I think I shall compare you to a spring's blessing
you grow as the flowers burst through the rich soil
despite the cold rain, petals remain soft. kissable
roots strong, leaves absorbing life
yes, I think I shall compare you to a spring's blessing
Little Clementine
Deep bright colorings
Tiny green patches
Sweet cold juices
My little clementine
Dead Pigeon
Dead Pigeon upon the roof.
Smooth grey and milk white feathers.
Twisted neck leaking unknown fluids.
Super dead pigeon upon the roof.
Really boring man
Slightly hunched back.
Glasses hanging from nose
Grey hair balding.
Yacking about nothing and everything
Really boring man.
Mudd
Squishing, splashing, encasing my feet
We dip, dive, and play as if children
The sun beats on my back as it dries our mudd pies
As pigs we cool off in this great brown pool.
A perfect relief from the ever heating hot day.
My horse
My horse, my once loyal spirit!
You look so elegant, smooth, and passive over there
I know better now, for you have a beast inside of you mentally and physically for that matter
For after the incident an awakening has set up before myself and of yourself
But still there is something fiercely beautiful about you, as colorful fruit tempts the lusting hand
Able to burst is your mind over my own
A fearful thought of the closing of the sun
You are many more pounds than myself, and myself can not trust to be your anchor
Own master you are at a moment's wish.
Respect you I now do, kind sir.
LOVE WISH HOME
MY only love she blessed to myself.
The curtains fall in remission, a little more the stars shall once again emerge.
For my love, I bid thee farewell.
Oh we shall be bound upon the returned flight and my wish bound by a small treasure.
BROWN LION
The brown squirrel skitters by. His whiskers trembling with rough autumn food.
I myself tremble in time.
Although, I myself able to also climb
Yet, I myself may be a lion
If I myself grew bold.
Do I disappoint myself?
Do I edge on myself?
I watch he who may climb, tail a long bush of soft hair.
I suppose I myself may one day have a bush of soft mane.
To make others tremble and not the squirrel itself.
Race Peddle Myself
Keep racing and going the distance
Grand racer of truth and despair, your tires accent the smell of sticky tar, the smell of deep black cement
I understand, I ponder too, my own car races alongside.
But myself I see as for you, you look apart and gaze through all windows and mirrors.
Though my own reflection in the rear view mirror denies and entraps me.
I myself, bounded by this snake for safety but as a struggle against the peddle.
DOVES KISS MARBLE
When doves at last flew above. And the great universe kissed this great marble.
She sang and sang a beautiful song.
Yet the goddess returned, the curtain set high.
The doves bled on drops drip as feathers down flutter fly.
And thought of the future ones lost.
Spanish Fan
Spanish fan, fan of fiery Spain.
Ridges painted just enough to catch the golden eye.
Less obvious than its brothers.
Yet it is truly beautiful.
Flowers twirl when it opens with a whoosh
When they are closed they are forever hidden.
Open it Again! Pink flores, golden vines twirling from right to left across the stained wood.
Forget the world feel the air being pushed by this instrument in whatever direction desired.
yet one must make the choice to open this plain wood in order to watch the flores dance.
And this choice separates us all.
This Minute Stay
This is a minute of your soul.
A free fall away from this time.
Everything weaving together. A carcass of mush upon the land.
Not clear, not pleasant naturally, but still there.
This is the minute in which your fate is decided.
Arise to the trees or sink like a rusty anchor to the cold dark world.
This is the moment in the minute in which your organs twist
Eyes closed, breathe for life, prepare for what is to come.
and SAY....!
Whatever path is chosen may there be mercy given.
For either way the night will have stars, the eyes of the angels watching.
chose wisely, my friend.
Red Sun Moon
Until I turn Red
The moon shall pull on myself as she pulls on the sea.
Shame for her and her beauty, I shall run away.
Fireflies twirling as my bare feet steps upon the dew kissed grass.
Until I turn Red
The moon shall mock myself as she mocks the sea's whales.
Run my dear, run over the rolling hills until you may breathe no more.
Collapse in a field of sunflowers.
Their long bodies, faces frowning to the dark lady. Protecting thyself.
Until I turn Red
Sleep out of the rays of the full bodies moon glaring down.
Searching. Hunting.
Arise fair sun! Arise!
Send her back to where she has come from.
Until I turn Red
The moon shall always hunt as I shall always run.
Seek revenge. Shatter my nightmares.
