Tuesday, September 3, 2013

Gods and Rabbit's Feet

I am guilty of being trite,
As am I at fault for sporting shotty rhetoric
Or spending my breath on idol flattery
     Or empty praise.
But there's a frequency I've found
Spinning on my local airwaves
That has turned my trust from truth and reason
And shot me out to search
For the rare abstraction of form
Found in the very tactile moment, after conversation,
When one realizes silence has fallen.

My father was always perfectly empirical.
He never believed in ghosts or rabbit's feet,
But I have bought the superstition
     That this won't end well.
I have invested my future in the fall of bones
Whose earth bound course will be the cause
     Of countless arcane musings.

Here, caught between binary code and bibles,
In the generation that got used to school shootings,
I've preoccupied my concious pulse
With the games of gods and men,
To find the secret words
That tell the facts about the after of everything.

Tuesday, October 25, 2011


In a clearing in the woods, two brothers fight.
They ram each other, wrestle with their pointed crowns.
The winner gains the power and the right
To rule their father's ancient, sylvan grounds
And will have the favor of the fairest doe.
So they lock their antlers, tearing from the start.
The loser has to face the snows alone.
A solitary creature is the hart.
But come the winter, brothers lose their crowns
And in the spring the hope for better years abounds.


The lustre of your silvery eyes
Outshines the winter waters, cold
And has a cool, familiar air
That only snowy blankets hold.
Safe and soothing, blue like ice
That glistens on a glassy lake
In mid-December while at home,
That's showered in white, snowy flakes.

The majesty of winter storms,
The power in the blizzard, white,
Is there, behind those frosty panes
And reveals an inner might.
That cool, familiar, soothing air
That only snowy blankets hold
Is well protected by this gale
When circumstances need you bold.

The powerful, majestic storms,
The blizzards in their wintry might
Are safe and strong, are reassured
By one unfailing, snowy sight.
The mid-December time at home,
The water tucked in glistening flakes,
Reflected in your ice blue eyes
Is soothing, cool, like glassy lakes.

Sunday, October 23, 2011


You can't be rough with mice.
If you are, she pays a price
For putting you inside her trust.
She must not see your smile is naught but dust.
So while you have your rowdy fun,
She wants to cower hide or run
Toward her safe and cozy place,
But mice can't outrun dogs and tomcats in a chase.
But you don't care, or you don't see
She's given all her heart to thee.
And so you bat, and paw, and chew,
Because mice are not as strong as you.

You must be strong for a mouse,
And build a safe and steadfast house
Inside a proud and sturdy chest,
On which she might just place her head and rest.
But you don't care, or you don't see
And with you, mouse is never free.


It's a scary thing, to do.
A frightening thing, to act.
Sometimes it's hard to follow through,
And so you wait in bed, compact.

Beyond that door, there is a world of hurt
And the bed is safe and warm,
But on the chair is your coat and big-boy-shirt,
And you have to face the storm.

Sometimes, at night, you see the stars,
You feel the sky is raining fire
While the dull, electric rush of cars
Makes you wish you don't aspire
To freedom
And to love.  Be bold,
And seldom
Will you feel old.

Let the comets grace your skin.
Let the wind caress your hair
And follow down your spine and in
Your chest, and breathe away despair.

Face the lightning on the road
And the fury in the stars.
Leave the safety safe at home.
Give yourself some battle scars.

Friday, October 21, 2011

Slow Burn

There's a slow burn.
It starts off as an ember.
First it keeps you warm,
And it's a fond thing to remember.
But it grows.
The air heats and expands
Inside your chest,
And starts to ache, and shake your hands.
Then it slides into your gut,
The thing that slowly burns,
And it writhes around inside you.
Oh it churns.
And at times it jumps.
When you least expect, it shifts.
It slithers toward your throat
And it finds your jaw, and lifts.
There's a thing that burns, so long and slow,
And hides the world in smoke,
And if you wait too long, it starts to sting
And choke.
So at times, you keep it secret.
Oh you hide it, this you learn
With the fear that if you free it
It will twist, and break, and burn.

Tuesday, October 4, 2011


When the North Wind blows, it howls, it blows
To toss my ship in frigid cold.
The icy wet does chill my breast,
And hardens hearts, both young and old.

When the East Wind Blows, it laughs, it blows.
Its mischief sends my ship astray.
What fancy fun the East Wind hums,
But leaves my charts in disarray.

When the South Wind blows, it screams, it blows.
Such stormy shrieks do scrape the rails.
This wind, with rain, brings numbing pain.
Its screeching voice could tear my sails.

But when the West Wind blows, it sighs, it knows
Its whisper, soft, will gain my trust.
And on voyage long, it sings its song
And gives my ship a gentle gust.

When the West Wind blows, it knows, it knows.