Cracked Clock

There’s a crack in my clock that bends over my wall.

It stops the falling limb’s track dead at noon

It’s been shattered for months, I think

I’ve been lost for the same

I choose not to fix the broken tick

Tipping my nose at the frustrations of certainties

I follow the synthetic legitimacies of the universe

Assuming that time stands still for me

No longer tocking in with the music surrounding

The clocks refrain cackles the air

The untuned tempo falls short from belief

Shaking the world without its tickering snicker

The crack in my clock rattles the world

With each mind disbelieving missing rhythm

Unmasked possibility of nonexistence

Designing fear of an inevitable end no longer on hand.

Blind Lion Roaring

I am a blind lion roaring

forming fear to a man called the Seer

who just sits and listens

the sound intimidates his surroundings

and disappears without causing a commotion.

I am a rabid roach lying

Foaming at the poison fuming in a corner

I watch the Seer pick up a book

He whispers the words, “Show Me”

without warning he flattens my brother.

I am a toothless shark swimming

Faking strength navigating waters

I sense the Seer sleeps in the shallow

I belly up to the sand and wait as I drown

He lends a hand to deepen my madness.

Alone on a Wednesday Afternoon

Alone on a Wednesday afternoon

I tried to find a friend

but everyone had left me

so I sat by myself waiting

wishing that someone would call

no one again,

not a ring from anyone I confess, it’s degrading

So goes another fall,

just like I knew it would be

alone dreaming of the sea

or how it would be to glide to the moon

Swelled and left too soon;

when we reach our bitter ends

little is left of my plea.

Less crying will help start hearts equating,

I’ll do all I can to stall.

Life is all so small,

dreams descend

trivial time penned

love that never responds when its opportune

Nite Owl

There’s a Nite Owl that wishes to be a sunbeam.

In the dark, that thought is gone.

Streaming along, out over the lawn,

That predator screams out loud,

“Dreams never climb passed dawn.”

Then, I, left with but a yawn,

wake up. Without a doubt,

I rise and shout,

“All that we see or seem?”

Nothing, not even a hoot.

Swamp Haiku

Deep in the dead swamp

I scaled a cursed crocodile

Just to see him swim

Haiku #2

So quick to have kids

Life should be found worth living

before passing sin

Alphabet Fun

At another addition of audience,

Before beating baritones assemble

Causing careless catastrophe to breakout

Dangerous dancing dreams cancel

Every event established decent

Fascinating faces flame for eternity

Gallows gonna get a fantasy

Hold heads high to gibbets

Imply inert increase to hopes

Justify jubilantly jingoism for infinity

Kill kingdoms kidnapping all joy

Lay love lastingly before kisses

Make money matter less

Never need names for members

Opinions only observations not necessary

Possibly pressure persists for oblivion

Quarrels quantify quietly in public

Response remotely rendered as questions

Serving severely squandering of riches

Teardrops tattle tragedies in secrecy

Unfortunately unfolding unevenly to time

Violence varies vividly for uniforms

While weeping words for vengeance

Xenocrates xylography to relate xenogeneic to wallow

Yes yelling yields to xenophobes

Zero zeal zips all zamindars

Beacon of Bliss

Your smile is the sun on a winter morning,
warming frozen hearts that went speechless at dusk.
At night, the shivers run heavy over meeting-minds,
while we wait awake for a wake, or a peek at sunlight.
Maybe a week or so will pass before we rest again,
but those lips, like a beacon of bliss, shine contagiously,
thawing those stringent thoughts and quieting troubles.

To heat my heart and keep me moving as the winter turns dark.

Have you ever seen the stars shine on a cloudy night?

Have you ever seen the stars shine on a cloudy night?

Have you ever had someone handle the stellar sights
by thought of words, making the dark flicker
in the midst of will alone?

For the soul purpose of brightening up your vallied days,
has someone pulled the polished rocks from the sky
and set them on a ring?

Rolling off my tongue,
I can make a moon fall to my fingers,
tumble knuckle over knuckle
like a silver dollar paying for your every trouble.

I can make the twinkling distant suns
lay in my palm
like coins to a begging mans heart.

For you,
I could turn the earth backwards
to beg a king for the love
souls shouldn’t deserve to own
without blessing from Arthur’s throne.

Be Cupids’ Arrow Broken?

Be Cupids’ arrow broken on this dark February night?
Be Cupids’ arrow broken from the swift air it follows?
Has the heart-shaped laced tip flung and found another’s chest?
Be that my plate too rigid to break
and the mind too valleyied to quake.
No resistance or fault I pluck from others,
but my heart, tonight, is a target missed.
My beat skips as my quill runs dry, the result of bad aim.
A pen that cuts wells like an arrow falling on the soldier of Helen’s eye.
Deliver love wrapped with your bow!
On this stormy night, let it slice through me like rain disintegrating snow.

Perhaps, it can’t bust the rusted chain,
or may it be, he has trouble with the lock I put around me;
or the silver lining required for entry.
I possibly keep myself too well hidden.
Conceivably, the archers’ shots’ path was stepped in front of by another;
who now find themselves in love.
Knowing full well and good, a flying boy has no aim.
Possibly an off day?
It’s plain to see, my angel of love has a broken wing.
But lets remain to be specific, my trouble is,
that by chance,
I was hit, and no one was in eye-shot of my grin.
I do have similar features,
and my winged cherub is anything but young,
so my defense is looks can be deceiving.

