A Tyger's Talu

Florescent leaves fall from the trees,
landing by your sanctuary.
A color clutter within the gutter
to disperse when you are wary.
Monotonous tones begin their moans,
a tyrannical wind blows through.
You- left sane- seem mundane
and so we say adieu.
Intolerable life brings forth strife,
for immortality is eternal.
And all the while, we reconcile
to watch an unpopped kernel.
Within the sea- fascimile-
this autumn charade is dead.
Your elixir of youth is now abused,
as the wily tyger is fed.
Beguile the lies with alibis-
a sanctimonious day!
The myriad hue all for you
in a forum of naivete.
And so, we're through. This old talu-
a play with imagery.
"The maelstrom is dead," the tyger said.
"This is poetry."

Lip Print

It's not the color your lip print makes
but the creases in between.
It's not the pain our love forsakes,
it's that it's never seen.
It's not your sweat against my skin
but the rancid taste of salt.
It's not the fact of where we've been,
it's that it's all my fault.
Problems can be solved, if given a little time
But when love's dissolved, life's filled with filthy brine.

It's not the passing of your scent, drifting in the air
but of the love we relent with every lonesome stare.
It's not the care in your hands, combing through my hair
but in your heart when love stands without a flick or flare.
Passion will return to core when you absolve that I am not your problem to solve.

It's not the heat from your cheek, pressed against my chest
but from your form, small, weak, giving life its best.
It's not the tingle in your spine as your form convulses slightly
but in your soul when we align and lay in comfort nightly.
It's not your nails, color-coated
but the marks they leave behind.
It's not the ego, fully bloated,
it's that it's fed too kind.
It's not the hatred when you mock
but the humor in your voice.
It's not a preference, and here's the shock,
it's that it's not a choice.
Read between the lines, unshade the yellow tint.
Look close and one finds truth within a lip print.

Coffe and Conversation

I entered an old, worn out diner
on an empty piece of road.
There was no neon to light my way,
no signage on where to go.
I just stepped out of life for a while,
hopin' to unburden my load.

I walked up to the counter
and took the package from my hand.
I propped my guitar against the next stool
and left it there to stand.
Although the scenery seemed so familiar,
I'd never been to this land.

The waitress saw me, poured a cup of coffee,
laid a cheap plastic menu by my cup.
Then she said to me, "Hon, what'll it be?
Somethin' to sip? Somethin' to sup?"
In reply, I started to cry
and told her this without lookin' up.

I've been everywhere.
Yet I still continue to roam.
Never found someone to care
that I could call my own.
I don't need alot from you now,
pretty soon I'll be gone.
Give me some coffee, conversation,
and this care package from home.

Before we knew, the coffee was through
and we knew more about our lives.
What it would mean to be serene
like good husbands and wives.
But through it all, everyone falls
and the pain cuts like a thousand knives.
So you keep makin' the coffee
and I'll keep playin' the dives.

She asked me had I ever opened the package.
I shook my head and said, "Nope."
It's still in its original wrappings
and tied with its original rope.
It's the thought that holds me together,
the idea that allows me to cope.
Like the thought of our lives of husbands and wives,
This package holds all my hope.

'Cause I've travelled everywhere man
and still continue to roam.
Always lookin' for someone to care
that I can call my own.
But I'm never in one place too long.
Turn around and I'll be gone.
For now, I'll stick to the coffee, conversation,
and this old care package from home.
Just give me some coffee, conversation,
and the hope in this package from home.

When I fall into sleep

When I fall into sleep
and slowly dream of you,
I enter upon a reality
where life is always blue.
When the iron curtains fall
and the sights of life disperse,
I enter a truer realm of life
where dreams are but a curse.
Imagery becomes reality. Thoughts become true life.
And I walk among the scenery of mind, my loving wife.

But when the night grows old,
when morning begins to sigh,
I again must face a death
and enter a lovely lie.
For life is but an ugly dream
and thoughts are never cheap.
So I pay my fee every night
when I fall into sleep.

The Slippery Side

Religion is a snake in the fog.
Salvation with a sting.
When one is bit by the hair of the dog,
Comfort rides on tragedy's wing.
Philosophy is cantankerous pain.
Rain on the windows of the soul.
Grooves on the face of time remain,
Reminding one what once was whole.
Venom courses to an anger attack.
The straws fall where they may.
Could they ever support a camel's back?
Harnessed by a heart's sun ray?
Hope and pray to prop the hay,
A bale on the frail frame of Atlas.
To nurture the nature of life's decay
On the waxed wings of a catalyst.
The earth that holds the muddy molds,
Undone by the loss of a rib.
Nightmares that run from fun unfolds,
Chased to the date of the crib.
The fleeing stops. Breath exhales.
Troubled feelings turn to mist.
Relieved of the burdening bales,
The lips of freedom are kissed.
Worries wither to faulty vapors,
Foreign tongues of dialogue.
Forgotten. One of memories capers.
Hidden, like a snake in the fog.