11, 9:28 pm
At the end of a day you come home,
if you are fortunate enough to have a home to
come to:
the key fits, your belongings are all where you
left them,
but something has changed, something's not
quite the same,
you realize you're different, you've taken on a
patina and the stuff of your life no longer fits,
what do you do?

Spider lays intrigue

( Another side of the spider tale )

There are those who tear down everything
like your house then promise a new estate.
But first the office block or shopping centre
what of your houses? shucks you’ll have to wait.

You can’t stop or hold progress back
with those who complain I’ll have no truck
There are things you need that you’re now getting
like them or not I’ll still make my buck.

I never ever say never
when writing poetry
and try my best to just get by
which is pretty plain to see.

In order to maintain a rhyme
it's seldom that I stretch
a line too long to work in words
like the lowly plant which people in this part of South Carolina call American joint vetch.

Cursing is a trait I hate
so you won't see me use it
'cause most poems where it occurs
are hardly worth a shit.

There are mountains in the cloud
Plains and valleys too

Climbing and cruising at an altitude
Mind, like weather in turbulent times
A state with corresponding attitude
Through the desert or the sea, whilst sun shines

There are mountains in the cloud
Plains and valleys too

Look right, look left, if you get the joke
Like life tossing up and down in motion
Rushing through, you will see them poke
In a gathering storm, where you get a notion

Strong words from a broken man.
believe my words and follow these callused hands.
Stand behind me and I will shield you from evil.
This is our ending to create, like a blank canvas on an easel.

Straight from work the other evening,
I went to decompress
in a patch of summer woods
along a dim game trail I knew.

Upon exiting my old truck,
rapidly down the path I struck
so fast the world passed in a blur
as feet moved at an urban pace.
Way too fast
to see
anything.

But going up hill I soon slowed
as old legs quickly faded.
This slowed down the passing land.
Revealing how the late sun played
upon the duff through swaying limbs
which whispered "juusssst beee....."

feel your tundra eyes as I bury my world
of thoughts against the undulation of
falling dusk
like crushed pumice the clouds dance
their slow menace the glowing ache
of nightfall sighing in the green copper
of the terminal wire

sipping gently your drink with its
bright jewels of perspiration
ice glitters and strawberries
are lipstick red

deviously iridescent
painfully unblemished.
I deplorably repent
all that I’ve relished
dazed in confusion,
lost in disguise
cleansed in ablution, yet,
dead from inside.
awaiting circulation
of all I’ve tried to hide
the image in the mirror
blurry and distraught
overhauled with feelings
that I have long fought
I see, I pray, I wonder
if this is really me
or a mendacious fraud
as I fight to overcome
all that you applaud

Silence,
As loud as the roaring sea
Echo’s in my head
Seeing the darkness
With no discernible features

Fear,
Creeping quietly
And filling all the empty space
Nerve ends tinkling
Wonder when will I be dead

Thoughts,
Master or slave
Of a mind filled with dread
A knocking at the door,
Is it death?

Sounds,
Creating pictures
Of things which are not
Really there.
Covers pulled tight for safety

If you kill the dead
they'll follow you home
no matter how large the moon
or small the fingertip.

Crop circles don't mean any thing
to the insect, regardless how intricate
the sign, I exist in God's delusion
and write poems about human petulance
in defiance of all the evidence that no one exists
but my choiceless thoughts,
I am dying into a Grand Canyon of words, what shade of India ink
shall I use to draw outside my lines
when I am breathless with awe and hopeless in the void?