A Father's Bedtime Story

Lie there my dear children and go off to sleep.
I'll tell you a story if I don't hear one peep.
I give you a tale of such wonder that you'll feel
That this newer old story could actually be real.
Goldylocks, the blonde, went out one day for a ride;
A ride in her Mustang that would hum and would glide.
The color was ruby and red as her hot-rodded lips;
And going around curves was like swinging her hips.
But soon she got tired of the top being down
And thought that she'd take a venture out of town.
She drove in the forest and found such a site
With still green and old brown that gave her delight.
She liked the forest she thought to herself;
And the rumble of cars that comes from cliffs that look likes selves.
Eventually she came to a part of the forest that was thick;
The stuffiness here would to skin easily stick.
She saw a little shanty by the edge of the grove
With interest she over to that house quickly drove.
With a screech she swiftly came to definite stop
And opened the door with a screech and a pop.
She marched up the path and then banged on the door.
She knocked and she knocked: one, two, three, four.
After knocking and knocking she heard no one home,
She opened the door to a house all alone.
The little small cottage was bright with family life.
She looked at the pictures of father, son, and wife.
'Twas three forest bears living in this small house.
They lived all alone except from one grey-haired mouse.

(continued tomorrow)

Dreams

I hear the pit and pat of my feet while walking
While a lion in my head with similar sound is stalking.
I often find myself lost in daydreaming,
Sometimes purposefully, oft' accidentally,
Wishfully I am my own future scheming.
I dream of right and privapedge,
Power and responsibility;
I fight with evil,
Run to far off lands,
Learn all sorts of things.
I have friends who, in my life, just perpetuate these things
They too dream, you see, and two dreamers often find wings.
And day by day I do this thing.
It makes me aim far away ahead.
I place a goal longer and further away,
But often fall shorter instead.
Little by little though,
I gain ground.
I take rule over new land,
Aim away again,
Plodding ever onward.
And bit by bit with fistfuls at a time I bring my dreams.
I bring them with me back to reality an conquer what I see.
Onward I conquer my dreams.

The Summer Toad

Waiting in the air conditioner water,
Between 701 and 703,
The toad stands in the hot summer
As still as a knotted oak tree.

Terrorizing flies
And running from feet,
He tells not lies
For he never speaks;

He waddles from lethargy
From stoop to his bed.
Only a simple philosophy
Runs in his head.

Paperless

I forgot the music as I walked today;
I instead listened to the wind in my ear play.
The on and off tapping of my slow feet
Gave me a poetic beet to meet.
I thought up a verse while on my way,
But in rarity I had nothing to write what I'd say.
I tore off home with a thump-thump and a phew.
Jogging and thinking more lines to spew.
Finally I reached home and entered with a pout;
Not a single word I thought would dare to come out.

Rain

From far away the thunderhead does roar.
It blows its coming, trumpeting the storm;
It's pround of all effects it holds in store
And boldly calls so all will be forewarned.

The power billowing on high-skyed wall,
The whiteness flecked with wounds of sorrowed grey.
So massive does it move--it seems to stall--
Larthargically the mass comes on its way.

However from its high and gilded throne
He saw the bright and sunny, long Monday.
The many people going to work and to home,
And, touched, decided to storm another day.

He just put a bit of a heavy drizzle in place
To wet the road and splash the Earth's face.

Ants

There
they
go
in
a
march,

all
of
them
with
big
loads,

Car-
ry-
ing
on
their
backs

food
for
them
and
for
all.

In
a
line
they
will
go

on
all
their
worn-
out
paths.


Far
and
wide
they
search
for

food
and
ma-
ter-
i-
als.

One
grain,
one
peb-
ble
each,

One
at
a
time
they
bring

and
build
Rome
bit
by
bit.

Car Wash

Slowly it begins.
Fizz, fizz, fizz...
Building up steam,
And with stronger bubbles,
It starts to clean.
Then the strength and speed come
Fast and full--
The most productive section.
Beat and beat and beat,
Swash and swash and swash,
Then slowing,
Showing relaxation.
After the hard fast times,
Finally fizzing again.
Two more passes;
Then it stops.
The water goes down the drain.
The cycle begins again and again.


(mom-inspired)

Madam Maya

Finger on the pulse of the world,
Proud and standing tall,
Rafting up tributaries to culture,
And seeing the beauty she carries.
Madam Maya taught how to be proud:
Proud of the herritage
Proud of the body
Proud of the mind.
She taught how appreciate
Even if others cannot give thanks.
Her rhymes were new.
But the beat,
The beat that she made,
It came from the ancestral drums of humanity.
She is life and she is love.
She is pride and she is confidence.
Maya the observer.
Maya the giver,
Maya the lover.

Old Man Poe

Living on the fringes
Of society's thought
The Old Man Poe
In measerured rhyhme
Tells what he sees
Without concern for taboo.
He tells of his friends
Macabre, Fright, Darkness.
Singing their tales and dreams
Making others shudder:
Their thoughts are where
Nightmares are made.
Their sanity is where
Psychoses are born.

Grandpa Robert

I remember you walking lonely in the fields.
You always listen to trees and bushes
And can translate to me their feelings.
You tell me of their life and emotions,
And oddly they always mirror your own.
You stop when others would go onward;
You dreamed when others would have woken.
You told me to leave myself and listen,
But I have often failed to obey.
Because of you I can love more deeply,
And I've finally come to know nature as a friend.


Furthermore, today I'm reminded of both my parents and the virtues they have taught me. This poem reminds me of them:

If...

by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!

Odd Uncle Walt

I know that no one else understands you
Because your words to them seem confusing.
You see the beauty in everything around
Even when it is too beautiful to express.
And it's not that you can't describe it,
But it's that society did not want to hear it.
Well, Uncle Walt, they still don't want to hear.
You without speaking but through your words,
You've taught me beauty, You've taught me life.
You have shown me how to appreciate what no one sees.
However, I, I am still learning what you knew.
I cannot find ways to put down in many words
The many things that I think and see and know.
I strive to be more like you, able to express
All the things that no one wants to mention.

Aunt Emily

I see you in your room--In a chair by the window,
Your day filled with a world of paper and ink.
You in your simple dress, you sit by for hours;
You write of night and days of night without light.
I see you having sat there for such length,
And I, I wish I had your patience to only sit and think.
Hearing others talk of you in downward words
Hurts me past my skin -- A feeling in the bones.
Pen and ink, pen and ink, pen and ink--
Oh to have the diligence to sit and think.
You taught me to sing in a world of only words.

Life Scares and Low Points

Many things in life will bring one to their knees.
Stressfull situations--wondering how they came to be.
Sitting with a doctor who's concerned about your health,
Or fretting over checkbooks and bills depleting wealth.
Concern for a loved one or plans that go awry;
A lost and dear relative for whom one often cries.
Period's between work and times that're spent alone,
Being injured or stranded, unexpectedly away from home.
If one can keep one's chin from dropping,
one's mood from downward swinging,
Keep a smile and a gleam in the eye,
Then Life's journey will easily go by.

The Crazy Mild King

The crazy mild king,
In his youth he sits. 
Boredom he's never brought 
Surrounded by misfits.
He sits all day long
Barely eating a bit
'Cause the crazy mild king
Likes his clothes to fit. 
His people are happy
They're all proletariat:
They've no reason to complain
In a kingdom so fit. 
He sometimes makes laws,
But doesn't enjoy it. 
The crazy mild king
Would rather just plain sit. 
Those that are unhappy
Are thrown in the muddy pit;
Then the people and the king
All watch the sloppy fit.
Everyone does laugh
And use a bit of wit
The crazy mild king though
Just sits and sits and sits.
There's food and joy and beds
In this kingdom you won't forget
Somehow the crazy mild king,
Has performed his lonely bit.  
  

The Blonde in the Window

Sitting there quietly
A car pulls up.
Two chit and chat
And comment on life.
The one in the car
Asks, "Who drew that."
"Oh, that's from my son."
Then she replies,
"How old are you?
You're too young for that."
"I'm twenty-six now,
And he's six and a quarter."
Then the conversation turned:
Divorce, youth, and hair.
The car drives away
And she sits just there.
She's proud of her life,
Her son, her beauty, her love.
She'd never trade any
Of these things listed above.

