The Hour, It Ticks

Sliding out from under your covers
Slipping your cold, anxious feet the floor
Dreams of your  yesteryear wane and subside
Something felt, long forgotten before
And then you know; the hour, It ticks


It runs faster now than back then
Painfully you are aware of a new race
Mixed with old emotions are new fears
What if, Why now, and How do you get there
No matter these answers; the hour, It ticks


All day spent in the whims of another fancy
Wondering if you've gone mad, just yet
Mutuality is hard to discern across a globe
Surely not here, In this place of so recent warmth
But the clock reminds you; the hour, It ticks

What chess piece saunters the new square
Removing its opponents by mere girth
Air trapped in lungs, like six years or more
Release is a word with which you can't relate
Waiting is no luxury you have; The hour, It ticks

Fallen sand castles are seldom restored
But you're reminded of an easterly wind
Blowing the sand all about your tired feet
And underneath the buff, stands victory
But the glass empties fast; For the hour, It ticks

Diary of Running in Place

We pretend to run real fast,
Though we toil away in circles
And the bad men do catch us,
No matter the cash inside our buckles

Certain things, you cannot buy,
Some tales are better left unwritten
The harder you grind away,
Does not mean that you're winning

Lifetimes go by, in blinks of pupils,
Old skin fades fast in setting suns
Tell me again how you won the world,
When really you just found some crumbs

The art of running in place is ancient,
Yet, new inventors always grab the wheel
They believe that they are God or Picasso,
Instead they just had too much espresso

Letter to Editors

Color becomes such gray hues
And Men become machines
Which too will one day fail
As is the course of things

No one stops to speak now
Caught up in a rampant race
To collect their little green tickets
The value of which is long forgotten

Clocks which were once friends
Look back ever so hesitantly
As if waiting on some saving face
Before marching forward into discord

The eternal cogs become ground
And metal falls unceremoniously
With no one to hear its sounds
Silence on a dirty, littered street

Where once the music was heard
There is instead shreiking and tears
The old hardware store closes its doors
Making way for automated monopolies

From a place where coffee dripped
Stands a man selling mechanized gadgets
Bargains for souls, he sells them by the dozen
No one questions his ethics, nor his grin

Not so long ago, before the world changed
Popcorn, Sodas and movies were still sought
And people still laughed their many laughs
Political strife was not always mixed with greed

Instead, now, Forests are for the wolves
No more trees are left for simply being seen
Cutthroats and con artists hauled away the green
Deadwoods left to rot, Their sap smeared in time

Help is a new four letter word
Which no longer exists on tongues
No one is coming to rescue or aid
Without the reward of a many dimes

Laugh, if you will, say it is not true
When Uncle Sam arrives in style 
He will surely take all that belongs to you
For pockets just as endless as his smile

Dystopia makes liars out of honest men
Breeds harlots out of Christian skin
All matters will belong among beasts one day
Before the ending of all things that were knew

Pocket watches which often told time
Now spell death and destinies of fate
Those without a dime, have no time
Their worth is subjugated and they are framed

Gray, Broken cites rise from the ashes of older towns
Their aim to reach the sky grew larger over years 
 No one told them that their zealousness cost lives
Not that men with bulging pockets have such fears

Yes, envision a place where air is harder to breathe
If air is what can be called of ever noxious gas
Shirts are worn for days without much washing
What water left for drinking makes the masses sick

The brink of existence rests in few hands
Their decisions make discord of the future
And the ones who could of stopped them
Were much too busy holding out their hands

Someone Take Away the Fat Kid's Microphone

Go into the icebox
Look for a thing to eat
Find nothing there
The shelves inside,
The are all so bare
Slam the door
Be stale with rage
Your anger hastens,
Blinds and you fall
The floor is cold
But not familiarly so
Your mind hurts
Make it quiet now
Found you cannot
Count ceiling tiles
Find out they are odd
Just like your circus
Get up off the floor
No one has come,
Rescuers are not about
You look silly there
Besides looking lame,
You have much to do
No one will do it for you
Hurry before the ink dries
Your little pen wanes
And your backpack,
It withers quickly away
Do all the many things,
That you once set to do
Especially the important stuff
Like what you dreamed,
Way back in the second grade
Don't feel sorry for time
It's gone and not coming back
But you, You are still here
So pack a bag or two
Get on a moving train
Let it take you there,
To where you were going
Before you fell down again

