. . . . . .

it’s over

it’s over.

from breathtaking moonless nights

to the rattling of the chains of a prisoner.

from electronic pulses, the synapses in your brain

to the prattling of the tv news anchor.

it’s over.

from dazzling sunsets

to the screams of strangers in the night.

from a symphony of chainsaws

to a mother’s vox, lulling you to sleep.

it’s over.

from the smell of gunpowder

to the hope that life is everlasting.

from soft December rain

to the fallacy of a universal truth.

it’s over.

and gone,

never to return.

and in a thousand years

no one will utter your name.

no tears will be shed

over your lifeless body.

yet the poetic heart that holds no purchase

in this mortal husk

will mourn for you forever more.

. . . . . .

micropoetry #1

the heart of Van Gogh, a brush

of Da Vinci, an idea

of Twain, a pen

of Gacy, a knife

of God, the hand of death

. . . . . .


the train rolls by

oblivious of my existence

the cars don’t see me

slowly fading away

every day a leap closer

to death

but I hear the bitter screams

of the wheels unerringly

beating upon the tracks

and I can see the pain

in my own heart

as the train rolls by

. . . . . .

micropoetry #2

write until your fingers bleed

dot the eyes with the blood

regardless of the size of the audience

. . . . . .

this starless sky

her wet eyes gave no shelter

and the wind found no purchase

in my hollow heart.

the shadows were melting

when lightning struck

tearing them apart.

and she broke into tears


each one chasing the next

in a desperate race


the willows wept

as a metronomic sorrow

swept over those melancholy moons.

embracing all the creatures

that have ever flown

this starless sky

. . . . . .


we’re walking around like zombies.

working, going home
working, going home
working, going home

we’re walking around like zombies

singing the same song
humming the same melody
wandering aimlessly
down a road
that affords us no shelter

we’re walking around like zombies

with no one left
to shoot us in the head

. . . . . .


she is heavy

in the mind and in the soul

she is a love so impure

but that love is beautiful all the same

she makes broken men feel whole

she is a blessing in disgust

a lost soldier in a lost world

she is eager to satisfy

the dreams of every dreamer that ever graced

the presence of her race

she is human, imperfect

she is crying

but her sobs are silent

they fall to her feet

without a sound

she is in love with ideas and notions

she is a dream unfurled

she is the kiss you’ll always remember

the eyes you’ll never forget

she is trying

she is in love with a man

who doesn’t care

she calls him

but he never answers

she knocks on his door

but he never lets her in

she’s leaving

maybe I should have answered the door

but it’s too late

she’s already gone

. . . . . .

micropoetry #3

a million minds

a billion thoughts

a trillion questions

and no answers

. . . . . .


the mixed up tics

the jumbled up tacs

the incoherent, incohesive toes

borrowing words

to use in sentences unheard of

why is this joy

so coated with sadness?

feel I’ve been pushed to the side

feel left out


the barrage of rain in my imagination

smacks my face

like I’m an insubordinate soldier

there’s a reason for all this

somewhere out there

I know it

I don’t think I’ll ever find it though

think I’ll just play tic tac toe

. . . . . .

micropoetry #4

she dances

like no one is watching

and it’s painfully


. . . . . .

return to the senses

the deafening half-silence of the small

drops of rain fills my ears.

another clash of grumpy

thunder claims all of what

the sky hears.

seeing the ground fill up with tiny drops

interrupted only by lightning.

looking up as the droplets

burn my eyes and seeing

what others would deem frightening.

i open my mouth and taste the substance

the life’s blood of the clouds.

they scour the night slowly

like small creatures and

cover the earth as death shrouds.

smelling something previously unknown

but rarely sweet.

returning to childhood

memories when nothing

smelled better than a candy treat.

feeling the showers come down upon me

the antithesis of pain.

concentrating, thinking deeply

trying to be

one with the rain.

. . . . . .

micropoetry #5

you may fail

but so

do we all.

you may fall

but so

does the snow.

. . . . . .

digital heartache

My farmville crop is sprouting weeds
These angry birds have too many needs
My mafia family has ceased to get paid
My warcraft warrior never gets laid
My Xbox sits and gathers dust
My youtube channel’s starting to rust
My iPod says come turn me on
I think I heard my PC yawn
My twitter feed has been neglected
My facebook friends all feel rejected
I think I’ll quit my job and say
Fuck it, I just wanna play!

