Poems

This is where I'll keep my poems.  Enjoy.

Angels in the Sand

Shadow walks.

Shallow walks.

Deepness walking by.

Shallow prints of deeper things,

opposite the sky.

Prints from walks.

Prints from talks.

Remembered days gone by.

Little footprints in the dust

compliment the sky.

Be not silent

burning star. 

Your light ignites my sky.

My everything; my only one.

Your footprints next to mine.

A story young.

But to grow old; 

your footprints next to mine.

I'll walk eternity with you 

and, with you, touch the sky.

Evening

Evening rolls in, evening out the cloud-wrinkled colors left by a past breaking dawn;

The end of a broken day.  

--Painted high, with ivory and gold, a day breaks every day  

But breaks as into song; not shattered pieces to mourn.

Evening rolls in; not breaking.  Relieving the fingers of day.  

Releasing its dutiful grasp on the sky.

And the stars seem to jingle like so many bells; 

Dusty bells on deep blankets of untroubled night.

Brooms of dark trees sweep stardust from the sky

As the moon stirs a spoonful of midnight on the horizon.

Here I looked for His tender mercies: In the comets; the tears of the stars.

Oh! The lenses and the light! Must silence be so dark a word?  

Here I began to see the iron path.

Here I came to believe in angels.  

To a Soldier

All they push you to is winning

And when you do, they make you feel ashamed

I pity you mighty soul

Being made a monster is uncomfortable

Growing

Mother taught more than the flowers to grow that summer

Now, walking beside the beaten path, I wish to help them live

Feeling a grin, I remember when I learned that missing the mark 

Leads to a dirty face and futile breaths

I can almost feel the porch railing in my stomach again

It’s funny now

Mother lifted my head and planted my feet

I learned to make things grow that summer

Walking beside the beaten path I see the flowers remember their lessons

They’re still growing

Confusion is commonly found where I stand.

Chasing the rainstorm, wishing it would blow my way, 

Whispering a quiet huzzah in my heart,

Living on the verge of tears.

Sydney’s crayons,

Macaroni and grasshoppers,

Piecemeal poems, 

Volumes said to the wind.

Useless usefulness.

Someone else can stir the pond; it’s clearer when it settles anyway.

The music in my words is twelve tone.  

Abnormal rhythms and irregular rhymes, anthemic operas of dissonant dreams.

There’s no proving a thought to an unused mind.

What about a harbor keeps a ship afloat?

Frozen echoes of dances passed?

You’re yelling in my heart.

Like falling down stairs.

Sunflowers

My sunflowers are gone.  

Somebody thought they were in the way and pulled them.  

You just can’t cry at sunflowers so what do you do instead?  

So here we stand at the end of all things, once again at the brink.

Walking alone with the rest of them.

Truly Scraps:

Do you ever catch yourself becoming convinced of your imagination?

Pouring homophones through gramophones and ringing tones and grinding stones beneath our bones. 

It doesn’t make the right sense when the pieces aren’t all right.

But you’ll be alright in the end.

Comets are the tears of the stars.

Funny how tears go down and tempers go up.  

There’s plenty of water under the bridge.  

Plenty of fire in the sky.

A glance at the trees might remind the travelers how small they are.

Seeing the iron path,

The cold rush of blood sets my bones on fire;

Or the days that passed with colors ripping past the borders of all thought.

What somethings speak with subtle voice when hearts are left alone to chase the fleeting years?

The memories of life that barred the dark of nightmares past; prayers that fractured fear.

Listen to the crack of my weak-side ankle jabbing at the walls of the museum.  

It reminds me of the echoic crack in my heart: because I’m there alone.

The joy of discovery isn’t bound by the laws of reality.

How do you stop the pendulum swing?

It’s like watching a cheese grater do math.

Watching butterfly dreams; sitting on a tennis ball imagining it’s the world.

This morning I felt warm and saw snow.

It’s difficult to write on small pages.

Drawing lines

At a line drawn in the sand

you draw one in the stars

and cry at all creation

your line will not be crossed.

But earth turns round across your line

and stars hold in their place.

