the sink.
I dry wash the drywall in the morning.
I try this while drinking toast.
And then I set about adorning
The walls with portraits of a ghost.
They say I've gone from bad to worse,
That I'm standing on the brink.
Damning my blessings with a curse.
All the while, I smile and paint the sink.
I disengage the plumbing
And stop to smell the rain.
I relax because the work is numbing
Only half of my brain.
They say I must come back to them
But that is not what they truly think.
Rather, to disconnect the brain stem
That let's me paint the sink.
When they come to visit and sit,
Most just look around and frown.
No furniture?!--They almost shit
...Ah! But the plumbing is shut down.
They say I have lost my gourd
And I smile with a nod and a wink.
----For my armor has no chink.
In this lowly castle, the last is lord
And here, I paint the sink.
Without furnishing, they all are floored
For it is I who paints the sink.

Residents of Jericho

Those who believe in romance
have passed on or moved away.
Everybody speaks without being heard
'cause there's nothing left for us to say.
The last shining knight laid down his sword,
left his post an empty grave.
The silence around here is so absurd
and so loud it breaks his heart.
Love broken by not a word,
dreams and memories torn apart.
A voice in the wilderness cries out to us
but we're busy and so pay it no heed.
We're so into our own selves that
we can't see others in need.
And we complain of how it all went wrong
without seeing our own damn greed.
These are the walls in Jericho where we reside.
These tall walls in Jericho can't help us hide.
Built around our hearts and souls by greed and foolish pride.
And they won't be tumbled down.

The poets have since put down their pens,
picked up their homes and moved on.
Wishing they could return again
and write about a glorious dawn.
Where we are seen once more dreaming
and all the walls are gone.
These walls in Jericho that block us from the Son.
The stupide walls in Jericho surrounding everyone.
Sometimes I wish I had the strength myself
to knock them down and let you in.
So we can believe in love again.

The bells of salvation

I could hear the bells of salvation,
ringing in my ears.
Then, Jesus came to me
on a great, white stallion.
Finally, Guido brought me my lunch.
Boy was I hungry.

Grandma

I always made sure I held her hand, Whenever we crossed the street.
She'd buy me ice cream from the ice cream man. ...I always thought that was neat.
She had dinner with us on Sunday. I stayed at her house through the summer.
She was the greatest of grandmas and man, I sure did love her.
And she said Grandpa was my guardian angel
And he was watchin' over me.
She talked to him when she would pray at night.
She said I was their favorite memory.
She was with me through my growing years. And at my graduation.
She chipped in to buy me a car For the grand occassion.
And I drove her to the beach that summer, So that she could see the ocean.
I said I bet Grandpa would've loved that. As she smiled to her grandson,
She said Grandpa was my guardian angel.
He was always with me.
And I could talk to him when I would pray at night.
Oh, we had such great memories.
She was laid to rest beside him. Last year, in the spring.
And I couldn't help but cry, When the choir began to sing.
I talk to her in prayer And send her all my love.
'Cause I know she and Grandpa are up there, Watchin' from above.
Yeah, now I've two guardian angels
Who are watchin' over me.
I feel their love when I lay down at night
And I'll always keep her in my memories.
Yeah, I'll always keep her in my memories.

Buh...buh...buh

Being enigmatic isn't very pragmatic
But the oddity in itself is a little fun
Bringing a trace of question on a face
By what you've said, worn, or done
Belies the mischevious, rebellious heart
Beneath that calm and common visere
Budding with a mind unlike any kind
Brilliance rarely found around here
But before you go showing
Benevolence to the throng
Before you even begin to show knowing
Believe the rest of them all are wrong
Begin with a vacant thought
Bordering on no thought at all
Braid in a bead of uncertainty
By slowing the process to a crawl
Beckon answers to questions unheard
Brave the learned's stern looks
Battle the incessant prattle
Barter with the starter of the books
Be prepared for exasperation
Blank faces that don't understand
Bribe them with an education
Blocked by ignorance and banned
Band together as a group
Be of like mind and show
Borrowers nor lenders be
Because both have something to owe
Bone up on your studies
Bed down and get your rest
Brilliance is the water that never muddies
But is always put to the test
Believe you can accomplish anything
Because anything can truly be done
By the writer who reached a little higher
But still had lots of fun

Incarnate

In a dream of eldritch fire
By an id Across the sea
Clammy hands of desire
Conform to calamity
I swam in delicatessens and angels
I frothed On hard knock shores
Toured nine circled hells
Weathered threefold wars
Came back A pompous blind man
Lectured like Socrates
Died a Doric also-ran
Morals around my knees
Fared better In boomtown
Drank from chaliced gourd
Defamed for defrocking royalty's crown
By waking with the whored
I slept In fit Dis-eased attire
I catered to no one domain
I dremt about a fire
Swam and sank in vain

And I

, in as much as I fear death,climb the stairs with bated breath.
My goal- the shawl for my grandmother's shoulders
which sits upon her bedpost as she grows colder.
And I delay- not to play with Elizabeth
-but in fear of what draws near as she becomes ever so much older.

, in my masculine procrastination,
fumble and stumble with each chill sensation.
For what waits for me in that room
plays with the praise of impending doom.
And I falter with fear and trepidation,
crossing the threshold into creeping gloom.

, taken aback by the scent of flower,
find no form of conviction or power.
Merely the item which I seek
surrounded by a room best described as antique.
And I have no time to marvel, for I know the hour
lying far beyond the picture that forces my orbs to leak.

, in a fluster to flee that photograph,
rush downstairs to her chair and carafe.
Where I pour for her juice, so orange and so sunny,
it reminds her of the faces I made that were funny.
And I dwell on the thought of a coming epitaph
while listening to the history of my dear Grandma Bunny.