We Are Made Such by Love

I have your heart.
It's my prized possession.
When e'er we are apart,
I hold it in obsession.

But being apart for prolonged years
Without you here in whole,
Makes me every moment close to tears.
I feel hollow and without a soul.

But ss you know, o're there each day
My heart goes along with you,
My dear love, so far away,
Making each day possible to start anew.

Never heartless do we go along;
We each a one we've not used before.
I in trust listen to your's song
And hope that mine to you is not a bore.

So we learn each others hearts this way
As these long years go by.
By choice we have chose this way
Even though we did so with a sigh.

We are made such by love,
And by such are almost undone.
We are made such by love,
You who're away from me but never gone.

Life

I hit a car--
Perfectly it was parked.
It wasn't far;
I just didn't see it.

I got out and knocked
To tell the owner my fault.
He didn't seem so rocked
By having his headlight hit.

Instead of nitty gritty
Insurance, quotes, and such,
He was alright with three twenties,
And I went on my way.

I didn't have cash
So in ten minutes
To the ATM I made a dash,
And remained responsible and unknown.

Serving in the moral moment
I realized how blessed I am.
Though not a time from heaven sent,
I realized how blessed I am.

I have loans and bills,
But I pay them.
Life has it hills,
But I go over.

I have a place to live,
Certain creature comforts,
And when I am trouble given,
I can get through.

Bad Day Events

Spilling a cereal bowl,
Forgetting a debit card,
Showering with socks on,
Breaking a coffee cup,
Shirts on backwards,
Does the Theory of Everything
Explain why a person--
Logical in their ways--
Would be upset
By such a something
They cannot control?

Toes in the Grass

Warm summer wind
Green leaves rustle and sway.
Barefoot again
Watching some children play.

Hair blown about
Sun kissing one's white skin
Symphony of clouds
Listening to summer's din.

Out of a suit,
Apart from air conditioning.
Feeling Earth's heartbeat
While grass keeps tickling.

The Bank Window

Legs crossed in my seat,
No customers to greet,
Sitting in dullness at work
And slowly tapping my feet.

Outside the drive-thru glass
Cars zoom slowly passed.
The winds makes the leaves blow,
And Sun shines making green things grow.

Sky turns somewhat gray
A dog nods his head this way.
I contemplate to keep from sleep;
My coworker files her nails away.

There are old magazines about,
Papers that need tossed out.
The fans blows back to and fro,
And the credit card machine starts to shout.

No customers to greet,
Legs crossed in my seat,
Sitting in dullness at work
And slowly tapping my feet.

Out to Play

Always kept pinned
To be disciplined,
Behaved, mannered,

Taught sitting,
Perfect at staying,
Fantastically heeling,

Coat all clean,
With a little sheen,
Not heard, but seen,

Occasionally though
In order to grow,
All these must go

And in carefree way,
Despite what all will say,
One must play.

If I Could Have

If I could have stayed,
Remained with my heart,
Together we'd've played,
And not now be apart.

If I could have gone
To the other school,
A better job have done,
And not now often feel a fool.

If I could have lept
Myself just a little further,
Stayed up instead of slept,
And not now have my druthers.

But I being me
Didn't stay or go or leap.
Yet taking two steps back
Take joy in all I'll keep.

Summer Wind

Laden with pollen, the wind does blow
Slowing a walk from quickened pace.
Sunshine always coming and berating the face.

Walking on curbs where the weeds do grow,
Bag on the back without socks on feet,
Gives one a chance to surroundings meet.

Summertime flowers and grasses flow
As streaming strong rivers in fields by roads,
And distant is heard all the locusts and toads.

Ants that do carry tremendous loads below,
Birds that compete showing who's song is best
They all do know with what gifts they're blessed.

Flower in hand with one's feet in a snow
Of Cottonwood flakes that have drifted on grass.
Footprints now left where there's a wearing pass.

Workers in cars do not see the show
Busily going, forgetting to slow,
And never will Summer's dear Wind come to know.

Missed Friend

Strange accents,
Talking about philosophy,
Two different arts,
Now turned catastrophy.

Comfortable with telling
All thoughts and wants,
But because of distance
Creativity wants.

Missing a friend
That lives far away,
Is like a child
That can't go and play.

たけぶ裕へ

Moving Day

Looking again at three lives I've had
Taking from each both happy and sad.
Friends from generations helping me move
With conversations changing to fit the grove.
Rockabilly and speed along with the space race;
Should we put the piano in a different place?
Music and poetry, modal changes and style;
Would you unpack the kitchen for a while?
Fever and cultures, love and distant talks;
If you put that there no one can walk.
Moving is tiring and inspiring and sore
So what does this new home have in store?

Package

The smell of a letter
Hand-written and new.
A gift here and there
Bidding adeau.
Obsessing over writing,
Addresses, and tape;
Oh, and forms for customs,
...with a few mistakes.
Items carefully selected
Now packaged nice and neat
To see the other's face
Would be such a treat.
I've received many,
And now it's time to give.
Both bring their joys
That add to how I live.
For a loved one far away
Desirefully I mail.
Please enjoy a package
Though it's slow as a snail.

A Break

I managed to make it this far before making asides. I started this project in order to be able to better examine my life and be able to write about it. However, this last week was my sister's wedding, and I didn't have the time to devote to this. She came first. I will go back and try to reflect on what I've experienced to make up for the lost entries. However, I'm worried. In my experience, writing outside the moment of the emotion doesn't make for better poetry.

Today's:

New Wine

There's a high barrier of entry
Breaking in to the vines--
The definition of finesse
In the form of bottles of wine.

It's an old industry that's full
Of the perfect, expensive, and refined;
Sultry, haughty, simple, or sweet
Nothing beats old bottles of wine.

But creating something that's new,
In something typified and defined,
How should one start to make
Newer bottles of older wines?

Drinkers' palettes all adjusted
Critics there are many to malign
The dreaming vintner should plug the ears
And keep making new bottles of wine.

Wedding

I cannot write the beauty of a wedding--
Cream-white gown worn in anxious excitement
Tuxes all matching and pressed,
Decorations chosen with meaning
Carefully placed, hung, and spread.
There's so many physical items;
They play to the eye,
But others--seen or not--
All make this moment special in time.
A sister and her smile of twentysomething years
(Years of summer skies and falling stars),
Her sweet smile beside her husband's,
Old and new friends brought together,
Loved family ties solidified by this union,
Snapshots of memories from a friend photographer.
I hope the remaining years will yield
All the joy and belief and love seen before now.

Working With the Public

If you're the one
Who doesn't like generic
You can always be stunned
By working with public.

Service jobs are best
To see all personality sorts
There you'll never get rest
From laughing sports.

I've worked at banks,
Also groceries and restaurants,
And often I give thanks
For all the stories I've got.

Professionals
In unmatching clothes
Being obsessional
With their stuck up nose.

Farmers standing like wheat
With their empty pockets
Kind and with patient feet
Waiting for their turn on the docket.

Big tall high-schoolers,
Who from football practice stink,
In their own kingdoms, they're rulers,
But they always order something pink.

Some driving through naked
Or standing atop their cars,
The hilarity can't be mistaken;
It seems some are from Mars.

Please enjoy the public
By always people-watching.
You'll have stitches in your stomach
From such abundant laughing.

Dreaming

Searching after sleep
In a Serengeti
Of pillows and sheets.

Laying about
In sand dunes
Of high thread counts

Diving in indigo
On barrier reefs
With more places to go.

Trodding in snow
Of down feathers
Attacking Matterhorn's glow.

To dream is to go
Wherever one wants
And constantly grow.

Letter

There's something about a letter
Other modes of communicaton miss.
Others in clarity may be better,
But letters are with words a kind of kiss.

They could also be punches to the jaw
Depending on emtions the words contain,
But from letters one does not withdraw
Feeling compelled to read all, e'vn in disdain.

A reader can show emotion to the paper--
If dear words, holding it close to the chest,
If hatefully, tearing and shredding in anger,
Or if happy, jumping around with zealous zest.

With personableness and personality
They are a special way to speak.
Handwritten or typed, with originality
They're a form of communication at peak.

Sales

I sometimes buy expensive clothes,
But never at full price.
I pay for all of those
At amounts that are nice.

