I feel more at home among the trees, As though my body yearns for grass against my skin And leaves around my soul. Like a weed pretending to be human- Growing in the wrong place- Prickly, green and funny shaped And looking for something to uproot me. So I'll keep pressing flowers between these pages,… Continue reading A weed pretending to be human
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… Continue reading Just two lovers sitting in the park.
A spider lives on the moon
A spider lives on the moon. She spins a web between the stars, Weaving lines of silk against a dark, summer sky, Like spirals of beautiful things cast around the world, To catch the lost souls left wandering through the night. A spider lives on the moon, And I think she's lonely; Lonely up there… Continue reading A spider lives on the moon
My world is made of paper
My world is made of paper, A drop of ink for a soul, An ocean lies within my heart; Waves of words to make me whole.
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… Continue reading Some Old Lover’s Ghost
You'd be a fool to think Heaven and I are close. I may be one Hell of an angel, But don't let these white wings fool you- I am but a dove-feathered raven Flying far from grace.
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.
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… Continue reading The Mad Creator
A muse in a bottle
I keep my muse in a bottle. I shake it every once in a while- Or tap it like a kid at a fish bowl- It doesn't move, stir or come back to life; It just idly floats through its own filth. I sigh. Typical, I mutter as I flush in down the toilet And… Continue reading A muse in a bottle
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… Continue reading Four little teacups sit on the wall