Spent Manic Blossoms

The few, short hours that we get
To sit upon the dying grass,
The days of sunlight soon to fade,
As they, like we, are born to pass –

Habitual endearing of
Those close enough to plunder —
And this, we’ve come to glorify;
It sort of makes you wonder

A song this morning played, a song
Of love that just went wrong;
It had a beat, we danced to it,
It didn’t last that long

Then guided by our appetites
We craved the beat unceasing –
And bought what wasn’t anyone’s
For having or for leasing

It’s only life. It’s only art.
It’s only six A.M. —
The sun is shaking off its sleep,
It’s soon to rise again –

I think the sun’s benign, another
Elementary blunder;
In days that butcher who they can –
It sort of makes you wonder

The girl that’s looking straight at me
Is only eight years old;
She knows no trepidation, she
Is wild as she is bold

How can the aging father say
The young should wary be?
I turn to go about my day,
And trust posterity

Will lead her to a world of light
The world she sees before her;
I won’t pour water on her soul,
Not badger, nor ignore her

Perhaps, she is a healer, not
One made to mar or plunder —
What she could be, we should have been,
It sort of makes you wonder

Behold, the living narrative
Is spun before our eyes;
It’s there to tell us how to live,
What we should hate, or prize –

But every kind of shadow blocks
Some other kind of light;
And wear whatever mask you will
It’s coming off tonight

Insanity and vanity,
They’re our one legacy;
As we will follow slavishly
Our prized un-parity –

It kind of makes you wonder;
Then again, it just may not —
The few, short hours that we get
To sit until
We rot

A Litany of Slightest Madness

I’ve always seen what isn’t there,
And so, I’m under doctor’s care;
For through my window eyes I see
Far, far beyond reality

I see the workings of your heart,
How love leaks out in midnight drips;
And how you’d hide it, if you could –
But will and tongue have frequent slips

I’ve felt you kiss me in the night,
In circles all around my face;
But yet, we have not spoken yet,
I guess you need your breathing space

But yet I see the world set free,
And through stone portals, one lone tree,
A sky of blue, a field of green,
And no more bullies. No one mean.

The doctor says I’m very bright,
Her thoughts will be with me tonight;
I view them when she’s not around
You won’t believe what all I’ve found

Her fantasies are very great,
And sometimes, inappropriate;
She also sees what isn’t there,
So maybe my gift’s not so rare —

But you, blog reader, don’t you know
We all have been afflicted so?
We’re mental patients, all of us,
Who blog for therapy. Discuss.

But still, I see inside your head,
Where you would rather be, instead
Of glimpsing what now you full see:
My steadfast, bald insanity

But maybe that’s not there, as well.
With crazy folks, it’s hard to tell:
Tonight, what isn’t there I’ll see,
And aren’t you just a bit
Like me?


(“A Litany of Slightest Madness” – 8-7-2015)

A Madman’s Thoughts

Some live in wealth, while others die, bereft —
We tell the truth when that’s all we have left.
For while I feel my mind is breaking down,
I’ll try to write while I am still around
And able, maybe, to create a thought:
Like how what no one owns can still be bought.

I come from Holland. Left there years ago,
I still can see the old house in the snow,
The mansion where my family lived and died,
On prawns and caviar and rusty pride.
If I had known you, I might not have spoke,
For we were wealthy — maybe you were broke?

When I write songs, they turn to trapezoids,
Then fade like cheap and flimsy Polaroids.
But I might write a song or two for you:
Just see that they develop, if I do.
And if you e’er in Overijssel are
Just mention me, my family, at the bar.

The Edelhert, I think it’s called. Let’s see:
Just search until you find a maple tree,
Then go left down the street that feeds a lane,
I think then there’s a deer — that’s not germane —
They’ll be a sign above an ancient door,
And Witte Wieven somewhere on the floor.

NCIS, you know, that show with Abby?
They had that episode where someone died —-
Wait. That was every one. It doesn’t matter.
I know I had a point, but my brain’s fried.
A feather duster makes a dirty bird;
And that’s the truth. Skeedaddle. Battle. Word.

Photo credit : ID 89408142 Chris Rinckes | Dreamstime.com

My Recurring Lunacy

I have a wonderful family

Relatively good health

A great career

But, now, as has happened my whole life

A periodic insanity grips me

And I feel that

I would give everything up

If for just one day

I could be the type of man

Who women fall in love with

Just by looking at him





Which is never going to happen