In order these to get
I look forward, far away
To a place I've not yet met
And often buy for another day.

I find something I like,
Something I don't yet need,
And I buy it when moment strikes,
When I find a sale and future need.

Only A Poet (How to Write a Poem)

Writing a poem every day,
It often takes away from play.
One must put the mind in a place
And find that elusive poet face.
Some days what comes is only tripe,
Plain and hackneyed, no longer ripe.
Some days one's work shines like brass
Even if it only talks of grass.
Writing like this makes one think deep
It makes beauty stand out and further seep.
One feels all beauty as an emotion
Even through life's noisy commotion,
But it makes one truth very real:
Realizing the days when One nothing really feels.

Eating

Desires, for me, are there but only three,
And of the three the one that won is food.
Good food that--whether coming from a tree
Or fresh from a kitchen pot--gives good mood.

One of the Many

I'm a tree like all the others.
We're all tall, leafy, and green
We act as a home for those with feathers
And from far away can be easily seen.

Some are taller than than even me,
Towering over everything around;
Some are shorter even for a tree
And don't make so loud a sound.

I may not be a standing-out profound,
But I have roots that run deep
And keep me tethered to the ground
Even when I dream while sound asleep.

Sore

Sore
Sore
When the muscles roar
Pain like an eagles soars
Sore
Sore
Sore

Knotted
Knotted
When shoulder has rotted
And motion has halted
Knotted
Knotted
Knotted

Ache
Ache
A job that long is a mistake
My feet hurt so thy shake
Ache
Ache
Ache

Strained
Strained
To be so unjustly pained
Amongst ailments, to be famed
Strain
Strain
Strain

Help!

"I didn't intend to put this off.
It just sort of passing, happened.
Now I cannot stave off this cough
Of bothersome work uncompleted.

"I'm neurotic and emotional
Because of all this stress I'm in.
I cannot complete this all alone.
I don't know how this will end."

"Here let me help.
We'll go it together.
It'll still take a while,
But at least you'll feel better."

Cottonwood

White fluff hanging smooth
Warmly in a springtime breeze.
This season's falling snow
Makes me itch and often sneeze.

A Wet Oklahoma Saturday Morning

Spiderwebs all covered in mourning dew
Breathing in a thick helping of fog.
Watching fish splash and spew
And twenty yards away a laughing frog.

The distant chug of a tractor
Birds sing a quiet salutation.
Fishing hat and coat in worn-out splendor
And their statue owner in contemplation.

The gentle pat pat pat of ripples
From Emerald water that hugs the sky
And the hum of waking peoples
And their cars as they seldom pass by.

Wise fish with mountain-sage mustache
Kissing the air in unanimity
Clearly dancing for rodless me
As yonder empty-handed fisherman leaves.

We stare at each other
Them swirling their carpish dance.
I watch in eternity longingly
In a quieted, fixed trance.

Wet-hooved cattle chawing
And an existentialist bull.
Roadside pigeons philosophizing
And a mailbox stuffed completely full.

A Buddhist-believing tree
That peacefully overhangs the road.
A boulder in a pond that rests on its knee
And NPR classical to relieve any mental load.

International Croud

International people are an understanding lot;
They know just how to hit the spot.
They listen well and comprehend most all,
And are always the people laughing in the hall.

They're multilingual and can bend as they please,
And for work they don't mind standing on their knees.
Even-keeled and well anchored when needed,
They are well structured and multi-pleated.

To understand them one must become one,
But one cannot translate something won.
One must continue as is and be,
To most people something of a mystery.

Bad Dream

If you have a bad dream
Don't tell your mates;
Things like that
Should be left to Fates.

Take your bad dreams,
And cast them away.
Place them in seas
Along with the fray.

Don't take a chance
And speak your full mind;
Just keep still your mouth,
And happiness you'll find.

Desire Knocking At the Door

I'm drearily in bed at last,
The day's events slung on the floor,
I think I've finally quelled my mind
When Desire comes knocking at the door.

I fling some laundry in the way
To stop the sound that I abhor,
But gently there's a damning scratch
From Desire scraping on my door.

I turn and say it's just the wind
That shakes me to my quiet core,
But I cannot but help to hear
Desire whining at my door.

Covering my ears in dread
I try to quiet the droning score,
But gauntly and sonorously
Desire is dirging at my door.

My mind is grossly grasping now
To squash the sound of garish whore,
But nothing tears my self away
From Desire calling at my door.

I feel bewitching I can't stop,
A haunting 'till I slake the roar;
Gore and grotesqueness I will see
'Cause Desire's spooking at my door.

I'll stop the horror and be free,
Of beckoning I can't ignore
If I won't sleep then I will meet
Desire's knocking at my door.

Prometheus' Fire

Huge in understanding
The brother of shoulders stands
Defying couped ruling
With stealthy, giving hands.

A founder of thinking,
Of development he sings.
He pays for his doing:
Fire, a bird, and ring.

But woefully he's living
For man forgoes much thought.
With pain he doubles remembering
What his gift should have brought.

Man, upon receiving
His wonderful thing so bright,
Instead of further proceeding,
Only used it for light.

The Ocean in My Dream

The ocean in my dream
Flows in Emerald green
It ebbs and flows
Like lime Jell-o
And laughingly it gleams.

To Sky it winks each day.
Together they always play.
They seek and find
And hide behind
The clouds that float and sway.

The Shore of Machu Picchu

With neatly terraced lawns
And grey old walls of rock
Children play
As trees do sway
In their mossy-colored socks.

The waterfalls of green
Forever flow and roar.
Glowing mornings
And mid-day stormings
On Machu Picchu's shore.

These islanders are blessed
To live so far away
From bumbling strife
Of city life
And on their island play.

Poison Ivy

Afraid to step into the green
For fear of touching leaves unseen;
To quiet stay upon the path
For fear of reaping itchy wrath.
On sidewalk 'lone intent I stand
And reach out not one single hand.
Instead in safety I walk tall
Admiring greenry like a wall.

ER

Talking.
Cooking.
Chopping a vegetable.
Preparing the table.

Oh-noing.
Hurrying.
Washing in the sink.
Fainting then taking a drink.

Rushing.
Waiting.
Chatting with the nurse.
"Did you bring my purse?"

Calming.
Soothing.
Continuing life again.
With bandage and grin.

Nice To Meet You

Nice to meet you.
What's your name again?
I'm sure we'll become
The best of friends.

What do you do?
Why'd you choose here?
Being here alone
Doesn't make you fear?

How do you like it?
Getting on well so far?
How's the weather outside?
Did you come by car?

Will you go now?
Wherever to?
Without my new friend,
I'll surely be blue.

If not just a bit longer,
I'm glad at least we've met.
Perchance we'll cross again
As fate my might just let.

Humanity Larder

I have jarfulls of understanding
In my humanity larder.
It's the drink that I love sipping
And wouldn't for anything barter.

I've also sweet small cakes of talking
That I so dearly love to munch,
And pralines of perfect passifying
With their piquant, light crunch.

But the one snack I can't leave
On shelf as it seething lies
Are sugary tarts of bitterness
I can't quit no matter how I try.  

A Letter to Love

Today I wrote down words to love,
Some things I've meant to say,
Pithy prose I've oft dreamt of
But lost along the way.

For some reason though,
Today was the riper time.
With ink and paper in tow
I commenced my outline.

I spat down quandaries that do baffle,
I threw out character attacks in a huff,
I carved in faults of the emotion that ruffle,
And sealed the note with all it's haughty stuff.

Upset though I sat as one,
Before my envelope I could send,
I daydreamed of that someone--
My love and dearest friend.

So sits this letter now
On the desk all untouched,
If I'll send, I don't know,
But by love I've been touched.

Paint Tomorrow

If the day hurts,
If the life spins fast,
If an ear burns or
Energy doesn't last,

If feet ache,
If someone's lost,
If much is at stake
And it's loss will cost,

If ideas quarrel,
If feelings put down,
When memories whirl
And one must sit down,

When love lives away,
The heart feels alone,
Paint tomorrow a better day,
And stand on firmer stone.

Too Much To Eat

A long busy day
Makes one forget
To pay attention
To point of regret.

Talking and going
Arguing too
Never looking at
What one does do.