. . . . . .

a rose lies

a rose lies, resting

for every heart broken

a metamorphosis

a promise never spoken

a wheel that never turns

a rusty chain

dripping with blood

and black rain



into the sky

drown above water

breathe, now


into silver darkness

another drop in the bucket

another tear in the fabric of misery

her eyes


onto another page

of meaningless words

. . . . . .

micropoetry #6

the corn grows

the sun shines

the canary sings

the scarecrow merely waits

. . . . . .


I hear footsteps in the distance,

of the hordes that follow you.

I can smell the sweet fragrance

of the rotting flesh

buried beneath your fingernails.

I feel the tiny fires

that ignite in your brain

when you think

those evil thoughts.

I can feel the pain

that you’ve caused in the past

when I pleasure myself.


in the heat of self lust.

I will not curse you.

I shall not judge you.

I cannot end you.

because you are me.

and I am you.

and when a billion years pass

and then a billion upon a billion more,

who’s gonna give a shit?

. . . . . .

they slay us

they slay us

not with kindness

but with the icecicles

they find

lying casually in the snow

cold cauterizing the wound

and leaving us there

to freeze

and as the snow melts

our bodies come to life again

teeming with hungry bacteria

taking us back

back to the earth

from whence we came

to return in another form

some other day

may we still remain friends

and lovers

in another life

. . . . . .


crawling in his leafy bed

the caterpillar matures and grows

soon to be a butterfly he knows along he goes

until a careless man not looking ahead

squashes the bug and leaves it for dead

the butterfly will never be

. . . . . .

once again

once again
her deep blue eyes are opiates
lulling me to sleep
only to dream
her lips.
parted aphrodisiacs
and the blood on her roses-
my blood
has not yet dried.
I gripped them so hard they snapped
when I saw you with him
maybe you didn’t hear it
but at that instant
my heart split wide
and danced slowly with sorrow
lulling me to rage
the fantasy I created
slipped away
once again…

. . . . . .

cycles (flip the coin)

Under shades of black

Mirrors of smoke and ash

Cracked concrete littered with

Blasting caps

Fire mind, endless hole

Street stench filling the void

Great warriors of lore

Dotting sidewalks

Bottles of cheap whiskey in hand

Brown paper bags

Filled with inspiration

Cars streak by

Disrupting sleep

Erupting dreams

Nowhere to run, to hide

Only a place to die

Scrape the sky

With furious steel

Endless high

Wait a minute coming down

Oh no Oh no

Earth to you earth to me

Re-entering reality

No not again have to sleep

Sleep or die or regain the high

Better living through

Chemical stimulation

Coming around full circle

Ending up in the same place


One step closer to the fire

Keep walking

The other side of the coin

Under eyes of white

Mirrors lined with powder

Cracked pipes

Over controlled fires

Stench filling homes

Great poets

On old couches

Stained with every drug imaginable

Clear plastic bags

Stagger the imagination

People walk by

A restless creep

Bursting at the seems

Nowhere to run or hide

Only a place to die

Hit the floor

Like a sack of potatoes

Endless low

Never able to go up again

Losing sight

No sense of anything

Better living through

Self mutilation

Scars of the train coming through

It goes in a circle

Ends up in the same station

Just one step closer

One step closer to the fire

. . . . . .


i turned the machine off

before i fled

i took small steps

so they wouldn’t hear me

eventually they caught up with me


they beat me

tortured me

left me for dead but the machine

never knew

because i turned it off

a long time ago

. . . . . .

Can you Imagine? (to Florence)

can you imagine me…

kissing your hands

slowly, softly

sucking your fingers

can you imagine me…

gently caressing your thigh

your dress

inching upward

can you imagine me…

with our eyes locked

while I remove your panties

but not so fast…

can you imagine me…

kissing you

my hands roaming

through your hair

can you imagine me…


your dress must come off…

let me get that for you

can you imagine me…

touching you

not only with my hands

but with my eyes

can you imagine us…

our bodies


never letting each other go?

. . . . . .

micropoetry #7

music inspires.

the golden throat,

the platinum heart.


even love expires.

. . . . . .

