The Everything in the Everyday
You look and look
For just the shade
Of sea and sky
And marmalade –
For thunderclouds,
And cocoa beans,
And paraffin,
And mustard greens –
The hue and feel
Of dogs and cats,
And barrow-wights,
And acrobats –
Of scrambled eggs,
Tomato cans,
Old manatees,
And pelicans –
The sun, the moon,
Gingham, or tweed —
The right crayon:
It’s all you need
(“The Right Crayon” – 4-20-2017)
power running raging smashing
black and silver lightning flashing
roiling boiling blank rehashing
dashing hope and quelling fire
terrifying in its splendor
all is smashed within the blender
there’s no choice but to surrender
drowning in the dark and dire
at our best, we’re insects swarming
here amid blackwater storming
pointlessly some shields reforming
upside downside lower higher
held here by the truth and hour
helpless with this show of power
just to wait it out and cower
until God declares
cease-fire
Insomnia, insomnia,
I think I’ve had enough of ya –
I’m here awake and feel half-dead
When I should be asleep in bed;
But I’ll post on my blog, instead.
There’s something wrong inside
My head
Waves caress the yielding sands
Like two together, holding hands
The sea receives the sun’s last kiss
As gulls cry of forgotten bliss
The tumult that was lately felt
Has faded with the dying day
As night approaches, with its gift
A belle chanson de liberté
(“Near Night” – 10/12/2014)
The lonely night is never done;
It stretches on, in endless wake –
And closes in with memories
And dreams, beneath a constant ache
To walk upon the haunted earth,
To lie upon a sleepless bed,
To hope for nothing but the dark,
And pray that slumber’s just ahead –
But restless, rising up to go,
To walk out towards the waxing light –
These barren trees, they know the dark,
They’ve wrestled with the lonely night
The day will come – it always has –
But eyes will not be there to see:
The night will claim its prize at last,
The pride in you
The hope in me
The world is blue, and so am I;
As beauty serves to magnify
The differences without / within —
The lake becalmed, the heart a-spin
The pace of life, meandering;
The gaze of one who’s gandering
At all that sits without surprise
Through tired, bloodshot, mortal
Eyes
. an empty house .
this house has never said my name before
a name now ringing clearly in the air
i guess the haunting starts now that you’re gone
you took my heart, my soul, my life,
my beer
so i sit down to write my life away
gaslighted like poor ingrid in that film
the king of solipsism on his throne
an empty kitchen cupboard for
a realm
