The stream (all workshops)
Young, tender moon of spring
pale yellow and smooth as a mirror
The sight of you excites me
Now swollen and full of summer
Your face is lit with the sun
and I swoon in your light
Orange tinged and ruddy of complexion
imparting mysteries across your face
You are the huntress of my soul
A silver orb in icy reverie
reflects on white dunes of snow
Making my heart pound in ecstacy
Many faces and phases of Luna
all with their own special glow
To light my way
Most Intelligent
I’m not the most intelligent being on the planet
In fact, there is much I don’t know or understand, but
I recognized unintelligence in moving jobs to other nations
With expectations of selling to the mother country after
Having lost jobs and money since the movement
Now, with joblessness at its highest due to outsourced jobs
Some are saying maybe the industrialists will bring jobs back
After all, it was economical to move jobs to other states
But, I perceive it’ll be uneconomical to bring jobs home again
snow is falling like a prayer
the light of dusk trickles through
like a sparkling flare
the lakes are not closed and are black
like night where your sleepwalking
wakes me covered in stars
you are an angel without wings
against the banks of windows
etched in frost
naked and evoking invocations
in your bare feet
while the flooring plant shunts its
business past the mill houses
and a freight calls hollow
in the depths
Every night I look into the mirror and see a person I don't recognize.
She has short brown hair, jelled down, and brushed in her face that covers one eye.
Brown eyes of pain and sorrow, a beautiful soul, her soul is like a light slowly fading away.
Her thoughts of the past, and her hopes, and wishes for the future to be bright.
But she is hurt inside, torn apart, confused, disarray.
Everything she does is wrong in the eyes of people, especially her own.
In the eyes of the Mother and Brother she is brave invincible.
One day in my life that never should have happened.
The pain and sadness that rushed through my body when I heard the first tear drop.
Seeing my Mother cry, seeing the tears fall, and hearing the silence that follows it all.
Remembering the good times, remembering the fight and losing the war.
I know that you will always be with me in everything I do, but I still wish you were here with me to.
Looking into your bed and seeing you made me drop down and cry, seeing you still in my mind.
The weight you lost was too much.
These amputees you see
Along the streets of Freetown
Made their choices to stay alive
When the rebels asked them
To choose between the two
Long or short sleeves
And they cut off their hands
Accordingly
The wrist for a long
And elbow for a short
When Ben encountered them
He refused to select any sleeve
They tied him up
And cut off both his wrists
He begged them to kill him
Instead of being a burden
They put him in the boot of a car
And burnt him alive
Crippled individual
dismal outlook on the day,
knows there's only false hope
to coerce him on his way.
Pencil selling blind man
tells himself it's work,
the good news is he's spared the sight
of rolling eyes, and each knowing smirk.
So very tired of their homeless plight
and their consuming inner gloom,
a puppy of extremely rare pedigree
is sold so they can pay for a room.
prechorus:
sleepless nights
my memories return to you
haunting me
every time a show is through
Ears still ringing
head still hurting as I lay in bed
from the crowd and all the singing
that keeps running through my sleepless head
Too many empty wasted years
of too many clubs and bars
and far too many shots and beers
in front of the drums and loud guitars
chorus:
sleepless nights
bloodshot eyes
rocking nights
exhausted days
What if i wanted to write poetry
and offered alms to the poet?
Give me a few words or give me
poetic death--
stasis is not a state of mind
nor the gist of things
like stingers on a scorpion
shaken from swaggering boots
of morning,
or a bumble bee,
neither
too yellow or too black
to carry its full weight;
forgive me for being where I'm
not wanted
or being who I am--
I'm an American Outlaw:
a stone's throw from
royalty and deeper than dirt
in my own shit
The importance of knowing something
as opposed to knowing nothing,
for sure,
imposes a quandary,
words are objects of adoration, sometimes
words bite back from the margins of the page.
Tawny lions in the Gia forest of India roar
the Barbary lion is extinct.
The expedition to the inner landscape changes,
thorny forests of poetry rip the skin.
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