the floor felt normal
with the way motion flowed
across my back:
the pad of need,
the stomp of desire,
and the guilty slide of give.

That is

until I sat up and
said “no”,
“You can’t”,
and “I won’t.”

your faces a portrait of
disbelief, mistreat, unkept
and sweeping disappointment.


Lovers melody

As spring welcomes the bee
with flower strewn
blankets of grass,
the sky swells up with joy
to meet the ocean’s kisses,
love drifts down in
dew silk drawn tears
and the wind
laughs quietly
in joyous melodies,
where lovers arms dance
to the rush of oak
limbs climbing
to heaven.
Two souls
in search of the other;
slipping into
my heart.

Thoughts on Free

momentary peace
made out of
bartering lords
for weapons
and sections of
genetic purity
with wolfish grins
to sin
more divinely
in the presence
of the holy
dollar sign
and then
there is me
searching for
in a world
too unsure
and not
of their own actions
to searches
but necessary
to be free
and a medium coke,
caught on tape
at every corner
going unnoticed
the eyes
of zealots
with pink umbrellas
and cheap cologne
standing like a 1930s
private eye film
under the lamp
in the rain
watch everything.
Is anyone listening?
can you not hear
the cries of shadow
in the night
under covers
trying to hide
their affections
for fear of
someone else’s
sending warriors
in the guise
of old women
children and
to shame
and cast into hell
their dreams.
What makes these aggressors
any different from
The megalomaniac leaders
In near and faraway places
Innocent faces
Zooming out from
Bringing death
With a price
For oil
And cash crops
Slinking upward
Into the mouths
And minds of
And nations
Too high up to
You or me.
To them
Are fodder
And filth
We are insignificant
and truth be told
we ARE the cancer
bringing change
to this disease
called presidential free-dumb.
So when the tasks
And masks and momentary peace loving
dollar sign grubbing lords of our age
Step out on to the stage.
Say no to what they are selling
Take back what they are spelling
Out as the only truth
And actually be

((reposted from nowhiteclouds))

The Music Box

Japanese Music Box by George Winston 
(read to George Winston's Japanese Music Box)

The wind moves through the trees; dancing blades of grass.

The petals sing like
tears up
on .
.     my .
.            face.

the blossoms fall
fall .
.      like .
.              snow.

The sun slips through her arms; holding dark shadow.

The petals sting like
tears up
on .
.     my .
.           face.

the blossoms fall
fall .
.       like .
.              snow.

The moon winds up through time; kissing paler skin.

The petals lay like
tears up
on .
.      my .
.             face.

the blossoms fall
fall .
.       like .
.              snow.

The earth embraces stone; languishing in death

The petals lay like
many mournful tears up
on .
.      my .
.             face.

the blossoms fall
fall .
.       like .
.              snow.

The river comforts soul;  bidding life to rest

The petals swirl, play and then lay
like tears up
on .
.      my .
.             face.

the blossoms fall
fall .
.       like .
.              snow.

Vicarious Visions

Vehemently viewed
through the color
of rose stained
glass windows
on Church Street
where dinner
is served to the poor
and homeless on sunday
after a bout of
motivational-ly fearful
words spill out
like rice
cakes on the floor
hard to munch
hard to swallow
and then there
are those
who are not poor
not hungry
just regularly
requesting rights
routinely written
given and protected
by the representatives
at the front of the
try not to get mean
and trample on the values
we have yet to possess
in all of the contests
behind rose windows
do so uphold
with their noses
in the air
looking down

How I wish for a stone
to rattle
against the windows
and ‘righteous’
((reposted from older blog nowhiteclouds))

It’s that simple

slithers beneath my skin
burning every notion
of civil dialogue
with this demagogue;
and inviting
demons imagined
with rage
to take stage
and gloat
from pulpits
or drink
don’t think
his cup of morali-tea
simmered in 2000
giving reasons
stoning solution
civil execution
of rights.
Now the acrid motion
of emotion
melts past indecision
fists grip
feet shift
the horizon changes hue
from me to you
into red
into orange
bringing out our
to engage
into the ground
our feet pressed down
and running
negating tyranny
by a malicious majority
to be you
to be me…