Any or all, the result is the same.
On this evening, I see no trace of dart, or feather, or hand,
and no wound to tend, but my first suggestion wins.
With many attempts and arrows wasted to my side,
my poor god of love no longer wants to try.
So my named-arrow he has broken.
No glue may ever mend the heart-shaped laced tip
that was meant for my soul but never found its end.

There Goes Another Night

     Trying to keep the lock silent, as I open our door, I tiresomely stroll into the dark apartment. The quiet silence of the television broadcasting the news across her face is the first sight I see. In her normal chair, where day after day I see her waste her existence, I find her laid out and reclined in a similar situation as yesterday. After throwing my keys on the same hook, by the same door, I drag my feet to the usual pile of blankets balled up on the living room floor.
I grab the load of warmth, that’s rolled together like curls of her dark hair, and with a familiar gentle loft, of the checkered-patterned quilt, I swirl it over her, making sure the cold is well defended against tonight. While I toss the next blanket across her somber grin, I tilt my head low and glance at the bottle of gin wavering from her loose fingertips. “There goes another night,” I thought to myself, and then whispered it into her ear. With a cloudlike kiss of an angel I tap my lips to her cheek and tuck her flowing hand away from the grip of gin, but only dreadfully too short lived.

When I grab her wrist, the bottle falls and rolls underneath the kitchen table. Before fetching the capless glass, I lift the shelter of her bed and place her idle hand beneath the layered covers. I hear her exhale quietly, like the bitter air squeezing from the cracked window. As I place another kiss upon her soft lips and back away with a frowned face, I close my heartfelt eyes. I then find myself on hands and knees, thinking a prayer I’ve found myself reciting time and time again.

“Sorry Lord, please forgive me because I only pray for the selfish redundant wish of my love getting rid of her thirst, one you’ve heard before. I know that these are my own troubles and the will that has been bestowed upon me was ignorantly wasted, but if there was ever a time I needed a prayer to be answered… I’m okay with where I'm at, and if you could only allow her to see that, then maybe tomorrow, she will be free of her sin.”

That thought swallows through my head like that bottle of gin rolling free and I grab the bare fifth setting it on the empty table waiting for a reason to live. With a gripped neck of the bottle and a melancholy heart I gulp on top of my shallow stomach, breathing deep the burning of the last few drops.

My head, hanging low, as I glance at the moonlight glimmering on a picture mantle; my eyes limp over her throne and sitting in a frame, is my heart holding my queen. I remember every reason I find myself in this position and I go lay in my vacant bed, happily to dream of my framed heaven for the rest of my days. “Her escape has always been found in a bottle and me, all I need is her smile,” these are the last thoughts as my shirtless body hits the king sized bed, exhausted again.

Must I still exist?

Must I still exist?

Late nights

like blinking lids, inflating lungs,

or solitary heart claps;

routined to sleep.

Troubled days wane tired

as mornings never live.

Afternoons are fallen on, as eyes rise.

Motions drag through streets

as the sun splinters.

Tinking twilight

clatters along like a pal

tracking from decision to decision

asking, “what matters?”

Why else move but love?

Tired Wings

Toss it to the waiting ripples.

See if it floats, or if it’s forgot.

Tote that bell to the wondering hearts.

Reminisce after dreams rise missing.

Call to all the times

we’ve waited by a dying sun.

Two arms tangled in fire.

Talk to the whispers

that caress at sunset.

It’s all alive,

so we won’t let go.

Drown in twilight,

as we’re already dead to the world.

Move in circles with that ringing light,

‘til tomorrow wakes us.

Fly to me,

I’ll great your tired wings

with remembrance.

Sunrise, sunrise,

even after it’s gone

you can bring back a day.

Everchanging

                                             contradictions
These are the ever-changing confessions, of a dangerously troubled man,                                     

These are my slow paced songs, my heart wrenching poems, my quiet emotions, my admissions of guilt, free-formed verse without help, my flawed master plan;

These are my constant worries, my random thoughts, my ongoing curse;

These are my impressions, the first ideas I cement, my judgment free reflections staring at me;

These are the ramblings of the mad, the forever lost, the tortured regrets, the depressed, and the weak;

These are my beating heart, the pressure on my chest, my slow dragging steps, my face glancing down, stomach turning onto itself;

These are dedicated to those that feel the sorrow, the melancholy, all those that know low empty sensations gnawing at every waking moment.

These are for those who share my common ground, the feeling of colorblind eyes shivering in black and white, the sour shade of a room; the absence of colorful light;

These are for those seeking hope, guidance, care, happiness, and grace;

These are for those who refuse to give up, who’s feet feel heavy but don’t stop;

Those who don’t feel anything anymore, the hollow men lost in the crowd; who don’t know where they’re going and don't care to find a spotlight;

These are to show that no matter the odds, progress is possible, pushing through raging waters, climbing insurmountable obstacles;

These are me and I will always remain pushing on feeling the same.