The Return

Your absence is felt in the sting of summer
Where no breeze blows among us men
The water is much too hot to drink down
And the Sun does remind us, its omnipotence
The ocean water and sand irritates our skin
Beaches are much better viewed from balconies
In the presence of an ever dear missing friend
Where clothes are worn loose and layered
And fires rage upon the ground at first dusk
Reminded of your presence this morning
When the long days of summer simply wane
Intoxicating is the aroma of your cool breeze
For which there is no such comparable touch
Laughter feels our guts, Rejuvenation follows
This old beanie loses dust as trees go barren
An enigma is made of an annual procession
Yet many will have made it into the clearing
Before the next time you knock on our door

A Bend in the Road

Where are you going young man
Old man, I wish I knew
Why do you walk so hard
Of my fate, You would too

Life is not always a riddle son
Elder, you know not my story
But I have the time to hear it
Oh, what brings you to worry

Men half your age look better
Than the miles across your back
Your shoes worn thin from running
And your stuff, It falls out your sack

I'll not dare to be as gray as you
You, with the golden cane of age
The miles of been kind to you I see
And here you pretend to be a sage

Enough with your scoffing boy
When little you really know
Your wars fought, I fought them too
Back when your seed did not grow

Then Tell me Grandpa, Tell me now
Answer me the questions and fruits
What have you to gain me this night
Where hang your ancient boots

Instead of talking, the old man just stares
Mist fills his eyes, His body aches with pain
The memories of his past flood out from him
They dance like gypsies on his addled brain

The young lad just watches, intent and slow
He now breathes in the aging man's trails
His own struggles seem less infinite tonight
A saga of agony once hidden behind veils

Late that night, the elder man does sleep
He dreams of the past, Of how to go back
Ten thousand summer nights tossed away
More illusions than answers hidden in his sack

And under another roof, the child sleeps too
He was shown the end of his own reckless heart
What may become of him if nothing did change
Instead of a sordid past, He dreams of a new start

Clichés and Keyholes

Writing from obscure
Windows makes not
A poet, Child
Nor does flailing
Without any rehearse
Give angst to
word, Yet seeing
clearly I yell
down an empty
Hallway, Or is
Anyone listening really
To epic literature
Lessons, Jumbled up
With musings from
A past life
One that tried
To Kill its
Author, But heroes
Only fade in
Movies, Or something
We humor ourselves
But laughing comes
Later, When dying
is less immediate
And Autumn fades
Pertaining to discourse,
No rhythm fits
Verse, No line
Saves the plot
A ten gallon
Hat weighs no
Less, Even if
A hatter dares
To have tea
With a Doormouse
Hold on see
There is revelance
After all critics,
Just when books
Closed, doubters realized
That Alice was
Alive and well
In Wonderland no
Less, And poet
He relates verse
To the whirlwind
Of life seen
Through a keyhole
Inside a little
Door, created by
Another tortured soul
Just as beautiful
As old wine
Many escape labels
Of insanity perhaps
Though every person
Looks,  Not all
Of them see 

Paper Airplanes

There's this girl who flew some airplanes
Made of paper, in her sleep
Directing their every whim with her fingertip
Some flew too loudly now
Woke her from her softly stated slumber
Crashing jets on runways
And runaway dreams, they save lives,
Correcting certain neurosis
Of battles lost and others won on lucid fronts
The walls come down some
Where everyone can see her flying machines,
And I laugh at her wildly
As if I knew what that untraveled road really meant
But there is a plan to her
Her planes represent all the places she still must go,
And I sit drinking coffee
Wondering if there is room in those plans for me,
Sure she said to me
All I am asking for, Is your ticket to eternity
We both laugh at this
As if it really means something, But we know it surely does
And we walk off the silent stage
She knows I'll tell everyone about her many plans
About flying planes from here
With a long haired dreamer with no razor, yet a pen in his hand
Some laugh, but for that I have no care