Creation’s crossing crosses you

Sitting alone in the sand,

drawing lines.

Moon Water

Moon water flows through my window

I never just look anymore

Mountains, shocks of amber burn

Blue bright sky, dark on the peaks

The moon burns with them- 

The amber cliffs

But moon water burns white, pouring through my window

Friend light-

Like light on the tide of home shores,

Smiling water flows in.

Panic

Sitting alone, desperately alone

Amongst the various clicking tickings.

What if my nose begins to drip with them?

What then?

Someone must come, but surely they won’t.

I am alone and will remain so.

My legs ache and prickle

Like miniature threats that I’ve been here too long.

And the ticks tick on.

All things within my reach

Are but leaves in the fall--

Dying diversions form the oncoming winter.

Oh! That I had not come here today!

There must be another way.

Alone, undone, cold.

I perish this way.

I am out of toilet paper.

Blank Pages

Blank pages.  

A sea run dry.  

Shorelines unzipped blaring at the sky, 

as if to cry out against it.  

What did the sky have to do with it?  

To be filled is not the only use for spaces.  

Blank: the word thinks for us.  

Unused, undone, un-learned-from.  

Pages left unwritten are no proof of not writing.  

The life-trails left in the sand of the sea aren’t a lack of ink.  

Stripped, torn, beaten, worn; the pages bind and grind and burn.  

Holding itself so high the sky cries “blank” at the frozen sand.  

Silent as the once sea stones, blank pages flash back and grin.  

There’s room for that on 

blank pages.

My Candle is the Low One

Standing in the ashes falling,

Existence in your arms.

Light through grey is grey.

What color would the light have been?

What color should it be?

“Ivory and gold!” comes the cry.

Some hearts reflect the river, some the sky.

The softness of forgetting is lost

To the scrawl of the learned man.

How do you stop the pendulum swing

When hard earned blood runs dry?

As an arsonous flame to the school of thought,

Clouds of broken chaos breaking;

My candle is the low one--

I’ve been burning it.

Let the Ink Run

God bless the colors of your mind;

The anthemic operas of dissonant dreams

Standing before you, a wall to the day.

Volumes said to the wind,

Screamed at the deep.

Are you as silent inside as out?

So let the ink run.

And golden light of day and dawn, 

Though mountain hardly purple shines, 

Burn in bolts of amber sun

More cold than aching time.

And let the ink run.

With a quiet huzzah, 

You walk through the dawn; 

Tearing its seams as you pass.

Tearing its seams at your dreams.

Walking alone with the rest of them.

Like walking next to a ghost;

Like dancing with no bones.

So let the ink run.

Welcome to the scraps of an unsettled mind.

Speak not your silencing solutions.  

Their breath is too shallow to still the deepened soul.

My feet don’t trust the ground anymore; 

Delicate sole.

And let the ink run.

Hope Rolls

Let moon console the morning

As pass the morning must

And come the gentle evening

To hide away the dusk

But swiftly as the hours roll

The moon must go to sleep

And come the mighty morning

To light the shadows deep


Scraps

When battles crack, I halt to watch dreams pass

From incomplete to ideals worth my heart.

The stained cacophonies of shattered glass

That catch the screaming light and bar the dark;

The days that dance with hopes that live beyond

The ardent choreography of time;  

What balls of black loom dark in front of dawn’s 

Next coming day?  These battles are not mine,

But they are left to climb my yesterdays. 

What could be sent to wipe away the dark--

Step up, step round and ring a sound that stays

To undo what has split the dawns apart?

     I’ll scream out loud when I am called to be

     The one they send to break the iron sea.

A Lovely Nightmare

What a lovely nightmare is this?  

Where the smiling man shines darkly up 

From the black light of the sea and, 

Upside down, frowns.

And what of dust bunnies 

Swept to the corners of society?

What will they do when the twilight police 

Catch the gleam of their hearts in the fire frenzy?

Live?

In a simple moment, not so simply found,

the Calamity collapses in around them.

Flame and dark.

No; 

The corridor of light shot through the weight of 

Dark trees

Frees.

What brought breath to fated disaster and un-fated it?

The mind, 

Waking.