In bed before sleep
One looks back in wait
Seeing there was too much
Put onto ones plate.

Blocked Out and Taken Back

Whether through a pair of inexpensive earphones,
Or by way of the top of the line speakers,
The right music at the proper time can hone,
Transform the moment into solace for seekers.

Even in quietness it can drown out surroundings,
It can also toss ones mind neatly back in the past.
It brings back a time with specific feelings,
And it jolts the mind to a moment that sprints passed.

The Coffeers

To a cup of contemplation
Each morning they rise;
Until they have drank a cup
There isn't a surprise:

They're tired and sluggish
From just having woke,
And to friend or the cat
They'll hardly have spoke.

In they scoop and poor
Ingredients of a liquor,
That innervates the body
And moves them quicker.

It energizes the toes
And taps on the mind,
Giving means to a day
And to feeling, is kind.

In a Vision of a Fairtytale

In a vision of a fairytale
Where wishes come true,
In a land with a sky
That's the softest of blue,

After swinging on a star
And dancing with moonbeams,
After entertaining want
And tickling dreams,

Two souls intertwined
And came into one
In a way no one thought
Could ever be done.

I'm Not There Anymore

I realized today
I'm not where I was.
Surroundings are different,
And this gives me pause.

Cravings I have
Cannot here be filled.
The mover in me
Is forceably stilled.

The haunts I have there
Are so far away.
I can no longer enter them
At end of the day.

Sights I enjoy
Can no longer be seen.
That type of beauty
Cannot now be gleaned.

Faces I saw
From close or far
May as well be as distant
As twinkling star.

Voices and words
That tickled my ear,
I their dulcetness
Do not hear.

The love that was there,
Comfortable and warm,
Far away, it's louder now
To be heard like a storm.

The Kicking Rock

It divorced the pavement where long it was joined,
And laid about the crag with others freshly separated.
Occasionally, it could change its side like a chance coin,
But ultimately, without mode of movement, it frustrated.

Then along came the pondering toes of a wandering foot
That accidentally bumped the fuming 'lil pebble.
It shied out straight and gaily came to halt,
And on the second beat, went again fast and terrible.

Now lo and soon, those stepping toes could not the pebble keep;
It zigged and zagged for freedom left or right,
And toward the curb, into the street
The feet would dart in protective fright.

Now raging against unwillfull caging, the stone it thought.
It halted suddenly under the oppressive toes;
It stabbed and delighted in the pain it had brought,
But was soon astounded by such worse woes.

The feet had hands that reached down in spite.
They pinched the pebble dexterously despite its, "NO!"
And with no thought nor show of excessive might,
Plunged the pebble into the sewery hell below.

Creativity Problems

With banker's shoes
And banker's ties,
The Poet inside me
Slowly dies.

With mundane thought
And maudlin talk,
The pen in my hand
Can no longer walk.

Into imagination
I again retreat
In order my soul
To entreat.

I find a Poet's spirit,
The Discerning Ear,
And words again
Begin to appear.

Dancing God

I saw in a dream
That God was dancing
With the Heavenly host
He loved entertaining.
With a drink in his hand,
He was singing;
With the song on his lips
He was swinging.
Like Zarathustra
Who loved philosophizing,
I couldn't love a god
Who didn't like his dancing.

Pottery

Cold, wet hands.
Yawning clay.
Slowly it bends.
Greeting the day.
Motivating it awake slowly.
Just from sleep it remains lowly.
Sluggish.

Watered down.
Flexible.
Energy found.
Now malleable.
Potter can now pull and bend in place
The walls and bottom to a vase.
Lovely

Rings

On this finger
For the first time,
Silver will linger.

Those before now:
Trying one one
Just to see how--

What would life be,
If we were there
Permanently.

But now I see
It's not the ring
But she that be

In life from now,
Forever more,
This we both know.

Disconnected

About to depart
But
Shut down,
Cut off,
Left out,
Separated.
People, friends
That...
I long to see...
I want to talk to...
I desire to be with,
But
Walled off by silence
By absence,
By disconnect.
Torturous hours
Without a phone.

The Q-Tips

They stick up in a sea of dark--
White fuzzy hairdos that wave and fluff--
And constrast against younger stuff.

Bent down with age and experience
And often hackneyed words and thoughts,
These Q-Tips relax from lives well fought.

Before being thrown into a rubbage bin,
They wave and shake to show their rage,
And flare their spirit without a cage.

With many stories this cotton can give
Amusement and wisdom never before seen:
Something the current generation should glean.

The rock...

It was hard.
It was soft.
It was light.
It was heavy.
It was rounded.
It was jagged.
It was dark.
It was lighter.
It was sharp.
It was dull.
Maybe it wasn't a rock.
Maybe it was a tree.
Maybe it was sky.
Maybe it was air.
Maybe it was a cat.
Maybe it wasn't.

Swollen

Twice as thick,
Uneven.
Left bigger than right.
Quasimodo
In the neck.
Noncontagious,
Self conscious
Of setting afright
Those around.
Ashamed of something
Not self-caused.
Embarrassed
By being sick.

Doodling

Bored from this speech,
She for a pencil does reach,
And pictures starts to write
To ignore what one will teach.

Eyes rolled left to right;
On paper her fingers delight
Just to be scribbling down
Instead of picking a fight.

Traveling Song

When I fly to the West,
Those times are the best.
Just Do Doh Doh Do Do,
Travelin' along.

If I'm travelin' East,
I just feel like a beast,
Pat Pat Pat Tat Tattin',
Singing this song.

Talking to Jim,
As I sit next to him.
Chat Chat Chat
Tete-e-tettin' strong.

Walking so fast
With luggage that lasts
Stomp Stomp Stompin' Out
This Travelin' Song.

Thinking of You

A picture of us,
One of two ticket stubs,
A letter of yours:
Memories dancing on my brain
Makes my heart beat and grow,
Puts a tickle in my ear,
Puts an itch in my fingers,
Makes words stand on my lips.
Oh, the sway of your back,
The taste of your voice,
The sound of your listening,
The feel of your words.

Japanese

I study Japanese
Any way I please,
But every now and then
It kind of makes me sneeze.

30 minutes to wait

30 minutes to wait,
Writing down words,
Cursing at thought.
29 minutes to wait.

Playing the writer,
Sitting in the corner,
Stealing others' stories.
The starving writer.

Looking down the road,
Reading road signs,
Yelling at the curb,
Kicking the road.

Staring at the sky,
Thinking about planes,
Throwing mud at clouds,
Wanting a closer sky.

Poor

All the money
I have
Right now
Is in
My pocket.
I don't
Have a job,
But
I do
Have debt,
But
I do
Have
An education,
A bed,
Heat,
Food,
Love,
And
I try
To not
Worry
About tomorrow.

A Drowning Wish

Sitting at the bottom,
Under all the water,
A silver wish sunk,
Handcuffed to the others,
Breath by breath
It starts to go;
It fades slowly away
Into anonymity.
Once tossed,
Once wished,
Formerly hoped,
Now forgotten,
The drowning wish.

Bobble Heads

I am one of the heads
Sitting in a crowd
Bobbing up and down,
Riding down the street--
Other people to meet,
Walking around--
Shopping or going to town,
Putting food in my face--
To help get from place to place.
A few stick up,
And some are short,
But en masse,
Black and brown,
Blonde or grey,
Onward we bobble
Through the day.

Going

Walking
Not with each other
Long apart
Missing the other

Riding
With each other again
A little distant
Reremembering

Driving
Closer now
Right again
Enjoying the situation

Flying
Long together now
Old and aged
Still thankful and loved

Tumbling

Lined up tall
Black and white
A few dots
Before the fall.

With one push,
A tumble,
A roar,
A hush.

Errands

Calling here.
Going there.
Talking to him.

Sending mail.
Getting mail.
Buying on sale.

Pulling hair.
Pounding head.
Starting to wear.

Tired Legs

In my bed,
Resting my head;
Now sleepily fed.

Feet now propped
For walking's stopped
And day has all flopped.

Not moving
But just grooving,
Motionless moving.

