A CREEPING THOUGHT

The soreness of my throat

What difference do you have

From the barking in my heart?

The coughing of my mouth

What point do you make

From the sick in my soul?

The pain in my brain,

What line can I draw with

The ice in my mind?

A FAR OFF THOUGHT

As the train pulled away the man watched

For miles, and miles, and miles,
As his wife went into a withering image of white and of grey.

“I’m beginning to think,” said that man,

“That the greatest problem of humanity is

Distance--from family, from lovers, from God.”

For friends aren’t to be apart in holes,

But to be a part in a whole--puzzle formed from piece by piece,

Peace that Separate does not know,

No, not alone but welded and melded and held alone,

That part of the whole.

And “I’ve been told too, that two will come together,

Whether the weather of that week lends them the time,

Or the dime to make the flight on the wings of weak, fragile night,”

The man cried nigh on a thousand petals of overused trite. 

“Deep in the soul’s restart, won’t we always hold with

What we’ve been told, that the heart has it’s home

Of which reasons do not know?

And in dire haste, we lie in the these lies wondering,

Why our sole question from heaven and earth

Is met with a ladder of rungs, shaking our mirth?

“All my life I’ve heard: choose Him or choose her!

So I’ve gone with the latter and been lost as

A part of that hole.

“I’ve never been one to crunch the numbers,

Or count my steps and watch the compass rose,

As I drop with grave thoughts my life in a haze

Whilst her face fades into withering white and grey.”

Distraught we trot with this thought, that

‘What’s mine isn’t ivory and gold, not to stay nor to hold,’

When this definition is deaf in notion of the fact

That of great seas we’ll see that with clouds

We won’t part but we’ll hold, that

We are part of that whole.

SILVER LINING

The monster in my mouth, screams empty phrases out,

That my banal brain has heard, flocked amass by herds, 

Of the pop folklore, that we’ve read by chore!

“Life is of the great four always giving tours,

So even when yours, of cold ahead’s in store,

Know that all is well, not all’s as hot as hell!

Son, can’t you see, that valley’s suns still make green,

Just hold firm to the staff, or if none other you have,

To settle up the mountain, on top, son, lies a fountain.

You can climb it, the light ahead--you’ll find it!

Man, it’s all a journey, don’t go in hurry,

In exodus you’ll wander, of water you’ll ponder,

Because the desert’s dry, and His humor’s wry,

But, the sea’s ahead, so stop your steady dread!

We’ve all walked that street, sir, we’ve seen ends not meet,

And when we’re there, with each coin to spare,

We found our way out, out--mending walls with grout,

So that after all is through, you’ll chuckle saying ‘Who

Would have ever thought, wrought iron cannot rot!’

The train is coming fast, oh fast, but right white light,

Of summit height, children’ kite, ending fight,

No more spite, plight, fright, or fleeing flight--sir, it’s all to come.”

In books I’ve read, with heavy ink and lead,

That ‘Man’s not made for defeat”--well I not for deceit!

You see, my silver lining--‘Made in USA’ it’s crying--

Is for dark denying and public hiding. 

Alone it makes me wonder, “Will I come back from down under?

From wherever that I’ve been, ‘What, will these hands never be clean?’”

WORLDVIEW 

Do you understand this word, “complacent?”

It’s the anthem of apathetic aptitude, 

It’s the choice to take no chance,

It’s the ghost that gives me gravity,

It’s the life of love lost in loss.

I’M ALL YOURS

“I’m all yours,” was all I read.

No, it wasn’t what you meant, 

No, it’s not all that you said,

But it was still a ray of hope,

A butterfly in my stomach,

The bursting green shooting seed.

“I’m all yours,” rang loud in my head.

Maybe you wanted me to notice,

Maybe you wanted me to have read,

The might of your teasing test,

The bite of your chilling charm,

The beginning buds of rose.

“I’m all yours,” spoke more words than said.

Because it came in such levity,

Dipped in brevity and glazed so readily,

Of a promise as faint as 

A technicolored bow behind the sun, 

As the rose petal spreads its fragile wings.

“I’m all yours,” took me off my feet.

Yes, you knew what you wrote,

Yes, you knew what it’d do,

Dancing water pulling boats down slopes,

Dragon colored sheets and crafted ropes,

Two inch nails prickling flowered hopes.