It’s that simple

Blind Reason

Motivated by sympathy
orchestrated by fear
out of reach
like pealing a peach
the media holds hands
with the devil.
Let me get my shovel
for all the shit
smothering and damp
thrown out into the world
by clamoring salmon
discrimination is written
and so it should be
as we see
not as it was intended
or was it?
mix into a glass of
almost got it
and left behind
on a bus to nowhere
on a bridge to anywhere
get me out of here!
There is
to much blind

to the negation
taxation with
no representation
not you
only me
Why not seek civility?
Be you and be me
not us against them
count your friends
1 to 10
million waging a war
fighting for more
It’s crazy, when freedom
should ring
it only fizzles
in rain drops and drizzle
for the haves.
Was it not womens voices
standing in traffic violations
beaten and thown in chains
that brought out the bell
with determination?
Why can’t we,
like them
honor our dead
and lay out our cause
at the feet
of invisible motorcades
and escapades of political
so the blindness
can be removed
and you and I be moved
to peaceful affections.

The first haunting

(reprint from 2006)

Fortune Telling

I was eight, when I found a chinese fortune telling game on the bookshelf. I don’t remember where it came from and I am not quite sure exactly how it got to the shelf. What I do know is it captivated me. It called out of me curiosity and scoffed at the idea any such thing would hurt a cat. So, without hesitation, my hands found its edges and pulled it off of its safe ledge. I sat down on the floor to further examine this new found treasure. The images were slick, colored black and red, and the back spoke of the future if the cards were laid just so.

The future.

As an eight year old – the future was tomorrow and what concerned me most was if Sister Mildred was going to let us get out of math by telling us one of her ghost stories or if she was going to find the cheat sheet under Robert’s desk and make us do spelling for 2 hours.

Dealing Cards.

I shuffled. I mixed. With careful movements ushered chaos into the order of things. Then I lay out the plastic board and set the cards upon them in the order I was suppose to. Each card I flipped offered new adventure and hope. All except the last one. The last one was Death.

Death, Be not Proud.

I vaguely remember it saying I was going to witness death in an accident of some kind or be in an accident of some kind, or die in an accident. Nevertheless, at 8, that was a big deal. No longer the innocent of 10 minutes prior. Now I knew… death was going to find me. It was going to catch me by surprise. It was going to loom around me until I wasn’t looking. It was going to find


But I was eight. Weeks passed and Death did not grace my world. Soon I was nine, then ten… and before long the crazy chinese fortune telling cards were sold or lost or both. Death, had died.

Speaking of Death.

Or had it. Now at 33 I have seen Death’s masks. I have smelled it. I have tasted it. I have witnessed its hunger…. and it’s passion. I have seen its jealous hand maliciously move me towards hope only to reveal the object of my affection – in its sights.

and of Praying.

I do pray. I do hope. and silently, when the night air is thick with water so my tears cannot be so nearly felt, I ask for Death to meet me and discuss the terms of my affection’s release. But he never comes. I awake – with only sweat to remind me of the words that fell silently unheard or ignored.

Damn chinese fortunetelling cards.

describing self

I am like orange not quite made up on red
like blue with the hints of jealous green
waiting for a cloud to cover my sky
a brilliant piece of paper
for which to write a thought

I am like wind, not quite a hurricane
though at times one might argue otherwise
like rain left mesmerized upon a pane of glass
left to ask the question of what is next
as it trails after gravity

I am like a window not yet rid of rose
like hazelnut coffee filled with raving bits of chocolate
longing for cream to drip over and slip
and meander into a world
of smiles and sighs

I am clear
not yet transparent
glowing in the sun and
and reflecting moon
a revelation
of two thoughts
become one
as it reaches for the stars

I am blue not quite cian
a partly cloudy diamond sky
for bits of jealous suns to break through
and cast brilliant color
upon my skin.

… with intent.

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