The Streets of Chickasha

My big city walk
Compared to this
Slow town saunter.
Walking on shoulders
Absent of sidewalks.
My straight suit--
Pants and jacket--
Getting glances
From greasy jeans
And slouched tshirts.
A slack-jawed grandpa
Slowing his truck
Looking at my
Typhoid Mary tie--
Me the enigma
In oxford shoes
And my walking
And not driving.

Step by Step by Step

It's lying over there,
The place to which I trod,
I see it clear from here
E'en after this long plod.

Though spirits have been raised
Because of goal in sight,
My legs just won't be phased
And can't keep muscles tight.

I cheer and speak them on;
"It's just oe'r there," I say.
But barely they go on,
They seem to've lost their way.

"Just step and step and step;
It's one by one by one."
They carelessly have wept--
Self-pity all and done.

They take me onward now
To place o'er yonder there
I count the every bow
Of step as we go there.

Something From Nothing

Impossible to understand
The energy that comes from naught.
It makes one wonder how it can
Be ever truly wholly taught.

It's understanding something that
In words cannot be easily said.
No facts nor aides will help one
In chair that's placed in evidence's bed.

Ideas like these require belief,
A faith that this which is does come
By means uncomprehended.
No one fills gaps with facts not come.

Sleep

Sleep, sleep, enduring sleep
With such soft footsteps
Does it whispering creep.

As profound as ocean's deep,
Having powers like no other
Gently 'way does it sweep.

With titans' weight can it keep
Away the day and give more
Sleep, sleep, sleep.

Good News

2 April 2010

Wired and tried,
Caffeinated,
Longing to meet
New acquaintance,

Today brought new
News that grew
A happiness
And rarity.

Something was wanted;
Something was worried,
But all paid off
In a moment.

Nerves were tight,
Hopes weren't light.
In one moment
Only joy remained.

Moment rare
When future bears
A dream come true
And smiles settle.

Can't Sleep

1 April 2010

A note written on my hand I forgot,
Having waved goodbye to my love,
A time change many times fought,
And soaring on miles and miles above.

In a plane I'm one of three,
Three out of three hundred.
No matter how I try to be,
I'm not the one that'll be well slumbered.

Tap Dancing

31 March 2010

Tap tap tap.
Up and down.
This and that.
Funny sound.

To make words
Appear on screens
The sounds in herds
Invite joyous screams.

In ensemble
Two hands prance
Across keys
Their tapping dance.

Page Tickling

When words don't come
I tickle the page
With the back of my pen
To see if it'll rage
Or laugh out when
I need new emotion
To set writing in motion.

The Shakes

Too much enhaled all at once.
Too much coffee.
Not enough to eat.
Bouncing while still,
On the balls of my feet.
In too much a hurry,
And not knowing when
This will end
And the next begin.

Looking Ahead

Right now,
Three days left,
I look ahead.

If I didn't,
I wouldn't sleep
In my bed.

If I didn't,
All the things
In my head

Would make life seem
Better off
Remaining instead.

Saying It

At first you reminded me
Of someone I'd met in dreams.
But then you started to be
Much more than she ever seems.

After a while I could
No longer remember her face.
I never knew you would
Be the one that took her place.

I was sure she would be
So many others,
But unimpressive to me
Interest eventually withered.

No one else came close
To what I had in mind.
It's hard to boast
About what you can't find.

The lady I had met
So many lucky times before,
She's finally walked
Back through my front door,

But I feel you as her now
Much better than at first.
Your face is exactly how
I've become so cursed.

Coming to you,
Saying it to you,
It's just so hard to do.
I'm afraid it'll be
Undoing to me:
Waking to reality.
Saying out loud;
Yelling so proud;
Shouting it up to the clouds.

What if those words
Undo all we have,
All we've made--
Waking to reality.
Breaking me.
Keeping it in.
Watching you.
Breathing you in.
Loving you.
Letting it out.
Telling you.
Saying it.

I'm waking to reality:
You and me,
And saying it.

Mess

All over the place
But no one cares.
Later it'll clean
Without losing face.

Each can bear
To do as desired.
Slowed thick pace,
With little care.

Having wanted,
However it be,
None do dare
To stand disagreed.

With little time free
It so seems
That when not gleaned
Joy would flee.

Though it gleamed
A trying disgrace;
None would fair
Without extremes.

Schedule

I've plans next week
For life over there
E'en though absent
For almost one year.

It's plainly surreal:
Having a schedule here,
Going and arriving
And only few to hear.

I've tried to plan
Transition just so
Those happy or sad
Don't really know.

With a quiet tap
Life here pauses again.
There with a plop,
It begins again.

Upbeat

Just a tweet'ly doing
As I'm walking down the street.
Happ'ly movin'
To the song in my feet.

Rat 'tat tattin'
My fingers up and down.
Bobbin' and movin'
My head to the sound.

Closing Ceremony

A thank you ceremony,
Certificate and all
For those that are ready
Like leaves to quit and fall.

Fall to where life takes
And once again climb
Seeing what life makes
Giving much more time.

Some will fall up,
Some will rise down,
Some with joy's full cup,
And some with a frown.

A job has been completed,
In many shapes and forms,
One that's many pleated
And doesn't fit a norm.

New ones come;
Old ones go.
On goes life
Fast and slow.

Key

It's small and brass and round;
It hangs from Beauty's neck,
And never makes a sound.

It open's man's walled place
He carefully protects
From harmful unknown face.

With this she eas'ly can
Gain access to that place
And lay out her old plan--

Unpacking all her life
Inside where he now stands
With face deformed with strife.

She'll make herself at home,
Strip down his arms and toys,
And all the while he'll groan.

Though first he is but mad,
Accustomed he'll become
To that that Beauty adds.

But this that Beauty owns
Is hers to do what with
Her nature to her moans.

This trinket that she has,
She'll share or throw away
Or leave to hang just as.

Her access to Man's heart:
She could open and give back
Or ever lock that part.

Picnic Party

The food in paper plates
On blankets spread out wide;
The talk and friends' updates
And trying from sun to hide.

The wind blows grass in food,
The shoes around the tarp,
A cheerful upbeat mood,
The joy from laughter's harp.

Lazy Saturday

Thinking, thinking, thinking,
Freetime always bringing,
Thinking, thinking, thinking.

Sleeping, sleeping, sleeping,
Nothing always singing,
Sleeping, sleeping, sleeping.

Planning, planning, planning,
Openness always causing,
Planning, planning, planning,

Playing, playing, playing,
Weekend always giving,
Playing, playing, playing.

Graduation

Smiles and tears.
Smiles and tears.
No matter the age,
Hopes or fears,
Family or student,
Or neighboring peers,
Looking ahead and,
Memories from the years,
Bringing on smiles and tears.

Language

Pin
Pen
Pan

This
That
Those

Is
Am
Are

May
Might
Most

Often
Almost
Forgotten

Do
Did
Does

Two By Two

There's a girl
Who on the stairs
Goes two by two.

On the cases
Each other step,
Through and through.

Strident and
Unopposed
Upward to

Wanted floor
Step, step, step
Without adieu

At the landing
A little bit of patting while turning around
Then next to

Higher floor
Upward Bound
How 'bout you?

The Planets

What's rain like on the Sun?
How does Saturn feel about summer?
Are Jupiter's storms ever done?
Is winter on Mercury a bummer?

To you, does Mars seem peaceful?
Doesn't Venus seem violent?
Do Uranus and Pluto miss certain people?
Like the sea, is Neptune really turbulent?

It's like friends of friends of friends,
From stories you often hear:
Piqued inquisitiveness bends
To wanting to draw them more near.

Bicycle

When a kid,
It was a toy.
Everyone had one,
Each girl and boy.

But yet in adult ways,
Though now just transportation,
Pedaling one feels play
And welcome youthful undulation.

A Magician

It's magic you see.
It plays in a different reality.
Brim, bubble, boil, and brew,
Potions for magic just won't do.
Nor with hands and embroidered waves
Though they make pretty shadows in caves.
Wands also just don't do the trick;
However I've shooed away bugs with that useless stick.
Spells and chants and candles all be
A bunch of superstitious trumpery.
No, instead the trick it lies
In trying to open other's eyes.
There truly is magic within the Earth,
And a few at command can give it birth.
But most just plainly refuse you see
That there's possibility of one more reality.

