Parking Spaces

Saturday is for focusing

Which is why I’m scattered

The words slipping past

Receptors, though I know them

The distinctiveness of the moment

Eludes my coffee addled veins

But it’s both familiar, and fun

And I feel most free when

I can diagnose the world,

Instead of the old bramble bush

With more branches,

Than for which I have the time

But you meet these other people

Who are simple, Their rest

It comes easy and you wonder

How can they not want more

Or hunger, at least that

Because a poet lives for beauty

Even at the risk of everything

He’s rather tragic,

Though sometimes beautiful

And his ubiquity,

It becomes confused with vanity

It’s a lie though, a farce

Some are just in touch deeply,

Lovers who believe

In tomorrow, or anything

That’s been told them in a dream

So they write about it, I do

Because words are the concrete

To an abstract reality, 

The cornerstones that separate

Truth from the void

Rainbows

They said, 'Show us a rainbow'

And exactly, it was what he did

Though what is often forgotten so

That every bent prism seen above

Did surface from somewhere below

Each harvest reaped from a storm

They forget, nor did they even ask

What storms he rode alone inside

A badly colored boat, no less wind

And what, does color really matter

But everything, the essence of tides

His pale skiff, A symbol of breaking

The many have sapped his strength

That for carrying on, even further still

Wrestling, not one contained to mats

Only plainly before the world, A view

Into the deepest, darkest shadows

The heart, wildly forging against night

Eyes of hurricanes bring it to no silence

If an artist, he paints upon a canvas so

A picture of utter destruction, hell storms

There in the corner, amongst the black

Amidst all the brokenness, filled with red

Beating away, Until the easel does fall

Would it be, The answer to all earthly riddles

Triumphant, When all else comes undone

And each a key, with only one perfect fit

Don’t suppose I need to tell you now

The frequency, Those of forced corners bent

Some of which, They often stick softly

Or at least until the wind blows once more

Resilience, Amidst the Eye, Among foes

That whatever storm he is walking through

He, and God alone, know the reason why

People, They always look for rainbows

No one ever remembers, nor do they see

The brightest colors, birthed in agony

 And still, he promises a perfect rainbow

To whomever, she who walks with him

A courtship of hands through storms

Thirteen Line Answers

Can you not see

How irrevocable

Beyond any repair

In your prescence

No less am I

But also no more

Chivalry is not dead

Noble through fault

If flaws do consist

Of any feelings

That which I claim

And most of these

Inside my heart

Can I not wonder

What causes no stir

Or holds any meaning

An entanglement

Of which its certain

Flailing does exist

Fighting against that

Which is claimed 

To be queried

Otherwise no answer

Is needed, Nowhere

Do roads wander

When left unfed

It (Free Verse)

It does not chase boundaries, it breaks them
No questions are asked, only prisoners taken
It resonates endlessly, regardless of returns
Finding hope among all broken bits of past
It yearns to put the pieces back together anew
Triumphant, to restore dreams of plans forgotten
It formulates new passions among those it seeks
Call it not foolish, for by definition all is undefined
It is the greatest of these that will transcend time
Hurts, Wants, all of these are quelled by its path
It is belief, beyond the most measurable of doubts
Comfort, in the stead of selfishness, Altruistic faith
It wants not what it can take, but what it can bring
Mysteries, late night conversations, a million facets
It is not rational, nor does it profess to be such
But it waits when its called upon, because it is strong
It means more than its shallow physicality suggests
Mountains, miles, no chasm is deep for its reach
It lends understanding all encompassing, even in doubt
Once believed, its grasp is seldom easily shook
Its mark is left upon every heart that drinks it in
Still again, is its mystery, fresh air,  cataclysmic depth
It doesn't end in death, nor silence, nor anything
Instead it goes on living,  the truest form of breathing

Lamp Post(Free Verse)

There's a lamp post sitting silently by the road
I remember it there if ever it crosses my mind
To guess, the time is early dusk or twilit morning
These are the memories of my soul before pain
Later I found out donuts were being made inside
Pastries of all sizes, I imagine the smell of sugary air
The evaluation of this dream, Be it as a memory
It puts to focus my days and nights, my struggles
Every bad wave, is one you chose to ride, As I
Have always ridden my own, Save once I danced
In fires, Because I believed in the Great Question
What if, and why doesn't every dream end in bliss
Naivete gave way to desire, I chased hearts, or
Other things that started with the letter H, However
I played it wrongly, as was often my course, I ran
People don't often stop to think what makes them
Happy anyway, They just chase something from a
Book, And they say you gave up your self respect
But I give fortune to all mysteries upon the road
Whether for seasons or days, I remember fondly
If there were a fifth dimension, it would be feelings
Which as far as I know cannot kill you, though they try
People often lie when asked what makes them move
But I like paintings where the color, Its out of the lines
And though I cannot explain it, I am moved mostly
By what I fail to comprehend, Ordinary is a dull word
People who live in glass houses, That is their respite
But give me passion, The things that will burn you
Will also make you feel the most of what life brings
Tears, Joy, Love, Pain, Epochs of a complete journey
If nothing takes your breath away, Then it does not live
Itself, but rather it operates as an orchestrated clone
I think I will sail all the seas and eat sandwiches at dusk
For why not am I here, but to enjoy these peculiarities
The Great Mystery perhaps, but I think the road is lost
Because people, search for what makes sense instead
Intrigue, the last dying art, Unfinished painting in the last
Gallery, Because Art is dead, Or dying, Who will ever
Bring it a cure, Remind its younger self about lamp posts
That or, Whatever other fond memory started pulse
If you're searching, then stop, For the chances are great
That your query will be unfound, Instead dive into the ocean
Let whatever it is you've been looking for, Find You

Tiny Threads

Oh treacherous heart, You foul beating beast

What makes you so quaint, yet far more merciless

Than I have the threads of reason to fathom with

Your disruptive Discordia, Your anguished woe

It breaks me again and I am afraid to go to sleep

Lest I lose some tragic flaw that I grasped once

And held tightly as I traveled the roads of sorrow

Again I say, Never did I will it to be of this way

Before I held all that I knew to be of any value at all

Though when I opened a broken hand it was gone

Seems that everything that you must hold on to

Has a knack for breaking you as it slithers further away

Yet still I war, I war with a heart both raw and tender

This is ever the only answer for how I know to be

Foolish though I look, I see the world quicker than sound

And I worry not what judges roam, feasting upon my tide