Re: ality

things are not what they seem to be.

a blade of grass is a field of ruin,

dust moves in a circle,

and death is a false end.

things are not what they are.

god is existence itself,

the future is set in stone.

yet, given time,

even mountains move.

things are not.

faith is complacence.

an onyx tower, buried,

in the amber depths of the heart.

. . . . . .

broken dna

a twisted helix

a single strand

a double entendre

more than man

yet not quite a god

a hieroglyph from the future

a fistful of plague

we roam the earth

in search of nothing

nothing but fresh rage

nothing but death


but the multiplication

of suffering


by twisted retribution

for deeds never done

sacrificial lambs


to a dying sun

. . . . . .

Two Sons (a joke turned to poetry)

A wealthy man had two sons,

and decided to play a game.

One son was an optimist,

the other not the same.

The father one day took his sons,

and thus divided the boys.

The optimist in a room of manure,

the pessimist’s filled with toys.

Later on the father returned,

and without one word spoken.

Saw that the pessimist had not played,

for fear the toys may get broken.

But the optimist was grinning and digging,

manure flying into the air.

And when his father asked of him he said,

there has to be a pony here somewhere!

. . . . . .

it does not end

I speak in colored metaphors
to your felonious heart
unanswered riddles
burst your synapses apart
I fly with wings
darkened with ash
as I enter your soul
all you see is a flash
I live in the dreams
of far off lands
my body inhabits
the hourglass sands
I speak in tongues
a powerful static
and fully automatic
there is no end
to my reign
it does not cease with
but begins with the pain
I speak in colors
too loud for your mind
try to keep up but
you’ll still be left behind

micropoetry #8

love is

a warm embrace




a stain

on your heart

that you cannot

dare not

wash away

. . . . . .

You and I

you and I will meet

in a haze of smoke

laughing and joking

passing time away

where has the time gone?

my friend


you and I will meet

in dark city streets

horns and engines roaring

the rain pouring down

where will we go?

my friend


you and I will meet

in a shower of sunrays

drinking, smoking

parting ways once again

what will we become?

my friend


you and I will meet

in a hail of gunfire

dying together

where will we end up?

my friend

. . . . . .

micropoetry #9

even the river has an end

even the ocean has shores

even space holds life

take a step back

let love find its place

. . . . . .

there is much to be…

there is much to be conquered
much to be lamented over
when the screaming voices have dissipated
when they no longer possess the strength
to utter anything above a mere whisper
but the sorrow and the guilt
will not be felt by me
the conscience free

there is much to be burned
the enemy creeps slowly
your world will soon be ashes
and if your life is not ended
you will soon wish it was
because hell is rising slowly
the minds of your loved ones
taken over as the days go by

there is much to be done
those too innocent to corrupt
will be tortured beyond belief
left to living rot
and I will have my way with your world

. . . . . .

micropoetry #10

I am loved by the sun,

embraced by the earth,

published by the clouds.

instant gratification.

. . . . . .


in a field of bluebonnets

I stand directly in the center of it all

it is easy to forget

and fall prey to the sky’s empty call

the lines between heaven and earth

are blurred

and for one brief span

my wrath is incurred

the wrath of man

gasoline drips from my clothes

a click of a lighter breaks the silence of shame

within seconds I burn from head to toe

and the purple field is engulfed in flames

like a burning scarecrow

I stand as a reminder of all that is good

here to let you know

I would destroy you as well if I could

the wind will take me away

I’ll become a part of the earth

here forever I will stay

for my death is not the end. it is my birth

. . . . . .

ring around the squallor

bleached screams – colorless



cut as rusty blades

in grainy city night

how heat rises

singing of forlorn destiny

and something as simple

and infinitely


as the changing of season

I will never know

of the innermost thoughts

of the people living

right next door

but I can hear them scream

and sometimes

if the surroundings are at peace

I can hear them cry as well

. . . . . .


the lovely flower blooms

in this beautiful day.

so peaceful,

so serene.

the light of the sun caresses its petals.

the smell of the grass,


the sight of the clouds

brightens my day.

it is awe inspiring

to say the least.

I walk along.

I see the lovely pink flower.

I bask in its glow.

and step on it.

