Warm
I wore a warm coat against a cold winter wind
For hours I stood till the cold won
Then I went inside and drank hot chocolate
The sweetness gave life to my lips
I touched my coat, but the wool was cold
But soon it too would be warm
Then I went into the winter wind and made my peace
But the wind deceived me and won as it always does
Inside the hot chocolate sweetened my lips once more,
And when the wool would become warm,
I'd go in peace against the cold winter wind, and stand till it won

The Field
Three boys ran in the tall summer grass,
They were ten, and laughed loudly as they scurried unseen
It was late, near bed time
The boys knew this, and hoped for mothers as the sheltering sky
To be men would take forever to these young scurrying lives
But in the flash of their mothers' eyes:
One boy would go off to war and never return
Another would lose a brother and never be the same
The third would be fine, grow into a man with happiness and fame
But there were those times when he thought of tall summer grass,
Of how the tragedy of youth was woven into his soul
And he too, was never the same

The Walk
I almost made it there by bus
But the Greyhound ran too fast
The people seemed uneasy of its riding wheels
Are they looking sadly and wearily upon their lives, I wondered?
At a bend along the way, I asked the driver slowly to let me go
I told him beyond old trees was a memory of a dirt road
It was covered in pine needles, as always this time of year
They're fun to walk upon, and the air smells fresh
Just as a boyhood recollected by older years
I almost made it there by bus, but a driver let me find a slower way

Sky
Words start streaming through my mind like a radio
When I'm home from work, I got these songs as verse:
Like feet dancing on creaky stairs
Like a poet painting the sky
Like fingertips touching her lips
When I feel the stream-a-consciousness like rolling red eyes,
I know its time for work

So I turn on my ear like it's a radio, and:
1. Change the station
2. Paint a poet's sky
3. Hold my breath ...Dance to sleep on creaky stairs

Suppose
It's pay-back time;
It slipped my mind;
I forgot about this life, now I'm not so sure anymore
Maybe this forgetfulness was called charm once,
Way back when;
But it's pay-back time;
The lifeless ones are filled with vengeance
All of their hearts beat with coldness, I got no place to hide;
It slipped my mind, a sheltering warmth along the way
Here's a warning: Fun and a laugh can take you so far.
I read it in a science book:
At the edge of darkness is where light can't escape,
I swear I read it when I was young;
Believe me, it's true: Fun and a laugh can take you so far
Then its pay-pack time, like a cold vengeance it's lifeless
This is what slipped my mind so long ago

Moon
He had the look of voices inside his head;
They'd turn around, scream and terrorize;
They'd meld his hallucinatory thoughts with a red poison night
He'd howl at the moon, and the dripping moon would howl back:
I'm the poet, and you're my stolen, random verse.
Ha! Suffer you, those rhyming demons inside your head.
The moon was cruel, as most moons are.
Crazy, too. In his lunar talk
For that night, he with his look of voices bled by his own hand
Madly, the moon howled back, and stole another lonely verse

Lipstick
There are women who blink too much. They blink at you because they want to enthrall you, engage you, seduce you with long cat eyes. You see them in bad, run down places where run down people go to hurt some more. Like in smoky bars that burn your insides with cheap cigarettes and stale booze. Like in all night diners with blinking neon signs that tell you of Pyrex coffee poured into red lipstick cups. Sometimes they are too old, or too young. Sometimes, too fat, or too thin. Sometimes they wear too much make-up, or too little perfume. Sometimes when they look at you, fast and wanting, you run as fast as you can. Then there are the times you walk to them; then walk away under the morning sun, feeling desperately hurt by the wounded ones with too much blink in their female eyes.

Sometimes
I find myself late at night tossing green tea cups on a shiny floor. I say: "Those Tokyo days!! Come back to me, I got room for you." Now I laugh no more. I just drift till time will end, as it does for us all. "I miss you. I should of wed you. Put that ring on your beautiful hand. Come back to me!" But I know you can't. I feel so sad and empty, and foolish for not letting go.

The best I hope for is that someplace you too are tossing green tea cups on a shiny floor, and call my name. But I doubt this is so, and it saddens me even more.

Pressed
The congregation poured out onto the street. Their hands were on fire. But their lips were dry, some never touched by a human kiss. They saw a Sunday Bar, a place of ruin with a lone man standing at the door. His apron was as bright a white and as well pressed as a parson's collar. The bartender stared at the congregation, and wanted their souls. Something he could never find in a drink. They stared back and scorned him, he knew. He wondered if these people, their hands on fire, knew of a preacher in white cloth who drank with an old bartender late at night; the hour and place where secrets are kept.

The last of the congregation went by. The lone man walked into the grey church and said a prayer to the old preacher during the hour when his secret was kept. That place where an apron, bright and well pressed, moved in darkness and light. That place where a bartender and preacher clashed, and then wept.

Forgive
See, I got these pains that twist me deep inside. They come in the night, through dreams masked no more. I'm revealed and scorned by those I've hurt. They wail in satisfaction at the pain they now cause. I beg, I ask, for forgiveness and mercy for a mind they agonize. But all they know is weakness and revenge, so I stay awake and fight them the best I can. But they have allies in sleepy eyes, so my will gives in. I'll ask once more for that forgiveness, but I expect a hurtful 'no'. So I'll wait till their sleepy eyes tie them down, then I'll give them the same.

One Day
Sometimes when I'm down. When despair weighs on me like all the world's suffering, I pick up this yellow Square Corner. I'll wear it like a shroud; wrap it around my face and press it tight against my silent lips and listen to Heroes...I wish you could swim, like dolphins, like dolphins can swim...then nothing, then nothing can keep us together...

When Bowie's song is done, I can remember, standing by the wall. Then I remember the Square Corner is my shroud, and I release it, a hero for just one day.

Pursuit
I've pursued many things in my life. Words, sentences, beautiful stanzas in high heels and bejeweled decolletage. I've pursued the stories of others in all their glory and shame, sorrows and hopes.

But there are things I haven't pursued. Like my own words and sentences. Sadly, that has made the difference.

Is
Is this the blog on a rendezvous? A journey at night to meet the falling star? A journey at dawn to meet the sleepy morn'? I don't know if this is a rendezvous of the now, or a hope and dream on a forgotten page. These feelings of going somewhere, being someplace else, the inevitability of poetic musings like a rendezvous. Once in the moment my spirits rise as the all knowing. Other times I forget as a sleepy morn' forgets a falling star.