This constant urge to run
It's beginning a blank slate
Instilled in the mind
As a child

Sitting in a darkened room
Staring into space
The old movie
Plays again
And again

A disquieting alarm rises
From somewhere deep within
A place where I thought
It was long buried

Now shaking off the
Dust of time
The silenced whispers
Are once again heard

Ever tearing at the veil
Needing to be recognized as
Valid thought

i belong to a race of people
yet to be discovered
unseen by the multitudes
i travel the inner highway
to the sanctuary of your soul
seldom reach my destination,
there's no where that's not here,
and here is a perspective that is always present

i long to touch you, open the secret that is you
to the rain that falls far from the wasteland
of your inner flame
your heart in the sky,
afire
with the leaves of Paradise.

Is it possible?
that possession entered
into what we both
have freely given

Now we both
feel the constrains
of love set in the
apostrophe

Did we over punctuate
without really understanding
what the ramifications
of wanting would be.

Where did we agree?
to this conjunction
words were never spoken
or read a syllabus of love
.
The joy of two dear friends
with benefits is lost
now we count every syllable
and react to every metaphor

Rain in the Night

It rains in the night
on the old roofs and the wet streets

on the black hills
and on the temples in the dead cities

In the dark I hear the ancestral music of the rain
its ancient footfall its dissolving voice

More rapid than the dreams of men
the rain makes roads through the air

makes trails through the dust
longer than the footstep of men.

Tomorrow we will die
die twice over

Once as individuals
a second time as a species

When All Say
Poetry is too simplistic
Then write,
that which is not.

When you compose
What is too fuckin complicated
Then again straightaway
Confiscate it.

Never mind
What others have to say
They are all going to critique it
In their own imitable way

Accept it if you will
Or else smile,
LOL…
But let the critique,
Not your conscience kill.

Poetry is all about emotions,
In which one is submerged
And
From corrosive thoughts
Errors surface in turn.

She could hear
The doors open
To the car that
Never brings
Good news

Footprints sounded like drums
As clear skies found clouds
She prayed so hard
Hoping it was some mistake

As the bell rang
Her heart quit beating
As she welcomed
Her uninvited guests

The leaves were falling
As the world carried on
For her, this moment
Was discussed before deployment
Every army wife had this talk
Now it was a reality
Not some scenario

I woke bleary
with bamboo towering over my head
I was too weary
to wonder if it would make the world dead.

I climbed out of the back of the van and spewed
last nights Bundie
then I viewed
the wonder of this world
even though in my horrid state
it was all swirled
around.
And lovely.

Part of her is scarred
and she wraps that spot
with scarves, high collars
or extra mascara.

Remnant traces still
ring her shoulder.
Mawkish echoes careen
around her brain.

His self-inflicted torture
spilled over onto her
as his crazed lashes struck her
bone deep.
Musty smells
from those moments
linger
among her nostril mucus.

She carries on,
unable to complete
her forgiveness.

black mould like the rind
midnight
encircling the tub
its wanton encroachment
the gin bottle gleaming
mockery memories

leaning at the window
a fragment vision
the stars wavering
obliterated by tattered clouds

and I think how this
Dusk obsession
consumes me

you receed down hallways
your voice fainter
the chalice beauty
of your one liners
shinning

and the rain
destroys my poems
on sand berms
and dreams
like dust
in windstorms

THE HAGGIS HUNT by Ian Thomson

Close by a big fire, our host fried ham and eggs
“Is that your Ayrshire bacon?” “Naw, heatin’ ma legs!”
We ate then we left the pub for the car park
Where our guide, half-wit Hamish loomed out of the dark
With his good wife, Mad Morag - no beauty (in truth
Some called her Juanita - she’d only one tooth).