. . . . . .


throw the wind to caution

find a new life

a new dream

a dream that wakes with you

and takes you for a spin

a joyride

with no end in sight

to the wonderful times you’ll have

challenge the moon

to a race across the earth

around the mountains

through the oceans

into the day

treat yourself to a night

that belongs to you

and you only

stamp a patent number on tonight

and call it yours

forever to call back on

when you need a friend

. . . . . .

the grass grows green

the grass grows green

and the trees burst brown

but there is no color

in the sky today

the sun sings yellow

and the snow weeps white

but there is no color

in the sky today

the leaves emit orange

and my soul seeps black

but there is no color

in the sky today

. . . . . .

At First Glance

At first glance the young woman

seemed to have beauty

beyond the norm

But when I took a moment

to study her features

I saw the real her

and realized

I had somehow looked into the past

before life had gained its icy grip

on her neck…

and squeezed

. . . . . .


I did not have time

to write you a poem.

too busy.

much too busy.

thinking of

your auburn hair.

so I wrote

your eulogy.

I can’t wait to read it.

and I hope

it is an open casket.

so for one last time

we can all see

your smooth skin.


your auburn hair.

. . . . . .

If your name…

If your name transformed

from words to flesh

I would taste you

on the swell of my tongue.

If your soul gave form

as a body of light

I would be taken aback

and blinded.

If your speech sought purchase

it indeed

would light upon my ears.

And I would surely gasp

and feel holy

in the absence of god.

. . . . . .

crawling into clarity

crawling into clarity

the sharpness of the hour

the ravaging of despair

is the shroud in which they bury me

taking full force

the emptiness of day

the beauty of the ray

and lack of choice

sunbeams die

in gray-black night

love gone awry

embroiled in the fight

and we are the chosen

the harbingers of life itself

the ordinary, the extraordinary

in sickness and in health

the wonders of youth disappear

and fade like embers

when death creeps slowly

bleaker than december

. . . . . .


life is darkness, life is pain

life is despair, until i see you again

life is lilies and sparrows and meadows

life is waiting to murder in the shadows

life is gray skies, storming clouds

life is where’s and why’s and how’s

life is joy, life is sorrow

life is filled with those who follow

life is proof, proof of nothing

life is ours, ain’t that something?

the massive suffering, the evils of men

are all but a whisper when i see you


. . . . . .

micropoetry #11

we dig mouths

for earth’s hungry belly

and feed it loved ones

while we cry

and wear black

. . . . . .

inspiration in blood

my muse is dead.

I murdered her

last night.

her final wet gurgles

inspired me

to write

once again.

I used her blood

to write a poem for you.

because I love you.

. . . . . .


each grain of sand

you trample upon

on that beach

feels the weight of you.

the shore is licked

by a billion tongues.

the air you breathe

tastes your throat

and is drowned

by your lungs.

your eyes record thoughts

and some slip away

never to be seen


the clouds run

through skies

that do not fret

over why or when.

over if, but, and.

but you

just walk

claiming your false superiority

as you trample upon the sand.

. . . . . .

i know my calling.

destructive sounds and a cricket

muffled thunder on four wheels

the traction slips

and grips the action

this night has not yet been informed

that there is a sun

somewhere out there…

on the other side of nowhere

the furthest reaches of a new world

with order like no other

my faith collapses

my new one arises from the rubble

a testament to those who wish

to see my empire fall

the empire of the mind

but that which does not kill me…

well, you know the rest.

i know my calling.

destructive sounds and a cricket

. . . . . .

i no longer sing

i no longer sing the songs

the songs sing me

ballads of truth, amore

and misery

i no longer walk the streets

i glide, oblivious to pain

laughing at the sky

weeping at the rain

i do not drink the wine

i missed the exit, the sign of the times

it all plays out in my crimes

locked in a cell, the bars of a rhyme

i no longer sing the songs

the songs sing me

and when all is said and done

i am free

. . . . . .

She Banged Her Fists

she banged her fists

on the concrete

but the pain wouldn’t go away.

she found the bottom

of the bottle

but the pain wouldn’t go away.

she lifted her skirt

for all those men

but the pain wouldn’t go away.

she buried the needle

in her arm

but the pain wouldn’t go away.

she talked to Jesus

and asked his forgiveness

but the pain wouldn’t go away.

she took a razor

to her wrists

and the pain went away.

. . . . . .