Boxes on a Hill

The little people of all the colors come about
They come about on many crooked streets,
Out from their little boxes to the waiting world
Down many stairs as they rush away to eventuality
The passing cable cars carry them to destinations
Up and down, Up and around, all over town
And when they get to their temporary boxes
They will sip upon javas, eat many pastries
Some will even pretend that they must work
Few will give their parking meter nickels away
Those who do, give bread to sidewalk musicians
But mostly they just work, and stare out windows
Until they can return to their waiting, windy world
They oft blow their horns when they ride home
Blaring inconsiderate noises from their little painted boxes
Giants will fill a coliseum down by the bay around dusk
Those who have left from work will want to watch
Those who cannot watch, They pull out music boxes
At night, they wrap up against the biting of the wind
Walking and whistling themselves back to their little boxes
And all of this happens over and over, down by the bay

When Asked

Itching, Incessant Scratching
It comes, Then it won't
The next to best the last
Seldom any silent eyes
Fingers bite away dreams
Production forced outward
Anxiety in a hamster's wheel
Doing, Being, Watching...On
Days, Months, or Years
What  Calibration have these
Working in a wet, damp house
Riding silently among the wind
Always they watch, like waiting
Particles of wood minus fuel
Maddening verses unrehearsed
That's much of what writing is
Answering whispers with pen

Excerpts from Jupiter

Lying awake
Long avenues
Countless Sin
Dark Doorway
White Dresser
Things I knew
Lustful Stares
Blurry Thoughts
Distorted Sounds
Empty Wallets
Vacant Hearts
Soulless Whispers
Crying Darks
Refuted Memories
Mourning Songs
Poison Rollercoasters
Tasteless Bottles
Yesterday's Lies
Sunken Epiphanies
Toilet movements
Close to Death

The Saturday before July

Overcast sunset watching the ground below
Glancing at all the porch dwellers, revelling
Dusk yet in the distance, patiently waitng
Idle conversation flows from green lawns
Birds are well heard, but remain unseen
The heat has recessed its girth, at least
Small children play games newly learned
Harvesting memories they will later forget
As summer turns into many passing falls
Street lights are silent now, like the wind
The mosquito chatter has yet to emerge
By then, porch stories will convene inside
By the lights of picture sets and such
Old men will watch their ballgames then
Remembering how they too once played
Wives offer pie and coffee, but not too much
Warming the stomachs and hearts of the world
The darkened, starless sky watches tiny roofs
As lights glow out from the infinite, tiny dwellings
All is well on cool summer evenings, mostly

Answers Found in Coffee Cups

From nothing to normal

Such a slow, short trip

Boundless questions

Answered by a drip

Captivated for now

Later will surely wither

Holding on to revelation

No time to stop and dither 

Write more words with pen

Answer riddles beyond thought

Leaking conclusions almost gone

Understanding more than one ought

Ending moment before the storm

One more line, or two perhaps

Got... to.. finish.. Pushing....on

Morning is over..The next great collapse

Echos on an Empty Porch

The Front Porch is quiet,
Unfamiliar and bare
I look upon it lost,
unbelieving and stare
Out in the graying grass,
As I close both eyes
And I remember some place,
One where nothing dies
Growing older seems elusive,
In the summers of twenty one
A pup and a man-child,
With many miles yet to run
Chasing youth, balls, and bones,
Me and my black shadow
Barking at birds, bugs, and bees,
Songs that now only I know
Drifting back to the porch,
Releasing yesterday's spell
Squinting in the quiet light,
Looking for a wagging tail