“I’m all yours,” flashed lightning in my eyes.

Perhaps the echo of voices in a cave,

Perhaps the curl of lips and the flash of teeth,

That happen before our stories fall,

On more than one inked-up page, like

A blossomed rose cut from the stalk. 

“I’m all yours,” was dangerous talk,

Lest you saw the seed you sowed, 

Lest you want a weak and weary worry,

To water the thought and seek its fruit,

Until the gardener forgets to care,

And lets the roses, die by pair.

LAMENTATION

My God, how I’ve seen the pit,

How I live, this is it!

In the lion’s den I reside,

In the light of day I hide,

Because the love I find,

Is neither patient nor kind.

And if it is neither is winning,

Must I go back to Beginning? 

There I find it so much as true,

Of the shadow man dare ensue,

Just as I--the broken-hearted,

Lay empty as I started.

Where lies your hand in distress,

In my quizzical, broken mess?

Lord do you not see my raining eyes,

My asphyxiating self-despise,

They way I long for human touch,

But get only a dead branch crutch.

How can one in somber reconciliation,

Gather hope and fear in affiliation?

When Noah saw his dismal days,

You blessed with promising rays,

When Job his ruined estate,

You more lot to him create.

Yet for me as Abel, life is Cain,

Hacking and shooting my head pain!

It is the great pond that tears apart,

My vacant, now sorrowed heart,

Because the love I find,

Is neither patient nor kind.

THERE I AM GOLDEN, BE MY FOREVER

You are not the full moon I saw last summer,

That caused me to pull my car over in mesmerization.

You are not that orange sunset that was 

So cinematic I couldn’t believe it wasn’t on a screensaver.

You are not that rushing waterfall of Gullfoss 

That was so huge I became like a chorus member

To a production un-wanting of a spectator’s exposure.

You are not the rolling, grassy greens of

Ireland that made me wish I knew Gaelic. 

You are not the explosive Geyser that shattered rocks and

Sculpted earth and splashed spectators

That so tantalizingly watched the Hankadalur Valley.

You are not the full, double rainbow that rose

In the east and set in the west over the

Leaning, golden wheat field of Aichtal that

So perfectly reflected the Lord’s promise of sun.

You are not the misty smoke of a fully packed,

Fully toked pipe of sunset rum I had,

While I played chess and listened to 

‘I and Love and You’ for the very first time.

You are not that summer downpour I drank to

In my garage on a wooden stool so as 

To escape the crowded, congested halls of the house.

You are not the violent thunderstorm I listened to

On my front porch that I tried to take pictures of

But couldn’t capture because its splendor

Was un-foretelling and sporadically spastic.

You are not the cloudless blue sky we all

Hope for but hardly ever experience because that

Cloud as small as a man’s hand always claims the corner.

You are not the morning rays of the sun that

Cover my body from the small bathroom window

At the only moment that the sun can shine through,

Nor the rays that revive my body when I crave enlightened height.

You are not the crashing waves during February

Of the black beach I experience in Reykjavik while

I was young and too unlearned to understand.

You are not the hot, yellow sand that I longed to 

Breathe in Almería after four long, lonely winters.

You are not the piles of autumn leaves we 

Jumped in as children after our parents slavishly 

Threw their backs raking after Sunday school.

You are not the still, calm lake of a wake zone,

Un-grazed by the selfish tail of a manmade gliding machine,

That really should have been littered by whitecaps and

Waves and logs and hurricane fallen trees.

You are not the trickling creak we crossed when chasing 

A gecko with bare feet after we let our

Ice cream become victim to the asphalt blaze.

You are not the jagged mountain rocks in Keflavík

That reminded me of cookies and cream ice cream

Because of the way the white snow never melted

But always blended so perpetually in the black volcanic rock.

You are not the steep cliffs that we saw on postcards

But never went to because we were too busy trespassing

On the mossy stones of the ruined castle off the curvy path.

You are not the beautiful, terrifying white blizzard

That scoffed at our van as we tried to crawl

Through the rocky, narrow roads of Iceland

But were met instead by the foreign tongue of a 

Friendly man that probably wanted to impart his praise.