S.E. and Tarrant

lust is love’s evil twin

sometimes you don’t know which is which

what is what

or where to begin

love is your lover

comfort is your shelter

but sometimes love is torn asunder

for want of another

emotional black holes

in the cosmos that is your mind

we seek to please ourselves

but in the long run

we take so much, never giving time

we find out that we are the wrong one

forgotten how to give

pushed away even further

and end up lost

and wind up broken

hate is closely related to ignorance

unfortunately i am not above it

I’m a slave to it like everyone else

. . . . . .


we stand,

staring at them.

like ghosts

who have forgotten

what it’s like to be human.


we stand,

heads back,

mouths open.


the rain will water us.

like the sedentary vegetation

we have come to be.


we stand,




by the drug ethereal.

that clouds

our cherubic minds.

. . . . . .

micropoetry #12

why bother

opening your eyes

when you awaken

only to darkness

. . . . . .

desire (again)


her fangs sink into me

deep, sharp

stinging as rancorous words

from a loved one

desire, a love

a prelude to emptiness

which cannot be matched




a romp through tragedy

a frolic in the grass

with murderous packs of wolves

and the sad truth is

we are all caught up



betrayal of ones own self

a knife stuck directly

in the center

of the wasteland that is my soul

. . . . . .

your words are old

your words are old

useless and dry.

iambic pentameter


with a sigh.

your poem is doomed

it has lost its luster.

a sun-darkened sonnet

is all you can muster.

your book is dated

lacking in feeling

lying on the floor

not reaching for the ceiling.

your story is antiquated

nonsensical and drab.

six feet below

a marble slab.

. . . . . .


the last breath of a pink rose fades

as the remaining petals

are tossed to the earth by wind,

gravity and fate.

and so intense, this life charade

we pass on by and the dust settles.

weighted down by love and hate.

even the stars feel the tumultuous break

the shattered reason

the cold emptiness of logic.

foundations of stone are known to shake

from season to season.

the earth is rarely sympathetic.

the grass below your feet is so

deeply green

it actually ceases to be

and becomes the colour.

so true is the need to be higher than

what is seen.

we cease to be, we no longer see

and become one with each other.

. . . . . .

Red Light

I ran a red light one time.

But I wasn’t driving.

I was running on foot.

Got hit by a light blue Pontiac.

Man, that hurt like a son of a bitch.

I was in the hospital for months.

I watched HBO.

And flirted with pretty nurses.

Who gave me sponge baths.

A week after, I got out.

I was running again.

Same intersection.

Same blue Pontiac.

Same hospital.

Same nurses.

More sponge baths.

Life is good.

. . . . . .

when you pray

you must tell heaven

you must inform god

that people are dying

at home and abroad

this futile quarrel

over ideas and religion

we’re straying from unity

and embracing division

you must beg heaven

and plea to god

to end the oppression

no more jihad

we must work together

make this world a better place

we must accept

that we are one race

. . . . . .

until we drop

when the mood strikes

and the inbred apocalypse invites

the blood streams from your eyes

morbid tears

the passion

the flesh

corrupts and destructs

the bodies lie in wait

as more and more lives are taken

and souls are traded

for one more fix

the last fix

every time it’s the last

blinded by the blast

we’re all misunderstood

we’re all good

we’re all evil

we’re all blind

we’re all dead

walking around oblivious

until we drop

. . . . . .

I do not accept you

I do not accept you

I tolerate you

like a dog tolerates a flea

that it cannot reach.

your arms give only

empty embrace.

your eyes

could not be

more hollow.

but you

are so



. . . . . .

lighter fluid

I smell lighter fluid
and sulphur
I smell a strike anywhere match
but not only that
I smell the sweat
of a voyeur
I smell it all
in the fibers of my clothes

do you see those flames?
do you smell those beautiful colors?
the beauty of destruction

I hear sirens
the tapping of my feet
on the sidewalk
I hear heavy breathing
the beating of my heart

and I feel sadness
and longing
because I can’t see
those beautiful flames

. . . . . .


The faces lose their integrity

and break apart, falling into the sea.

A thousand year old promise is broken

and with that, a million resolves are shaken.

Strange words erupt from enraged men.

Slowly the lies and the truth come through again.

The pain is intense, but somehow they move on

and life continues to chip away

at the integrity of their core.

But no one even says a word.

