poetry

Just two lovers sitting in the park.

We’re just two lovers sitting in the park,

Waiting for the end of the world.

We do not rush-

No, instead we linger,

In earthy stillness,

Just to see if love never truly ends.

We watch the grass dance with bumble bees,

And the wind play with shadows;

All is quiet, until I lean over and whisper in my lover’s ear:

‘Bury me beneath that tree.

The one covered in green, green ivy’

That way it’s roots can fill my veins

And I, too, will become overgrown,

Filling in the lonely parts of us.

My heart will swell with rainwater,

And my soul can drink in the wind.

poetry

Some Old Lover’s Ghost

Oh, I long to talk to some old lover’s ghost,

To learn a little bit of what it’s like to fly with angels,

So in love you think you see Heaven.

Oh, how I wish to see looks of love and malice-

So twisted and rotten that I can no longer tell the difference-

Hatred mistook for passion;

Guilt mistook for kindness.

Oh, how I ache steal another lover’s dreams,

And be visited by anything than our long-dead love,

But even with you buried, I find myself haunted.

And you know I cannot lie,

You were right,

I am nothing without you.



But I suppose I should find comfort in knowing you are now also nothing without me.

Perhaps that is why you visit me so-

To beg me to release you from this brick prison.

Oh, how you must know there is no place for you outside these walls.

And once I and this house are gone, there will be no one left for you to taunt.

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.