Train

Thump, thump, thump,
Over the bumps,
Thump, thump, thump.
Cars go by,
Whoosh,
Trees and buildings too;
We go flying through.
Thump, thump, thump,
Slowly speeding up.
Penetrating rhythm--
Boom, boom, boom--
Melodically going.
Pheshsh ewwwwwwwk,
Quickly slowing.
People coming;
Some going.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.

My Desk

I've always wanted one,
A desk that's really real.
I never cared if it was wood
Or made from heavy steal.

One with all the accessories:
A lap drawer to hold random stuff,
A name plate, some file folders,
And coffee next to the pencil cup.

I had one at home
But it was plainly fake.
I was only eleven
And couldn't real work make.

But now I'm 24;
I have a different look and feel,
And besides, that, I finally have
A desk that's really real.

What Is It?

Is it age?
That that makes my legs to stop
Their usual quickened pace and glance
At the perfect blossoms spring has made
That make my solemn feet long to dance.

Is it experience?
That that makes me look
In the last sad breath of the sun
Before it with a tear sets.
It's sad enough to make my arms come undone.

Is it wisdom?
That that allows me to stand
So I can marvel at the lion sea
Forever within only five minutes
As it shakes its mane and growls at me.

Is it fear?
That that makes me quit
My lonely entertainment for the night
To only listen to an oncoming storm,
To pay respect but without fright.

What is it that makes us be--
Comparatively young as we may be--
See beauty clearer and deeper than before
As if we've finally opened a bigger door?

Talking Philosophy with a Squirrell

I was in a park.
After a while I sat.
Up walked a squirrel
Who wanted to sit and chat.

He was walking too,
On such a beautiful day,
While all the other squirrels
Were chasing each other in play.

He first said to me
"When days are like this,
You know, I can't help to think,
What all the other squirrels miss.

"Nature has brought
Her daughter, Beauty, out today,
But often, so so so often do I wonder,
Do the other squirrels see it while they play?

"It's fun to run about."
Of this he seemed so sure.
"If I never did it, it would be
Just to feign myself a squirrel more mature.

"I'd deny my own nature."
And I'm sure this was a fact.
"I've limbs and tail that prove
I am capable of playing with the pack.

"But there's a time for each."
He said with two profound head jerks.
"On some of these days, one's mind requires
Taking in beauty and contemplating life's quirks."

Content in his opening
This conversation with me,
Munching on the nut he brought,
He sat and waited for a reply from me.

Onward he profoundly gazed.
I sat there beside him stunned,
And all I could help but wonder was
"How does a squirrel know how to speak English?"

Poem 124

Can whispers of the heart
Be heard across the sea
When loved ones are apart?

Are murmurs of that sort
Strong enough to swim that length
And messages report?

Could secrets 'tween the two
Remain unspoken truths
Untold to someone new?

Con love continue growth,
O'er such a distant span,
And still fulfill it's oath?

To be so far apart,
How sad it truly is
When loved ones ways must part.

Photos

Seeing still moments
Of life portrayed flat,
In a frame
Or projected on a mat.
Candidly by others,
Or by self perfectly planned,
They remind of what's happened,
Show what was done,
Show what was had,
Show what was happy,
Show what was sad.
They all show past,
But in looking
One does suppose
What will future ones show.

The Drinker Next To Me

I sit in a restaurant,
And on both sides
Are drinkers next to me.

On the right,
A face not so bright,
He drinks liquor
To get to numbness quicker,
The drinker next to me.

With shoulders bent,
His glance down sent,
He drinks next to me
But doesn't want me to see
The drinker next to me.

The ones on my left
With voice's heft
Talk to friends many;
They've joys aplenty,
The drinkers next to me.

They celebrate
Their many good fates.
They drink beer;
Their voices ring clear,
The drinkers next to me.

The one across
Doesn't carry a heavy cross.
Instead he tickles spoons
As his girl swoons,
The drinker across from me.

In front of his face,
Her face and two wines well placed.
Two trails from cigarettes;
Each love hoping to get,
The drinkers across from me.

For many reasons,
It's always the season
To stop the pain
Or enhance happiness plain.
Drinkers there will always be.

Concert

One beautiful instrument
Made by father and sons
Polished within an inch of its life.

Two polished oxfords
Matching the leather seat
Moving with the beat.

Three brass casters
Supporting the weight
Of so many greats.

Three pedals too
One louder, one softer,
And one from disuse blue.

Ten fingers on two hands
Producing the emotional range
Flowing from the stage--
Notes flowed for many an age.

88 keys and colors four,
Black, white, brass, and red
Along with the shine of one bald head.

Hundreds of sets of chair and ears
Listening to tonight
With smiles and small tears.

All in ensemble this culture create
Music forever treasured,
For many reasons it pleasures.

Three Hours Left

The slow Friday afternoon run
When all is said and all is done,
Before the weekend fun does start,
Everyone's waiting to part.
There is the silent grumbling roar
Of earnestness laid into store.
Waiting silently for weekend ahead,
The next hew hours many do dread.

Just A Bit Longer

Further on,
Further in,
It's almost here,
That destination.

A little more,
A little ways to go,
Made it this far,
Cannot slow.

No time to stop,
No time to rest,
Do not let
This journey best.

One more valley,
One more hill,
Now's not the time
To be still.

Rest not now,
Rest only then,
Rest will come
Before the next begins.

Step, step, step,
Trudge, trudge, trudge,
If others must,
Let them judge.

Wanted was this begun,
Wanted see it through,
Stopping now
Just won't do.

Further on,
Further in,
It's almost here,
You can win.

A Nap

When head is tight,
When lips are loose,
When tired like after a fight,
When neck feels like it's in a noose,

After going round through round at work,
After trudging home when all aches,
After not getting the door key to work,
After counting all the days mistakes,

At the point when clear thought can no longer come,
At a place where things start to be easily forgotten,
At the corner of still movement and painfully numb,
At the time where the days victories have already turned rotten,

Only 30 minutes of sleep.
Only 30 minutes of sleep.

The couch is the place for me;
The couch is the place to be;
The couch gives a space to rest;
The couch gives liberty best.

Moving In

I know you've been here before,
But let me show you around.
I've swept old memories off the floor
And picked nervousness up from the ground.

Also in important places I
Took time to sort things out:
Bits I no longer new just why
I ever had them laying about.

Here in this drawer I had
Old dreams I no longer see,
And there on that shelf where bad,
Sour habits used to be...

Oh, and in the refrigerator too
I had been saving bitterness,
But all of these I out of my head threw
In order to make room for you
And to live with lesser mess.

In the bathroom, on the shelf,
Where useful ideas are sat
Just make some room for yourself
So I'll always know where yours are at.

If you're going to be in my life now,
Both of us will have to be
Willing to make room for how
The other wants to be.

The Salary Meal

Every paycheck I go out and buy
A meal that's just for me so that I
Can easily remember just how much I
Make within a month and easily can
Splurge on extravagances now and then.
Without this I would feel the constant pain
Of financial strictures that always raise
Pecuniary interest I cannot praise
With hearty words or lauding phrase.
These meals, they remind me that
At times I can purchase easily, in fact,
A wanted manner of life that's fat.
Mostly, once a month, it's me alone
In order to my thoughts carefully hone
And take comfort in being at home.
In this solitude I realize
That life has many sets of eyes
And Time once and then only buys
A set with narrowed field of view--
Seeing nothing varied, nothing new--
Never paying head to the cue.
This meal once a month does give
A chance to fully my life live
And wide perspective on how I live.

Today and the Laptop

I just paid nine-hundred
To get my computer fixed.
Among the old and new parts together cluttered,
Not one old file was in the mix.

While hiding from rain under awning,
A bird asked me the time.
I gave it and looked at the sky's yawning,
And thought this would make a good rhyme.

Yesterday was spring;
With windows open I slept.
Today Mother Nature again brings
Winter and the snow she's often wept.

In the hat shop I notice
Other's future hats never fit.
I instead focus
On what pair of sunglasses to get.

I watched in the cafe
A man light the filter of his cigarette.
He broke it and tossed it in the tray
Then blew a ring with the next he lit.

I'll miss the odd forgotten pic
I had often neglected,
But mostly the music
I'd for many years collected.

The Wind

Oh how the leaves do blow.
They tumble here and there
And flutter fast and slow.