. . . . . .


you play that suisong

you play it like this

you slide your instrument

across your wrists

you scream the lyrics

line by line

but there is nothing as divine

as when you play it on mine

. . . . . .


it’s undecided
not black
not white
but both
it’s not grey today
the sun is shining
but my soul is grey
and undecided

. . . . . .

what instrument?

what instrument

are you playing today?

will the stringed tones of deceit

play upon my ears?

or will it be the tarnished brass

of lies

invading my senses?

what instrument

are you playing today?

will you take out your drumsticks

and beat upon my eardrums

banging on the skins

with your bullshit?

what instrument

are you playing today?

. . . . . .

drawings of flowers

she puts drawings of flowers
on her wall.
they will burn some day.
as everything does.
claimed by a match.
consumed by cremation.
swallowed by the sun.

but she doesn’t think
about such things.
she doesn’t contemplate
the end.
she just likes to draw flowers
and hang them
on her wall.

. . . . . .

the sky is old

the sky is old
but still as blue
as the day it began
I’ve seen its birth
for I am old as well
older than time itself
made of the same atoms
that burst apart
and are still running away

the sky is old
but it loves me
we share
a bond
like everything does
we all do
why can’t everyone see that?

. . . . . .

the next may

the layers peel off, one by one
to fall gracefully to the surface
only to be washed away

the damage has been done
you fall to your knees, to conform and confess
only to be victimized by dismay

your only comfort is pain
the only thing you know
why should they stop now?

they prey upon the weak, the lame
if only to watch the blood flow
while you continue to bow

your voice fails, you try to choose
your cries are unheard
and the powerful move on

you have nothing to lose
your existence is absurd
and the opportunity is once again gone

. . . . . .

goodbye heart

my head is not the earth

but I reel from the stars around it

my brain is a cloud of dust

a drop of dry, tasteless rain

my mouth is void of all words


my heart is on its way

to the train station

on the other side of town

it is leaving me

thinking clearly is a thing of the past

feeling any emotion at all

is a task which I cannot perform

goodbye, heart. goodbye.

. . . . . .

micropoetry #13

the lovely flower

grows best

in a pile of shit

. . . . . .


The wind sways around us

we’re pulled by the tide of events

in our ebony pools

we swirl around and around

our bodies intertwine

with a softness so sweet

a day so dark and beautiful

there is us

and beyond there is nothing

our kiss blends the real

and imagined

until fantasy

becomes reality

. . . . . .

chase the wind

to fall in love

is to shed tears

on the shoulder of an angel

love is danger, love is hope

love is your mind

keeping secrets from you

nothing is more sacred, more true

are you in love

or are you holding on

to a dream a fantasy a fallacy



has anyone ever taken you in their


and carried you

over the threshold of ecstasy

without even a single touch

has anyone ever given you

more than you could bear to take

has anyone force fed passion down your throat

have you ever felt you could confiscate dreams

and turn them into reality

chase the wind

and when you catch it

call my name and I’ll be there

. . . . . .

micropoetry #14

the beast only loves you

when it feeds

upon your flesh.

and the demon,

your soul.

the lover’s touch

only masks the pain.

. . . . . .


i can only love you from afar
facing those widening brown eyes
in a chaotic maelstrom of silence

i can only wish you peace
mumbling secret wishes of love
to the heart you have shown me

i can only see you through
broken glass
when I reach out for you I bleed
with no regret

i can only be nothing
not able to give to you what you need
not able to be what you want
forever a failure
never in your arms
and nothing more than
a negative image in your heart

. . . . . .

micropoetry #15


a ride

into infinity.

a lover’s touch.

a writer’s muse.

never leave me,


. . . . . .


do you adore

the lovely lines,

this glint of light

upon my knife?

do you read

the poems

that I etched into your skin?

your next lover

will feel the scars

when he touches you.

he will notice

the piece of your heart

I carved away.

he will leave you

and take a piece of it as well

and the one after him

and so on

and so on.

and each of those men

will carve off

another piece of your heart

as they leave.

and this will go on

until there is nothing left to give.

