Without

 Rain without sun                                           

…canvas, without paint

Old without young

… fun, without laughter

Yellow without blue

… grass, without green

Arrow without a bow

… land, without the sea

Leaves without branches

… trees, without roots

A desk without a writer,
A page without a thought.

Is a dream - without.                                                             

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Image by JackAZ : jackazphotography.com
My poem entry for One Shoot Sunday, at One Stop Poetry

No Matter What I Say

Still wind on a summer’s eve,
drenched moonlit sleeves, like
spotlights on the side of walk;
lighting paths, which focus on our talks.

A step, a stretch, astride, straddling
discussions, unwilling to abide.
Normalcy, pleased and clipped, then
dipped in cosmic gin, expanding thoughts
releasing synergy, as planets of ideas align.

She curtsies and I bow, unsure of how,
but realizing the end is near, one foot off
the curb, a lip a curl and a sneer. But one thing
for sure is clear - the wit of her cynicism
has dipped her brow and beaten, questions
risen, claiming fowl - despite my claims
it was not a chicken, but a hen.

And so it goes, the walk was over,
the sky and moon have closed.
No more thoughts to buy or bid, and
then she said - good riddance
this is clearly - The End.

Because, no matter what I say,
I just can’t seem to win.

Concentration

The following poem was inspired from a tweet I wrote in reference to - Kristallnacht.

TWEET: “On a crystal night, filled with fright, all our dreams... were shattered – then numbered were our days”

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Railed and jammed, trenched in bile,
choking my concentration; buried deep
in stench, now spiraling up,
lost is life’s hope.

Shattered were there numbered days,
striped with prejudices - war and torn.

Crimson edge, along this darkness bleeds;
decay, black with dampened eyes,
stripped bark and skin that sheds.

Wires barbed with teeth, chomping
at the bit; greyed louses, boots,
which stomp and kick, ordered by
their blacken threads.

Then washed away to sodden grounds,
unearthed beneath the sky - where
dreams have laid, withered, crushed
by fools, left limp and dying,
amongst the living dead.

On top of lime and soiled earth,
we now tromp a daily tread, to death.

To Me

On the edge, I stood
just shy of all the rocks
filtered mind of gravity
pulling down my socks
stripping back…,
- exposing me.

Toe to water
silt to sand
I wondered,
where and when
it all began.

Closing eyes
and turning head
I woke before the noon
off to walk and left to ponder
underneath the blackest moon.

Then I thought within my mind
what a busy place to be
so I stopped!
Just so I could see.

In the crowd, I stood alone
surrounded by myself
then she waved and danced for me
this pirouette of hope and self
buried beneath my crashing sea
of humanity and me.

A sparkle and a maiden
whom I could always see
And really,
that’s all that mattered

To me.

Words

Once a word has left, the chamber
there’s nothing, which can be done.

Running along the edge,
of a blade
sharp as a pointed tongue
slipping -
now looking down the barrel,
of a smoking gun.

Awkward is the moment
the sulphur in the air
Black powder, lead against
thin paper [hanging in the] air, bleeding words
left dripping smudges
under eyes..., of despair.

No eraser can retract
words sent flying
heard so clearly, so exact.

If one could only rewind
smoke to lead, lead to barrel
words locked and chambered, in the narrow
..., a passage, tightly tucked away.

Then
nothing else
would need to be said...
this day.

Pale Edges

Play me
Worn keys on a piano
Fingers dancing on ivory skin
Bruised, beyond a note.

Water to the shore
Lapping at my pale edges
Fragile is my soul, which ebbs away

Resolute, the piper plays - a lament
But there’s nothing left to say
Nothing left to give, but blood
Red are my tears, this day.

Dripping past pale edges
I simply wish, to fade away.

A Frame of Mind

Image by Sean McCormick.

Mother, Father, watch me play

I’m piling stones and stones and stones

then I'll stuff them all with hay.

No, no silly me…. in between the stones

is what I really meant to say.

I’ll mix mud and clay,

you know…, so they’ll stay.

Daddy daddy, can I have some wood?

We need a window - please please please,

just a little bit… should do.

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Grey, through years, a foundation stood

once a dream, now a vision seen,

built upon such toil and sweat,

mortar, rocks, timber - and sky…

All framed within my mother’s eye.

The day dad passed,

we watched him fly; in the window,

both, we stood.

Then and now, strong of mind -

I often find, I’m looking back….

Into a wonderful frame of mind.

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My poem entry for One Shoot Sunday, at One Stop Poetry.

20-Stones a Day

I cannot carry your thoughts anymore;
your heart, weighs me to the ground.

20-stones a day you toss, to the north of my
moss-grown tree. No sun, to dry my sodden
face, left green upon your hearth each day and
dark by end of night.

Streams of light filter through - these brambles
grey in hue…, of you. Mist upon the morning
clouds as feelings block my view.

A bag on hip, filled to brim…, I bend and bow,
while picking up these stones and sticks. Lips
trembling, while juggling sins; merciless upon
your wicket whims - am I.

Lay at feet, ankles bound - hands tied to your
heart. I cannot carry your thoughts anymore;
your heart, weighs me to the ground.

But one touch from your ruthless lips, one drink
of you - drunk, I cannot move…., I cannot move.

Each day I pick up all your stones - and carry
them, for you.

A Simple Man in Love

I thought a light simple poem, for a quiet day was in order.
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If I marshal my lonely grief, will you not
surround me in your love - if this is not meant
to be, than bury me, bury me deeper than the
ground can see - as I no longer wish to be, nor
breathe.

If I place my heart high upon a beacon, lift my
arms so you can see - will you look at me, will
you find me.

Shall I flap and beat my chest, so you can hear -
this is not done in jest! Perhaps, you only see
the fool, but I tell you now, I am different from
the rest.

I have not jewels or palaces; I know not kings or
queens. But what I can promise you…is us [and me].

For I am just a simple man, in love…with you!

Timothy Leary and Me

Image by Sean McCormick.

On the grass I lay, rising to the fall of pitch.

A sea of land, sinuous and rich - I fall. Side to

side, listening for the siren’s call.

Flag of mind, undulating in the breeze below my

eyes. Turquoise brooding vastness of blue hues

and darkened skies. Dreams of bending curves -

streaming heat and galaxies. I lay and watch,

as they zip by.

An incandescent masterpiece - aglow, beneath

a roof of mind; protected by the vitality of

weathered trees, stripped back - holding the

vastness, of the prairie seas.

Lying on the floor, watching from afar, just

beyond the orange glow of the open door, we

sit and drink a cup of tea, while listening to the

march of pink wheat and crickets -

just Timothy Leary and me.

My poem entry for One Shoot Sunday, at One Stop Poetry.

On Top of Tall

If I stood on top of tall,
throwing life into the wind,
would I be carried off to sea,
left scattered amongst the squalls.

Would I be washed and cleansed,
or set sail beyond the curvature -
of the lens; no mast to carry me,
nor sails full or free.

If I stood on top of tall,
beyond a stretch to see,
balanced on the edge,
willing it to fall; would I then be
looking past and beyond it all.

Left standing, a finger to the wind,
a current of the time, everything in
view, and everything is mine.
The only thing I need to do -
is to stand on top of tall.