You are not the orange, red wood that crackles

With noise and dances in flames on a warm

Summer’s night, filled with acoustic guitars and 2-4 beats.

You are not the meteor shower or shooting start

That I wished upon under God’s ceiling of bright lights

Which we’d try to imitate as kids with plastics and blankets.

You are not the monumental tower of Eiffel metal

That I wanted to use as a jungle gym but 

Instead solved a Rubik’s Cube on, hoping I was the first.

You are not the deep purple ocean floor I

Retreated under when the pressure of the sun

Was too much to bear under sun-burnt shoulders.

You are not the crumbling walls and columns

Of a stadium built too large to handle the

Masses of snapping tourists it watches every year.

You are not the Black Forest I got lost in 

And found a colony of playground animals

While trying to find the rest of my friends

In an irrational, fearful, fleeting sprint.

You are not the khaki bridge over the body

That separated two former cities, now Buda to Pest.

You are not the serene Japanese Garden I walked through

With pants rolled up before stopping to stare,

At the most perfect red maple tree I had ever seen.

You are not the street I walked every Friday though,

Or drank wine from every Saturday, or

Stumbled in every Sunday after playing frisbee

With strange men with beards who never wore shoes,

And probably lived outside in nomadic tents.

You are not the organic sea of heads I so long

Identified with, while screaming to music too loud

With strangers too angry for my own good.

You are not the board that I kicked or I flipped

Or I slided and grinded instead of doing my maths homework.

You are not the roaring rapids of Dahlonega that

The big kids waded through while I secretly

Cowarded by the safe sands of the sideline.

You are not the warm saltwater spring that

I frequented as it snowed and swam through

When the winter winds had my skin too rough.

No, you are not any of these things because

Right here and right now I can touch you,

I can hold you, I can hear you, I can see you.

No, you are not these things because you are

Not gone nor past nor was nor finding nor not.

No, you are not these things because you are more

Than their sum and not less than their much.

No, because you are music, you are art,

You are poetry, prose, and un-sung song.

You are my hopeful, not hoped for, 

For you are here and you are now, 

And with you I am golden, by us are forever.

I’M MADLY IN LOVE AND ITS TIME YOU FOUND OUT

So here is my bullet,

My last resounding gong,

Broken through my tears,

As my inner cries go on.

I refuse to restrain back one bit,

I’m done with keeping in,

What I’ve felt all forever

As that b-stard’s creeping wins.

Don’t expect a tart, in

Sugar-coated lies and threats,

But instead take my anger,

As eager nothing-but-regrets.

What I’ve learnt is for all:

That love and hate exist,

Together notwithstanding,

The pacifist’s tarnished fist.

For my love, how I hate,

To face your face, face-to-face,

Laced distaste hushed in haste,

Of my biggest yet mistake.

It’s you, d-mn, it’s you.

It’s the way I just forget,

How I release from my grip

The prints of staccato hits.

You blissful b-tch you get,

What my past proves to man,

Is not of life to have,

But a kiss too deep it brands. 

Have you seen my bodily strikes,

These that dark my mind away?

These that live as truth,

Of lovers wed with hate?

Have you seen my bodily shakes,

These that leave me sweating cold?

When really I should be shaking,

A lovers arms that night to hold?

You are the reason I am dry,

The reason I and fear become,

A union sworn together,

By white hands to them be one.

So here is my ballad,

My last in singing plea,

Of a morrow yet to know,

Of morrow’s flights and flees. 

I come clean to give you all,

My honest thoughts I’ve lived,

Whilst futures change falls down,

Lest your careful face unhid.

So expect not this to stop,

For if souls exists as mates,

We might just be for ever,

As your hand in mine to take.

SHIPWRECK

The splitting of the wood below our feet,

Seems not only to speak with its creaks,

No, it shouts out when loud,

As if proud of it’s prophesied feat.

The growth of this old brass arm

Agrees of our pending, sending harm,

That’s seconds to come and moments to be,

Our weary faces, becoming the sea.

The clouds frown as they look down,

Confirming our collective drown uncrowned.

With this water, water wailing water,

Our feet sink as the flood begins,

First in tens our biggest bulk it wins,

Then claiming our next supplies,

By stealing our courage, its prize.