To watch them is so queer
Because despite their tries
They're never blown to where
Their wanted areas lie.

Instead they're forced about,
Romantically opposed,
And Will to Force's bout
Does symphony compose.

In chorus they all make
A fighting sight and noise;
But the wind in end does take
Their right to knowing joys.

Oh how the leaves do flow.
They tumble here and there
And flutter fast and slow.

Now once, one rare old time,
Two leaves from different trees
Did in the other find
A love that weakens knees.

So oft' were they blown near,
So many times before,
But this time they would hear
The sounds not heard before.

This one time would allow
The two paths to entwine.
Though they'd not know quite how,
This time would turn divine.

Oh how the leaves do grow.
They tumble here and there
And flutter fast and slow.

In each they both could find
What others did not enjoy:
A similar state of mind
In playing wind's dear toy.

They loved to blow around,
To go from here to there,
And sometimes to be found
Places they'd not know where.

For now they'd both find glee;
They'd closely tangled fly.
Together they'd be free,
And when calmed, together could lie.

Oh how the leaves do know.
They tumble here and there
And flutter fast and slow.

But soon their nature would
In slow strong paces come,
And whether for worse or good,
Would pull each other from.

It'd pull the two apart;
So gaily as they lie.
They'd both of them depart
Not helping but to cry.

And onward they would go
Enjoy doing what they please,
But they would always know
That love that weakens knees.

Oh how the leaves do go.
They tumble here and there
And flutter fast and slow.

The Other Side of the Street

To walk the footsteps over there--
The other side of this--
To really understand what's here,
One must to it compare.

O'er there there is a different road
That goes a bit askew,
And by it's wanderings it's bestowed
It's walkers with a mode.

A mode of getting here to there
Mistaken by this side
As opposite and ever-bare
Of all that's good right here.

School Desk

A lot can be seen from a child's school desk;
For here's where they'll strive and give forth their best.
All starting with minor small victories won;
And with reading and writing and math each one
Can personally with these new friends come to know
Excitement in learning and how thoughts flow.
Their listening to detail and what is said,
Some sharpened old pencils who oft' are fed
With words that are new and that long to fly,
Or crayons that are capable of entrapping the sky,
The musical instrument sticking out
Who when not often played will begin to pout,
The jump rope that's hung on the the left side hook,
Or science come 'live with the open book,
The desktop that's seen so much sweat, smiles, and tears
That's weatherd the passing of students' years,
It's not one of these that will make kids whole,
But it is the heart and the mind and soul.
It's each of the children in their own way
That need to be nurtured in learning and play.

Calloused

I'm always asked it every time I work,
"But surely you must need some gloves to wear?"
When I say no, they think it not a quirk,
But lack of knowing what will come to bear.
The truth be told, I always have on gloves:
The toughed skin that comes from hard, long toil.
My life has always pushed, and still it shoves
Hard work in front of my way to uncoil
My joyfulness from having rightly earned
The benefit of working inside doors--
But being too experienced has burned
A brand that keeps me out of certain doors.
I work, I lift, I toil, and still I strive
To find a way to soften that what's hard
And change to that that's more alive
And capable of giving what I want regard.

Lost and Found

The box of socks at every laundromat--
The one that no one knows how long there's sat--
It's sad to see such comfortable old things
And no one listening when each their story sings:
The sweat one's seen from close drawn sporting match,
The levity another always fetched,
Some trodden threadbare favorite left aside,
The next from shame can't help but hide.
What steps they must have had both high and low,
But stumblers now have with the strident been thrown.
Now on their deathbed each alone in comp'ny lie,
And no dear loved one comes to say goodbye.

Ties

Soon will he that place depart.
Leaving now will do to he
Harm that he himself has caused.
Ties he's tied to there will be
Stronger than he meant because
He will not his whole self take
Back with him, and life will pause.
Though presenting as mistake
Trials from life like this define
Who we are and how we make
Tribulations turn divine.
Friends and culture, language too,
He with them has self intwined,
And when he leaves he will be blue.
'Cause lashing strong as this will tug
Ripping out the part that to
Him he's tied these things so snug.
There that part will always stay.
Even though he tries to tug
Pulling it will not give way,
And back he'll go without his heart
Though he never longed to part.

Curry

Spicy and filling, this dish delights,
Purging the body of sweat with spice.
Sinuses clear in response to heat--
Rice or with naan and a bit of meat.
Cardamom, turmeric, cayenne too,
Curry can fight with the deepest blue.
O'erloading senses brings mind back round
Offering clarity's silent sound,
Stilling the moment from shaky nerves,
Stealing the person to help preserve
Sense of the self from too scattered thoughts.
Cleansing of soul that is eas'ly bought.

Writers Block

Whether it's lack of time,
Or inability to make things rhyme,
A lack of material,
Or trying to grasp something ethereal,
These times you sit down
To write verb and noun,
Yet nothing seems to work.

The brain has been jerked
Onto a path
That brings forth wrath,
Even sometimes tears
If it lasts for years.

A writer is supposed to write.

When he cannot, he instead fights--
Mostly with himself
Or the books on the shelf
To find and idea, a thought
That will have timely brought
A mode to possess
And presently process
The thoughts in his mind,
But if he cannot find
A way to bring out
And make poetry sprout,
He'll go crazy indeed
From inability to proceed
Down the writers road
To that blessed abode
Of clear running thought
That cannot be taught.

It must be found
As it lies on the ground,
But some lose their way
And can never quite say
Where it is they've come from
And why they think they've turned dumb,
But most get it back
After finding invisible tracks
That others have made.

Receiving this aid
Helps him to grow
And to home start going slow
Until at last
They run there so fast.

The thoughts, they come through
And clarity too.

Then pens can't move as quick--
Those damned little sticks--
As they ought to do
In order to imbue
The writer with time
To account for lost rhyme.

Thoughts

A confetti of thought in colloidal suspension
In a whim of defiance, instead of remaining
On a butterflies wings with the speed of forever
And with silence allowing entrapment and retention,
They flee without quiet damned apprehension.

It is like the few dreams I've been lately not having;
They're so few and so far interplaced that I cannot
Yet one thought clearly think but requiring, needing.
It's without these desired lovely dreams I start raving.
There's no sense to the words I insist to give telling.

I although have belief in the power of habit:
That a person can clarify what's in their foremind
And without concentration that's typically helping.
For those moments, collected fresh thoughts help that facet
Overlooked by those rash, unenlightened, or absent.

Sick Day

These days are for one's health,
Not swelling one's own wealth.
They give the time to rest,
For one to do what's best--
What's needed for that time
So health again can climb.
It's also time for mind--
To think of things left behind.
A chance to turn o'er again
And next day fresh begin
With renewed body and
A fresh new mind to bend
Around new thoughts and times
As life so upwards climbs.

Old Leather Shoes

There are two old friends I wear 'round.
Serving at their posts allotted,
Though now their skin is stained and spotted.
They're aged and tanned old soldier faces--
Two men who've been put through their paces.

First they started out unjaded.
Mildly starting their vocation--
Lightly making conversation,
Walking here and there with heads held high,
Dining, never seeing things wry.

Soon their lives they truly started.
Eyes more opened from day to day
Changed their personality grey.
Painful lessons learned so harshly
That halted former gaiety's folly.

Now by life they've been lambasted.
Though filling purposefully their mission,
Stand they now in worse condition,
But better comrades through time's struggle
Always help me my life to juggle.

Olympics

There is one common universal language:
Competition.
Not all compete,
But all comprehend
Athletes may not speak the same language,
But they understand a touch of the hand:
The one before the event
To wish good luck--
Minds around the same things bent
Trying to be unstuck
Before the race.
Though they themselves and opponents face.
They all know the athlete's life,
Always striving for faster pace.

Even spectators together can sit,
Cheering but knowing their neighbor's mind;
Similarity they unexpected find.
There's nations pride,
The hope, the want,
The awe at ability
That all desire, but few have sought.
The silence while watching,
The craning of the neck,
The reverent observance
At human's ability to perfect
Physical performance.

Everything falls away.
For only a few days,
All rejoice and cheer
And sing athlete's praise.
Occasionally, even some find
They for other nations cheer;
It's not national spirit
But acknowledgement of greatness that rears
Brotherhood,
Comradery,
Peace.

