Men in the park
grip brown paper bags
certain as Catholic nuns
grasp their faith,
both counting one
by one, until neither
makes any difference
in the course of eternity.
Two paths, one park bench—
Angelic in their own rite.
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A walk in the park
What looked like yesterday
out a kitchen window I saw
tomorrow and everyday
moving forward
as carefree as
a walk in the park.
Artistic illusions
Make my bed
Spread the sheets
They are white
They are clean
There’s a nestle of bird
Who sing softly and sweet
There are bills
To be paid
Overdrafts
To be made
But I’m conscious today
Knowing that rot can wait
I have given enough love, I’ve wrestled with the thought
Spared quarters like rain to a cynical saint
I’ve got no time to spare
All this death in the air
Has me feeling quite good, transcendentally great
Forgive me but truth is
Artistic illusions
I’ve no cross to bear climbing trees and it’s clear
That I
start to see past
The sun and moon
The sky opens up
There’s nothing left to do
This closure’s my mantra to you.
Wash my face
Clean my teeth
Knock on wood
Once a week
There’s a pub inn Philly
Where I dug my own grave
Comb the depths
Of your hair
Try and act
Like you care
I’ve been watching your play
Mixing tonic with pain
You have given enough love, so much work to be done
Put your suitcases down, for a while and remain
Like a park bench in autumn
Or leaves that have fallen
I’ve got proof there’s a cure, you just gotta find yours
Forgive me but truth is
Artistic illusions
It’s a tale to be told, when you’re young and your bold
And now I’ve
Got to go back
To the way I was before
And now you’ve
Got to go back
To the way you were before
This closure’s my mantra to you.
together in the sun
Perhaps we could each
bring blankets to the park
sit far enough apart
so that our shadows can lie
together in the sun
—pure and untouched—
like before we knew
each other’s name.
Grey hours of day
What’s there left to say
on days like today
Where everything stops
the light just turns grey
The moon and the mind
become one entwined
with fear as bright as the stars
So come with me now
still I have my doubts
But isn’t it fun
sometimes to run
Where no one can see
just listen to me
for once I’ve got nothing to say
It’s all just
too much to take
On days as grey as today
Where no one
gets what they want
they all just walk in the park
Ain’t it better here in the dark?
There’s a place and a time
in the back of my mind
where you and I hide
when you’re so inclined
It’s a place where the grey
hours of day, commit not to say anything.
So come with me there
forget all your fears
Knock-knock orange you glad
I’ve got the blues bad
Just stay with me now
and let’s talk about
anything other than this
These days I don’t think I’ll miss.
sad suburban father’s
There’s a black cloud hanging over
the boys playing in the park
While they argue who is correct
mothers watch them from afar
Now there’s Billy screaming loudly
clawing at this boy named Mark
Who his mother she is absent
somewhere screaming in the dark.
It’s a Sunday what a fun day
boy let’s pass the ball around
He’s a shy son name is Ricky
staring at his father now
He is pitching like a Yankee
throwing hard with all his might
All the while there is Ricky
scared to death screaming inside.
There are blue jays singing robins
bugs and inchworms puffy clouds
On the playground there are children
swinging madly laughing loud
Cause it’s Sunday what a fun day
to be playing in the park
Except for Ricky, Billy’s mother
and Mark crying in the dark.
Now the children they all line up
ice cream bells ring all around
He’s a kind man I mean probably
he just smiles at the crowd
Screw-ball sundaes chocolate cookies
candy gleaming in his hand
For the children ask no questions
they just stand and stand and stand.
Now the mothers call the boys in
from the awful looking cloud
Billy’s mother reprimands him
as Mark’s mother has a cow
Oh your father she is shouting
Ricky hears her from afar
As his father whips a fast one
knocking Ricky to the ground.
There are stars now spinning circles
sending shivers down Mark’s spine
While his father who is furious
warns him hell boy you’ll be fine
As Mark stands and sees the dark cloud
fill with light ready to burst
Cats and dogs rain down around him
he thinks what’s he who’s on first.
So the moral of this story
is not what keeps you in line
It’s the people in the park who
I do not wish to define
They are people who like people
look quite normal in the park
While the sad suburban father’s
dingle dangle in the dark.