. . . . . .

micropoetry #16

grain of sand

tooth of beast

coffee of poet

set me free

. . . . . .

silence reborn

her liquid eyes burn strong

lifting light from ecstasy

with an impure heart

human, loveless, beguiling

silence bends the air

rending the wind

with its impartial glare

anguished cries, distant yet clear

take the silence away

they cease abruptly

and the silence is reborn

once again

he sits alone in the dark, wondering

why she is loveless

a woman so beautiful

so sweet

the answer hangs near, he knows

but is invisible

and he cannot reach it

. . . . . .

all is lost

the void

is constant

i look left and see it.

i look right,

more of the same.

deliver me from evil,

deliver me from good.

i exist no longer,

a shadow of a long since gone


lay me down and cut me

make me feel something

for all is lost

in this new year

. . . . . .


the wind was playing our song
i knew and you knew that if we played along
then sooner or later everything
would fit just right, the birds would sing
the clouds would spell out our destiny

tried and true it seems we’ve been through it all
in such a short amount of time we recall
sure it hasn’t been all roses and rainbows
but we both love one another and it shows
heaven is heaven is here when you’re next to me

throughout this time mistakes have been made
our youth and confusion was the cutting blade
i was clumsy with love i had never handled it before
you handled it better you gave me more and more
every moment with you is pure ecstasy

your love was power and i abused it
your time was precious and i just used it
maybe this time i could have another chance
even though it cannot be a storybook romance
i long for you desperately

. . . . . .

hey violence

hey violence
it’s lovely to see you again
and again
blatantly overt on the tv news scene
to the unreal version on the movie screen

hey violence
you spread like fire
creeping at night in bedrooms
or running wild in city streets
never skipping beats

hey violence
you plant your seed
when a child is beaten
pushed down into shame
and grows up to do the same
to his own

hey violence
it’s good to see you
you’re always there
you’ll never deceive me
you permeate the air i breathe
and i know
you’ll never leave me

hey violence
the world’s obsession
dancing the night away
with anger and aggression

hey violence

. . . . . .


the cool wind numbs the pain

the small droplets of water

look just like rain

riding high in the ebony sky

light a night wing

flashes in the distance so

similar to lightning

the booming sounds afterward

make you wonder

whether or not it is thunder

the fact that the sun is not in sight

might make you think

the oppressive darkness is night

but it’s not

it’s only the pain

brought back again

. . . . . .



my friend

find comfort in you

wrap your arms

around the air you breathe

if there is no one there

to hold


my friend

seek peace



stay true

let the love you have created

be the love you receive


my friend

there is someone

who is thinking of you

someone who wishes you

sweet dreams

and peaceful tomorrows


my friend

. . . . . .

micropoetry #17

she holds those young men

to her breast


with an empty nest

. . . . . .

when sunlight…

when sunlight etched its proper name

upon my brow

I awoke

with a sense of purpose

unexpressed until that day

from the wind

forging its name

upon the leaves

forcing ripples in the water

to the shadows penciling in their temporary art

there is purpose

and I’m glad I am here

to witness it all

. . . . . .


Convulsions of death and destruction and anger

Dreams of silence and pain and paralyzation and danger

Visions of happiness and wonder and limitations

Memories of fun and exploring and gas stations

A future of energetic disassembly

. . . . . .


The raven cried out, “Nevermore!”

Somewhere I had heard this before.

I had planned to retire for the evening,

until I saw it’s eyes, dark and foreboding.

His stark black feathers, ripe with age.

Those haunting eyes again, unleashed and enraged.

I asked of it to leave, holding my

fears for a moment.

But the raven was merely silent.

“Go away! SHOO!”, I said.

But the bird remained as silent as the dead.

And just as I thought of racing for the door.

Dick Cheney shot it and it fell to the floor.


What? I think Poe would be proud…

. . . . . .

micropoetry #18

the rain falls

slowly filling

empty graves

i fear they won’t

be empty for long

. . . . . .

Beauty Grows in Concrete

beauty grows in concrete.

we push it back

to the best of our ability.

yet it soldiers on


beauty is a force

stronger than ugliness.

mightier than commerce.

tenacious in its duty

to make us stop and look.

. . . . . .

micropoetry #19

over the sky

expanse of space


in a vacuum

I cannot die

. . . . . .


your eyes are black,

your embrace is cold.

your heart is stone,

for lack of a soul.

the forces of darkness

have claimed your mind.

your voice is distant,

grotesque and unkind.

you seek to destroy

all that is real.

for the simple fact

that you can’t feel.

. . . . . .

. . . . .

. . . .

. . .

. .


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