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to those who wept
while Jesus slept,

and families desperately trying
to steal whole Sundays

from those who wake gripped inside the jaws
of a Black Dog’s fun days,

and to blurry shadows always jazzed up on life
while keeping sanity to themselves,

and those who sleep half jacked up on lies
to avoid their own full on shit Mondays –

and to those still hot on the tail
of a trail blazing Mars

creeping behind Uranus,
who still haphazardly choose Sunday

as the crucial day to bleed;
to pray for those who never cried when Jesus left

and for those of us who drown in deep dark pools,
timidly sinking while

our silent, but bold words dissipate

taking with them
our last.

And for those who never wept before we had
anything really to cry about –

I raise my glass.

Dig Deep

Waves_of_sand_and_snow_and_the_eddies_which_make_them_(1914)_(14594657438)

Standing alone
on blistering heat; the shore’s,
brittle grains of sand find my flesh,
curled and defiant.
My toes rebel, but I can’t breathe.
Will anguish relinquish my all?

Standing alone,
feet entrenched in this warm soil,
intruders invade this cool, comely surf,
and they find my
grip for dear life.
‘Take me with you, but don’t
ask me to follow.’

Standing alone
the depths engulf me,
doves on water so crazy, made of azure sky,
weighted down
and tugged by my drowning in despair.
Hope is strewn in the sand; heavy, sodden,
dependent only on my resolve… but

Standing alone,
uncaring, cold waves hit me like a tsunami,
and I am lost.  Behind on the beach
lies a carved heart, and words smoothed
by tortuous waters and wind;
an arrow barely visible, sinks
into the same brittle sand and it pierces me.

Where Egos Dare

2 cretins

As the blackest consequences fall,
dimly, the lights do cower.
Wrap a sling on what is happening,
a soothing for those deeds most dour.

Cities ruminate and eagles spread,
bare chested crests have fallen,
gliding still on uneasy shifts
in tumultuous winds and their calling.

Growling, angry, red faced fire (‘fire like you’ve never seen’,
there’s never been such a fire; a good fire!)
seats the ferment of a land’s
crackling glories and scattered chances
all swept by a wretched, wounded hand.

In today’s time of glorified turmoil,
we see full horror at first glance;
faced with egomania, now a common aura,
and with this disease, we have no chance.

Desolate Sounds

blackbird-163503_960_720.jpg

O quilted sky
drape gently on me
here in my shallow darkness.
Before the moon is high,
let me in as nightfall’s
shadow soaked image
becomes secreted
under such a fine cloak,
and this day, which has seen
all there is to see,
is hidden underneath it all.
As I lay crying, I will remember
not to wish or want for it all;
sadness is what it is,
but because it is nightfall
where no one can see,
I will share my thoughts
before I dream
to the edge of sleep –
and until its frayed corners
sift the yawns of sunshine
and covers this bed.
I will rise refreshed on my
bleak horizon
and watch the morning’s
soft dew dissipate
with tears still in my eyes
trying to escape with it
into the air’s naked light
where birds,
half lit, wake
to congregate as buds on boughs
with fingers spread to
temper such glowing
melody; their songs will echo
the stirring winds ’til this full chorus
becomes the daylight of each new day,
and I can breathe it all in.

Be Free

sil

When memories of life lunge
from dark corners,
fight with your heart
and set free the angels willing to leave.
Let loose the shadows
and their sticky hold to let the light shine on you.
Bask with hope
and new possibilities,
illuminate them with your soul
when daylight rains on you and howling
treacherous gales force their way –
endure them  – only then can you decide
where the leaves will fall, and if the sun comes
again, it will shine where you say.

Melancholia

472px-durer_melancholia_i

Woodcut by Albrecht Dürer

I feel like I am drifting
call me close.
The sky is not uplifting
small the dose
of despair’s bitter taste and remedies.
Tomorrow’s sun is shy
the moon is high tonight
should I die,
and if I do I won’t know
what your summer was like
or what your winter will be
all the while without me.
Will the birds sing sweetly still,
or will summer cry a misty chill
when haunting autumn sweeps a melody
of dead leaves chasing our abandoned tree?
Cling to me but wrap yourself tenderly
in warmer summer days.

I feel I have been taken,
hold me near.
These dreams are not for waking,
all in fear –
no colours here amid sleeping hope
tomorrow’s day is turned to night
but morning is here
I will die tonight –
but before I do, tell me
what you will do without me
and how you will send me
into spring’s warm arms awaiting
summer’s amber smile abating
into autumn’s cooler sating
of the ambling seasons all
longing for winter’s sigh –

I feel like I am slipping
hold my fears…

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