Stan the scribbler
is always a dribbler,
he reads some of mine
whenever...
but neither is he on my fan list
nor am on his
after all with bosses
one can’t be
too pally

Ian, comes next
after his heavenly rest,
He is my very best
for I’m a bard for him,
I thought small bard
Shakespeare!
till he clarified,
no, one who sells
what ever one tells…

down we walk
the afternoon block
The howl of the moon
crisp like a welcome
dime
behind the tired roof lines
she shines

Thirst you say
initiates
travel

Into the shade
The coveted cafe
chrome formica
and couchs for
slouching
how you shine
in this cavern
room

while outside the
small street slips
cars full of gleam

the coffee house scene

.
sometimes I find, to my amusement, thinking of the past
brings, with nostalgia, sagacity
so preached to me from when I stood (and sometimes quite aghast)
while eyeballing the top of my dad's knee

such things as those he told me from the time I was a kid -
to always choose the right tool for the job
and learn to change my own flat tyres, steer into the skid
behind the wheel be neither snob nor slob

Sometimes, at times
there's a feeling
at the bottom most pit
in ones form
why do we compose?
and
expect others to repose,
faith in what one does say,
poetry is just a manner to display,
the nuances of the innermost
depths of one's own conflict,
why upon others our misery
do we have to inflict?

BARREN NIGHTS

The night came upon me
barren
no nurturing light
no warmth in its darkness
stars veiled in black embrace
meaningless to its own existence.
mirrored reflection....

they crowd to mock
the crying drama
the soul shock

they want to rock
the stone of words
shatter hearts
and stifle souls

the life that leaves
pressed out with
words

sticks and stones
break more then
bones

I wearily rise to my feet
as setting sun and tree line meet
For I've been hunting winter's meat
in this instance a futile feat
alternate 1st stanza
I wearily rise to my feet
then suddenly I take a pause
as bobcat stalks on silent paws
for him an ordinary feat

Crackling joints shout their pain
complaining of abuse and age
cackling turkeys rise to their roost
remaining barely out of sight

I didn't want to let him go. After all, he was only five.
‘Come on Mum,’ says Senior Seven, ‘I'll guard him with my life.’
I studied them standing tall and straight. They looked so big and grown.
I felt a strong nostalgic wave. Where had my little ones gone?

every time i think 
we are cool
you say the meanest things
you make my cry out
in classic blues
of a busted heart

you must know and time
my change of attitude
when you are nice to me
with a drop of nastiness
to make me aware
of your long standing
disguise rsentment
so well in you peace offerings

oh you are so clever
waiting for me to complain 
about things you know i hate
while pretending to be unaware
of things i find annoying

Sitting in my study,
smiling peacefully in my chair,
to the rapping of the neighbors son, downstairs
Smiling cuz his rapping took me to a special place.
A place where I am young, like him,
and had to be misplaced.

Misplaced because my rocking,
made my parents feel encaged.
They'd run me out the house,
but in the driveway I would rave.

Singing loudly metal jams,
my hands in fists of rage
Banging my head, screaming, rocking,
Having my own way