The stream (all workshops)
Pine smoke
mixed with bacon
sizzling in the cast iron,
frying eggs popping in the grease…
camp fire.
the war would be not worth it at all
if an ovum were to be displayed
as you say,
millions of sperms in array
all will go astray...
oh what a waste
a million times won’t help
an isolated sperm ,
the invisible one,
to in one ultimately dwell
so why the hell
display an ovum isolated
take the 1000 out
and in a row lay
then many varieties of sperms may,
fight to live another day...
I pour a cup of hot coffee
not my favorite beverage
But like the warmth it brings
I sit and consider life
I never come to any conclusions of merit
and the coffee always turns cold
no longer able to give me comfort
Is it possible that this could cause depression?
Depression stops the creative flow, you know
I am full of creative ideas
I just don't know how to find the things
Like Walter Mitty, I can do wonderful
feats in my mind
Poetry,prose of rambling
I cannot tell, I have lost
I walk a floor that's there no more
above listing cracked foundation stones,
just me and memories of before
the ground received my weary bones
beneath that giant white oak tree.
All the fields I used to plow
turned fallow then grew up in weeds.
They're filled with mature pine trees now
to supply some sawmill's needs.
Dark forest far as I can see.
CHARIOT OF CHROME
I ride my chariot of chrome
and vinyl blue
wheels squeaking
as I pass through this world
of one
no longer made for two.
I sometimes hear a voice
whisper “I love you”
from somewhere
and feel the breath of a kiss
caress my lips or touch my hair.
I still smell the sun and rain
of hot Summer days.
Phantom pain all this
they say…
I ride my chariot of chrome
and vinyl blue
wheels squeaking as
I pass through ....
I sit with him. He has no family
No-one should ever die alone
I hold his hand to comfort me
He searches for direction Home
Both wife and children left before him
He stayed for years with loved ones gone
and felt the bars of life's hard prison
in what to him felt like an aeon
I met him in his winter years
He was a kindly, spritely soul
We talked for hours, mixed laughter, tears
became fast friends, as if of old
Deposition
flesh hangs
in obscene globs
from bloody talons
a bird of prey
stripping away
humanity
producing pulp
brutal force
of beak and claw
rip and rend
all that was
mild and tender
dashed upon
jagged rocks
on cliffs of
times destruction
When you see trouble
You better run in a double
So just walk away
There is no reason to stay
You are more of a man
Takes that kind of stand
Remember what I say
Just walk away
You don't have to be tough
You can say that's enough
You did the right thing
So that your soul can sing
Just remember to think
You don't have to have that drink
When I was but a young man
I flew high, by the seat of my pants,
I celebrated with my glass held, high,
plus, I rarely missed a "dance"!
Then, as I grew older
seems I'd break before I'd bend;
and, as life grew much colder
I learned the value of a friend.
Now, I am much grayer
and cherish days, as they go by;
with each, and every memory
causing my heart, and soul to sigh;
THE POET MAN
Once I was a poet man.
I wrote in minor key
the melodies
my soul would sing to me.
But now the voices are stil
and silence falls heavy
where all will is gone.
I've said it all and some.
It is done.
No longer cliché
of the day....
I don’t hear the music
play
anymore.
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