On Writing · poetry

I prefer that to whiskey and ghosts.

Does the storyteller aways have a

Spirit in hand,

Alone in the dark

While spinning his tale?

Or can it be a wish?

Maybe a child?

A lover?

A hope?

A thought?

A feeling?

One that isn’t failure, I mean.

Or maybe just a cup of tea-

I prefer that to whiskey and ghosts.

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poetry

The Mad Creator

The Mad Creator

Mixing poetry and madness

In petri dishes made of cardboard

Searching for the perfect drink:

Make him drunk,

But not so he cannot write;

Make him numb,

But not so he cannot remember his dealings.

Make him learn to fly,

So he can learn to live like angels

To play God on paper,

But from the comfort of a desk;

From the comfort of a window,

Looking out at test subjects

Known as people,

Who know his name but not his face.

Not today’s face anyway.

poetry

We’re picking stitches out of the floor

We’re picking stitches out of the floor…

Are normal people ever this bored?

To the point of self-destruction

In order to feel some direction?

News flash:

We’re catching comas to

Feel alive;

Taking pills when we’re

Already addicted.

Of course we feel the sting of promises

Beneath our skin,

We’re suns just waiting to happen;

Hearts just waiting to break.

Or have you forgotten the power of now?

poetry

Four little teacups sit on the wall

Four little teacups sit on the wall,

And four friendly voices drift on the still, country air.

They sit down by the boats and talk about the good weather,

And family, and how Johnnie from across the way is doing much better.

They listen to the sounds of a dozen little birds,

To the gentle laps of blue water,

And wave hello to those who walk past.

They wait for the sun to disappear

Behind the pier;

To depart down the path,

To four little houses sitting in a row.

poetry

Bury the Hatchet

Bury the hatchet,

Or better yet burn it

And scatter the ashes so far across the sea

We stand no chance of digging it up.

‘Cause I know you,

You’ll get bored and start looking.

At least this way

We can only stand on the beach

And reminisce in what

It used to be.