Assorted Poetry
A Supposed Lack of Insight
Midnight strikes, so be it
I must have missed the sign,
I didn’t see it
Laying down to rest while
Conversing with the crocodile
And pack my bags to stay awhile
Crooked with an awkward smile
My only thought to free it
I asked if this could be it,
And it said with croco-style,
“But never should one ask that question,
Expect just my interpretation,
The answer, friend, the satiation
Lies quietly within.”
More at Eleven
Something more than a sleepy vision
A deep incision, painful flowing
Small but growing, grasping tighly
Red, unsightly, calmness rising
Sympathizing, screaming gently
Wrapped and sent me, fluttered whistle
Gracious missle, once arriving
Tied and thriving, smiling faces
Worried paces, rising falling
Voices calling, hopeful glimmer
Labored shimmer, waking slowly
Thankful, wholly, wheeled away
To end a day
So many whom have seen
Optimistic, Outstretched and Bleeding
Once there was a boy, quiet
He found something small
And it grew
Carefully cultivated, energy poured
Echoed back to him, harder
Farther away
When he lost sight, he ran
Toward the blur, but its path had changed
And there it stood
But he, now, was lost
Led to a place uncertain
Not quite alone
Tired and confused, he found something else
He found his energy was gone
There was none left to give
And thus withered and died
All he strived for, the running had killed him
One last breath
His treasure took even that
To sustain itself, pity be to all
Who find that they are it
Not Today
Your choker choked me,
provoked my inner light
And made the night
Such a sight
For thus took flight
The subtle fright
Took something right
And sailed away.
The sunlight bound me
So profoundly took my fear
And waited near
So I hear
For thus appeared
The lonely tear
And left me here
But walked away.
A glance mistook me
When it shook me inside out
And lept about
For never pout
A small amount
Can be the grout
To fill me out
But not today.
Scout
Come toil in quiet contemp
Paperclip disarray, workspace unkempt.
Authorative voice from the aisle,
I bury my head in an envelope pile.
We’re looking for someone like you
To do all the things that we don’t want to do
Fluorescently lit is the key
You’ll fit in so well if you’ll try it and see.
And you can have all that you want
As long as your dream is to work as our grunt.
You’ll rake in the dollars and cents
(But upwards of half goes right back to the mint)
So fax us your resume soon,
And you can be hired by this afternoon.
With you we’ll all go so far,
But we really don’t care who you are.
The Constant
A great glowing marble, hovering, covering stuttering masses
Which passes the time with the spinning and thinning
Of depth to a field of uncertian disaster that faster and faster
May dim and grow colder until.
Once to the marble I said so, or fled so amazingly fast
That the moments which passed were digging while rigging
A trap for the mind so disturbingly kind that deeper and deeper
I fell through the vastness so still.
And further in space I reclined, which defined all the words
So absurd that it pained me to speak so I lie and I try
To relinquish a thought, whether ready or not to present and resent
Something meaningful this void will fill.
Yet the rumble of emotion ebbs and flows as such the ocean,
From a wicked sort of potion, created solely by the notion
That perfection is reachable
And happiness is teachable
Or instinct is impeachable
But it never seems so feasable,
That the constant here is ascertained
By giving love and taking pain,
As the marble spins so endlessly
So will you and then you’ll see
In perfect world the only word is be,
So be yourself for me.
Pond
Possibly confusing
And certainly losing
A certain connection,
Or twisted reflection,
Of an image I see
When I close my eyes,
Mixing truth with loving lies
Of something that tries
To touch us inside
And hold you in
But take a peek
For what we seek
Is here in this pond
The Infinite Beat
The infinite beat, an unrepressed power
Irrepressibly moving each day by the hour
Somewhere it gives, and forever it takes
But there’s always a calmness it makes
When never it seems like an answer is near
Just feel your heart if you want something clear
When clouded by one thing there never is less
Admitting and knowing just what you confess
Yet never lose sight and just quietly stand
When all that still matters is what’s in your hand
Wicker Fever
Wicker chair, oh wicker chair
You creak when I touch you
Not that I care
You’re scratchy and a little bit frayed
But your worth damn near twice what I paid
Wicker chair, oh wicker chair
You have pants and a hat
You’re covered in hair
Hey wait a minute! Wicker chairs don’t wear shoes!
I appologize, Timmy, you may go home!
Roses are Blue
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Cats are usually black,
But also come in other colors
Except green
But we all know that’s because they’d look too much
Like rabbits!
What’s up now rabbit?!
I will kill you!
3 parts
Floor
I found someone lying alone on my floor,
Well it’s me, now I see.
But then someone called me and I turned toward the door,
No one’s here? That’s my fear.
Oh but tell me what is that delite I smell cooking?
There’s nothing in sight but I’ll spend the day looking,
And later end up on the floor.
Everything Not Here Nor There
Hovering, hiding, rotating, diving, sliding and twisting,
Flipping and whistling, screaming and flying, or crying, but trying
To live when there’s neither an answer nor question
No hints and no clues and so rarely suggestion
But how does one get from the floor to the ceiling?
By paying or praying or sitting or kneeling?
Or maybe it’s all just a matter of feeling,
A little bit scared but aware that you’re healing.
Ceiling
in the midst of a cloud of a people
society waves a shadow of its hand over them
and the cloud shatters into pieces
like glass dropped on the moon
under the ceiling of pc, be-nice-but-not-to-you
a beam of light hits a single one
and is reflected
and refracted from one to the next
and the colors spread
from one to the next.
this cloud has made a rainbow
out of a single beam of light.