My precious sun, my friend. ARISE!
Glass Mason Jar
Mason jar filled with rough color dimmed patterns.
Sunlight piercing from the window radiating and bouncing off the glass.
Tell me your stories of life and then death.
I attempt to read the patters as hieroglyphics. Strange to the eye.
Despite my best efforts the salt soaked wonders encase their secrets forever.
Drops Drip Blood
Do not wish upon a star
He will not know who you are.
Red Hands! Red Hands!
You sinner of red roses.
You luster of darkness.
Go back to your cage.
Drip Drop Drip
Red Blood. Red Blood.
Satisfaction Obtains
Satisfaction is what is not obtained.
The fruit upon thick vines, snake snarling.
It is a never ending thing.
There is no cure.
The wax of a smooth apple, a sneaky false thing.
In the jungle, by the Judge.
We are awakened.
Road Kill
Sleep lush water
allow my sweet embrace
The fish move as submarines
above the sky the birds fly as spacecrafts
In the woods there is no stick that may not scratch my feet
or blood that will not run dry
Gazing at the stars
Sleeping under the pines
The owls coo
This world is never done
Then here I go,
acknowledging the thick concrete and all of its statued machoness
This squirrel quick as a paper cut skids across the street
how typically it becomes roadkill.
Tingles the Skin
Show what may be passion or ash
The bugs on the logs scream as they shrivel
yet the warmth of their sacrifice
tingles the skin
The bats cut the star dust dropping from above
as the smoke pollutes their lungs
yet we do love the smell of the soft grey
Destruction Chimneys Shit
In the heart of destruction
they came
out of the filthy gutters, forsaken woods, and lullaby streams
Deer, robins, rats, and more polluted our yards
they had nowhere better to be
A way of protest they stained the grass crimson
Without words they spoke the loudest
as they shit in our gardens, attics, and expensive patio furniture
What overwhelmed us
was the realization that the bullied
may rise as easily as a sheet caught in the wind
Burnt Wires
In an attic there is a lamp.
Its spirit full of elegant fibers, are frayed at the seam.
The boxy shade strong of silk and lace now eaten by moths.
The bitter smell of organic hunger and unpolished silver reeks.
The lamp’s base of dull silver metal
Struggles to sing its lullaby.
A steady hand made floral carvings on it long ago
Tulips, roses, daffodils, and dragon snaps elegantly twist together but are now tarnished
They sit on a forgotten vacant land.
The bulb stands high on a pedestal of the neck of the lamp.
The bulb who’s light was the envy of the stars is gone.
In the lampshade’s cocoon, the evil emerged as an odd creature.
A small dark cloud staining the once white glass, wires twisted
The top of the bulb is now spikey shards of blood lusting glass.
It taunts the flesh to play.
What is to blame?
This brain shattered.
The glass longing to tear valuable tissue so smoothly
A shard to the brain sounds as cutting fabric with dull scissors
There is nothing but brokenness in this bulb.
There is no reason behind those dark pupils
Eyes foaming in crimson
There is no desire
Burnt wires
The decay of this bulb has let loose a vicious seeping poison.
A monster of the devil himself sent to destroy its host.
Along the way burning out others.
This bulb has made a choir of the once smiling lamp.
He is the fine conductor.
Singing and leading the musical lines of a madman.
Whispering lies to break and crack
Give no pity
Yet, there is always a sunrise that is sought.
Always a fresh bulb.
Hidden somewhere in the cupboard of the mind
One must clear the clutter.
So much progress and potential hidden for a worthy life
Found is a new sought light.
Twist it in
The saint shines with tears for the lamp is reborn
Brightly.
The rest of the transformation will follow
If one attempts to take this ash fed lamp.
Polish the silver until the long neck shines as a swan’s
To try to replace this torn shadow with a fresh new fashion.
Birds of feathers flutter fly
The shade now covered in daisies.
Peculiar Hug
We all eventually set as the sun
Gulls fly as shadows against the slowing heart beat of the day’s heat
This is not to be sad
This death; a peculiar hug, is a world whole and new
As if we were new born monarchs of life
Only to migrate in the fall
For the sun arises again
To say farewell to the other stars of passion
The bird’s wings are sleek on top
The rough dirt ones below
This is inevitable
Why must we wander?
Pretend something we’re not
When we know of the starry night we must meet
This earth below my feet does not excite me anymore
Everything is loud
Everything is wasted