Walking Home in the Rain

Leather shoes,
New briefcase,
Grayish hues,
Hurried pace.

Cars go by,
Clothing soaked.
Crying sky,
Anger stoked.

Beading rain
Seeping through.
Drops that stain--
Feeling blue.

All is wet.
Temper's cooled.
Justly met,
I've been fooled.

This is not
Time of strife.
Grey has brought
Light to life.

Looking up.
Seeing 'round.
Lifting up
What's been down.

Cloth will dry,
Leather too,
Puddles die,
But for you.

Once a while
Drops do come.
In their style
Soon become

Renewed heart,
Lilt in speech,
Lasting part,
Deeper reach.

Snow

A rain, a swiftly falling rain,
It slowly speed begins to gain.
And by a steady wind it blows;
Is pelts and causes stinging pain.

Intensity at last plateaus.
A steady soaking yawns and grows.
Not one dry place does it forsake;
It every surface feels and knows.

The drops do earth's long dryness slake.
Satiety brings 'bout a flake.
They multiply and soon do bring
That comfy blanket they do make.

And droplets who before did ding,
No longer can their dirges sing.
Instead in silent voices low,
The flakes, like chorus bells they ring.

Tomorrow's light brings visions slow
Of whitened scenes that start to grow.
Snow started only just as rain
Is softly balanced on rail and bough.

Bad Day Turn Good

A stressful day,
One cannot play.
One needs relief,
Renewed belief,
In path of life--
Oh moment's strife--
Some room to think,
From stress to shrink,
To breathe again,
For hope to begin,
Some friends so dear,
To hold you near.
Evacuate
To contemplate
The time in whole
And reach the goal.

Pasta

A steaming pot of boiling water
Resting lazily upon the stove
Just warming, getting hotter, hotter--
Comfort food self-made within the home.

The tired veggie peels can rest now
After giving life's accomplished meats.
Ingredients all lie not in sorrow,
Proudly having made just such a treat.

Instead they all have joyous finished
Lives that purposedly have sold their wares.
And now the cook will dine and finish
Wondrous meal with friends in ring of chairs.

Spilled Drink on the Keyboard

A spill.
A thrill.
No chance
To stop.
No glance
At what
Caused this event
I could not prevent.

A thing
To bring
Such stress,
No rest,
Duress.
All fine.
But then this thing
New hell does bring.

A Particular Nothing

There is but every now and then
A certain something bringing joy
Where others see but just a toy.

They're trifling things that bring about
The realization these possesions be
A driving force that easily frees.

They free the mind to think aloud
Because they easily comfort give
And all the present troubles forgive.

To have to look when it is lost
Is a birthday without a gift:
Through hay for needle one must sift.

When reacquired these things do bring
A certain pleasurable knot
The one that's nev'r again forgot.

The Smoking Shed

Forgotten old collection full of dust:
Old things for future use paid love by rust.
A drafty, rotten building long here's sat.
It's only visitor are vagrant rat.
And this was so until a long passed day;
A wandering teacher happened by this way.
Potential in a place not hoping, found,
And within view on public school's old ground.
It's not for all that this becomes a treat,
But three or five away come here to meet.
They smoke and talk and jaw for just a bit,
Or silent can remain to saver it:
A building and place that's to them unique.
Yet of it not a word do any speak.
It's shared, and all innately come to know
The kind of thoughts that such loved places grow.

High and Low

It is amazing how,
Apposing things can join,
Create, perfect, allow,
And new obsessions coin.

The juxtaposed that blend
With catalystic times
And raw enjoyment send
Creating new rhymes.

Like opening a box--
A present unforeseen--
And finding in that box
An unexpected dream.

It's these, these moments queer
That take us by surprise.
For these we must adhere
To keeping open eyes.

beginnings

i discovered my love for poetry a few years ago. at first, i was too embarrassed to tell anyone that i began writing poetry. however, about one year after i began writing, i submitted a few pieces to my university's major student publication comprised of graphic art, prose, and poetry. one of my poems was selected. it was even given a small accolade by a professional writer that judged the pieces selected for the publication. one of my best literary friends--a friend that had for many more years dedicated his life to excellent writing and saw what he considered a novice friend surpass him by the approving nod of an acclaimed writer--told me that my piece was just a nouveau style of unrhyming lines strung together with random spacing and the labeling of poetry. i was crushed. i did not show another sole a poem for another year. then that same friend, an honest, a true, dear friend, and the type of friend who's unthought, uttered, disparaging word does more damage than he could ever imagine, well, he became the editor of the publication the following year. i showed him all my works up to that point. he didn't have room. another few months went by. then i wrote another poem i was particularly proud of. this i did show to many people. now, eight months later, after showing it to many people, i have discovered that one of my most beloved professors from college is teaching my poem in two of his perspectives in literature classes. i have never beheld a higher academic, professional honor. this made me realize my lapse in writing over the last half-year. hince this blog is created.

one new poem
each day
one year

i am the next poet.

i have to keep telling myself this because i truly want nothing more than that. maybe i am sharing this with the entire human race or maybe just myself, but it deserves that statement: i will become the next poet. thus, herewith, i create this year-long goal. it's almost a belated new year's resolution, and with this first post, i am including the college publication poem, the poem being taught in my university currently, and today's poem.

first published...



black cat

i crossed a black cat's path tonight
after a shower to wash away the day.

i opened the door and rested on the
threshold of day and night letting
the unnaturally warm oklahoman-february
breeze brush away a layer of angst
from school to begin work on the next
of granite caused by the crux of an
unsatiated wanderlust and the geographical
strictures of university's life.

it was playing among the stones under
the stairs where no one travels, happily
ignorant of its surroundings, turning
from one thing to another, feeling each
rock for its quality, judging them on their
own merits.

incognitively he pranced across the commons,
he wandered with levity--the sylph, the
being that floats in and out of its own
being.

he stopped.

he chose to acknowledge that a person
was in the doorway watching his move
and we stood, each fixing on the others
gaze decidedly allowing a moment of
connection.

first marching in a straight line with
a pace measured by the encounter until
his feet turned him another direction,
slower, voluntarily going where his
feet were taking him.



currently being taught...



Little Brown Bird

Exploring the day, walking the trails of my mind,
I return home and open the door to staleness.
Continuing like, the fingers of my conscious
Run over the moment to determine the kind
Of temperament my mood has set: a textured mess.
Torn by the brambles and thistles, my attention
Is drawn to a bird in similar situation.

Unaware of his path, he flew through the window
Opened for relief of a stagnant apartment.
Not noticing at first, I heard calamity:
He had sharp notes of stress in his wings, flying low.
I was freed from my tangle but in his was bent:
Caught in the confines of solid walls, restricted,
Floundering, flapping, seeking a way to be freed.

Trying perch after perch, a darting, diving will,
Yet through all the same goal and logic and process;
I attempted shooing and distracting with no
Tangible results to be seen. Finally still,
In a corner alighted and hushed with much stress,
He glanced about calculating what would next be
A plausible way to move pass this and be free.

Gently, slowly, with calming words I moved to him.
In a vain attempt to help set everything right.
Halfway crouched, he startled and again took air
Under his wings. In instinct he paused; on a whim,
He took my finger under him just after flight
It was time enough to cage him between hands,
He deepened his worry caught in something more grand.

Tweet and twitter and chat he continued to complain
Being carried against will to destination
Unknown with eyebrows furrowed in disapproval.
Then through the door and gently tossed into life again,
He spread his wings without hindrance, instant elation.
An eternity of freedom with only one
Stricture: attention paid to direction chosen.



today's...



from one place to another

belongings set aside with care
the old already sorted out
away go things i live without
so to my life a fresh new air

to this decision i give doubt
i leave a place that i desire
a place i'll e'vr require
to go back to the place i quit

this country truly i admire
i'll miss the life i've here begun
returning to a place undone
unfinished by refining fire

the irony of what is done
is that the first and less refined
will help my learning mind to find
an education won by one

the one who needs a training kind
of mentor guiding future choice
to help create specific voice
that leads a man to sight from blind

in this i hope i can rejoice
and give my future chance that's fair
to return to place of thoughtful air
and look back and see rightful choice