Thunder! Its screams, flashing dreams

Of a desert unhurt by nature’s schemes.

Our untimely glances, left to right,

Are met by our one biggest plight,

When the column of support

Sets down our banners with banters, and

Applause from the waves,

Which carry our work under,

Like a ball and chain of rain untamed.

That friendly wind that tickles your nose,

That wonderful water that waters a rose,

Could not have any less truth than a cheating wife.

Our ark unwed the sea, our nails divorced the tree,

Promising only to take us deep.

Unless I could find a branch or plank,

To tell me that after all I just might make,

This water somehow right now just vow,

That we’d be ‘round to see the sun,

Swear its golden rays are not done.

But the thought was submerged

As our ship took a gasping breath,

To approach the news of an unsweet d----.

WRESTLING WITH LIONS

A tremor, as loud and as bold as a Lion's roar,
Froze the castle walls and broke open the gate.
The hands of men lifted in surrender,
To offer their fear, untainted by hate.

A golden haze settled over the land,
Melting like snow the heart of the keep.
Lips quivered in shock of deliv'rance,
While the Lion fixed its hind legs to leap.

Dust from the ground swirled in currents,
Sweeping men fully off of their feet.
Ever to ripple and flow, his mane aflame
Like the sun, immense melting heat.

The Lion's face defeated the sword,
Splitting in two the pride of reproach,
Making men less to their knees,
As the Great to them closer approach.

Men blinded by fierce daggers of eyes,
Can see golden hair seven around,
Encircling their fortified walls,
Forcing faces by dead ground abound.

Clenching snow they feel no cold,
It is only by their proponents near
That they cover their faces,
And curl in proximity too clear.

It is won, the battle that's come,
It is true, the Lion that's real.
This booming voice that says above,
That he has the power to heal.

UNTITLED

One, two, three, four.

By the fifth I’ll take no more.

Cutting the wind as I go,

I hit my clock, down with a blow.

It’s time to get up,

It’s time to arise.

No longer to sleep,

But be healthy and wise.

Casting off the cover,

I bury my face and hover,

Over the standing out stain,

Stinging again my left arm’s pain. 

I must key my secret,

Lest they seem to find out,

To find me caught red-handed,

My reputation, perpetually branded. 

One, two, three, four.
Cover it up looking clean,

Hiding all that I’ve been,

With a sigh, I play life’s chore.

Tie up my tie real tight,

Lock away all the sight,

Of what again I’ll do tonight.

Paint on the smile alright. 

Dress up the filth in the closet,

Don’t tell them I’ve lost it.

You wouldn’t guess about me,

The underneath my God can see.

You wouldn’t guess about me,

The fact that you are the cause,

The reason I pause and cringe my jaw,

And cry to cry out to God,

Am I the son you hoped for--

The prodigal son, desperate and poor?

Do you love the man that I am,

Would you cover, my red hand?

FOR LOVE

O, the things I’ll do for love!

But not love because to love is to

Commit, and to commit is to be 

Attached, and to be attached is to 

Shed all freedoms away in 

Losing the “self” in losing yourself.

But strange enough do I find,

That there is no liberty in liberty,

Yet in liberty there’s love.

I want that love and therefore I

Want the chains that arrest me,

The shackles which will bind me.

Grant me your prison and I will

Give you my deepest chambers.

This heart, hollow by birth,

Wants not to be filled but to be mended.

Because if walls make good neighbors,

Then chains make good lovers.

So try me in your courts,

Convict me of my crime,

I’m guilty.

I’LL MISS

I miss all the things I shouldn’t miss

I miss the pain of trial

I miss the ache of heart, and

I miss all the while

Our sacred time apart

I miss Shakespeare in the sun

I miss Lewis on the shore

I miss the strumming air to fun, and

The endless having more

I miss always what I can’t 

I miss never what I’ve got

I miss waking up to chant

A single worry I have not

But then it wasn’t any better

Maybe even that much worse

Though I really should have let her

Steer my ship a steady course

My folly never could be counted

My fears never gathered sum

To justify this going horse I mounted

Or this battle I thought I would have won

For looking back exists to stun

A long black barrel pointed gun

Weighing down weak arms a ton

Shooting out the words, “I’m done.”