Grasping

Sunlit Corridors promise me warmth
Their capture of time, hides the lies
Written underneath bridges of the past
The voices chase even after all so many miles
Their unrest is as endless as me, I fear
That their poison will not neglect find
Wormholes and ample veins, waiting
For a break in the evening waves
To call their sordid songs to feast
On the unwilling, restless souls
Lying in witness of many wonders
Forgetters of their paths, save no face
Remembered in the dying of a waning fire
Memories rust when kept not sharp
The sun fades and perceptions dull
Falling to sleep, yet trying hold on
To so much as any glimpse,
Any embrace of new thoughts
That may promise to deliver glimmers
Of something yet unseen just now
In the expansive, moving horizon
Morning comes, and we forget again
Moving all over with a yearning angst
Like children do before their hour comes
To stay up past the rising of yellow moons
This familiar struggle puzzles even dreamers
And all those who will surely forget again
In that moment before they wake

Not Done Yet(Somewhere in the Middle)

Think of a moment, or better two
What time have you  left
For all you're called to do
How many spins of earth
Are enough to cull your hunger
How many seconds from birth
Exist in your walk upon the path
Asking questions of myself
To ensure I don't forget to laugh
All of your inside secrets
Project  to this unclean earth
Boxes, Trinkets, Medals
Symbols of a broken man's girth
In what time I have left here
There is so much left to do
But running will not slow the clock
For it moves just as fast as you
Yet August comes quick for us
When Spring has just begun
Tarry not on yesterday's bus
Today's ticket is collecting dust
Eventually we all arrive
Yet some come with much less rust
My pen writes of journeys
And promises  yet unseen
Whether it inspires you relies,
On your own slate coming clean
I have no answers for your riddles
I only poke away at abandoned fires
And find, I've only reached the middle

Riding the Bad Man's Train

Long ago I rode,
Down on the evil man's train
Oh, what lies I told,
And spread filth with my bane
I kept pace with fools,
Seldom curbed my unclean eye
Tragedies became tools,
How I longed that I should die
No man knows the grave,
Like tasting the poison man's drink
My youth, which I gave,
For years trying to fill my sink
A Book rested in dust,
Of which I had  given no thought
A tin man of solid rust,
Had I become, for the illusions I sought
Now, no heart heard me,
I had become mute to all the world
Left alone in my futility,
Except the Liar's laughter as i hurled
Forgetting my Father's face,
Surely no moments left in this shell
Save Unending Grace,
I would have rode that train to Hell

Only Fools Walk Alone

No one knows
The random accusations
My mind wields
As I rise from the seas
No one hears
How oft the tide beckons me
Tells me lies
No reassurance
For what troubles me inside
Uncertainty sure
Closes the door against me
And what have I
But my thinking man's troubles
Yet calmer now
For even in my obscurity
My God listens
Even in my bouts with Hell
He reminds me
Even in spite of everything
He knows

Porch Story

The man drove down my street at day's end
 I watched as his convertible float on through
His grey beard was quite contentedly combed
The aging gent had earned the right to breathe
I wondered  for a brief moment or maybe two
What was it that I was chasing at the end of it all
If I too would drive a blue sports car some day
Would some youth see my grey beard in time
Surely my own September would be as grand
My hands etched dry and my back discontent
Yet the ever flowing wind stilled my restlessness
Oh, my mind still pondered many youthful things
He was long gone away, and still I saw him there
How much emptiness had this man's dream cost
Did he have to trade away all that really mattered
I thought these riddles and more as the hour slipped
While the brilliant edge of summer stained my face
Time would not steal away  my smile this evening
I was much wiser than to chase a stranger's dreams
My own were worth more than some day's seemed
And so I laughed heartily out into the fading sunset
For surely, I knew God was not done with me yet

Hearts That Weave

Blowing secrets into your heart
That may grow into a  bloom
And all of the things I knew
I  forgot  the day  I  met  you
Our first Summer, fast approaches
New mysteries  lay  at  foot
My tenderness kisses your skin
To  leave   melody  within
I'd  surely  know  forever
If it were splashed upon my face
Yet you burst into my presence
And now I taste your essence
Sweet girl, how I long to hold you
As the morning sun comes up
And long after midnight is through
We'll go dancing upon the dew
Stay in this moment here with me
I'll  give  all  I  am  to  you
We have just begun to breathe
And endless is our dream's weave