I am, it seems
A coward
To my own fate
Except when
A bumper sticker
Tells me different
And not to believe
Everything I think.
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No reason, No pain
I don’t mean to sound defeated
It just always hurt to try
Knowing there’s no meaning
In waiting out the night,
So I take my lashes willing
Under this starry sky
Knowing there’s no reason
Or pain to justify
Her Beauty Unfolds
How lively and cruel
Mother Nature can be
How honest her birds
Who chirp Chickadee
Her hawk soars majestic
Through winds over sea
Her beauty unfolds
Without you or me
A Separate Peace
All we get
In the end is
Our own
Separate Peace.
A Simple Game
His thoughts were tailored by
The absence of himself
Her words sincere but from
The mind of someone else
Each clicked like a chess clock in the park
Played by strangers in the nude
It’s a simple game we complicate
When we react before we move
Her thoughts were tangled by
The silence in the room
His words unclear because
They sounded from a tomb
Each fit like a shadow in the dark
Exchanging others clothes
It’s a simple game we complicate
What we wanted with the truth—
I’m not a gambling man but I’ve played a hand or two
I’m not a fable or myth but I’ve read what sounded good
A tired man sits idle in the park asking questions with his eyes
I’m not that man in the park but what separates the two?—
It’s a simple game we complicate
When we react before we move
It’s a simple game we complicate
What we wanted with the truth
You’ve Got A Point.
The lengths we’ll go to prove a point
are nothing compared
to the lengths we’ll go to save a life.
Your Cynical Smile
There’s something cynical in your smile
as if I rubbed off some and forgot to say,
that I’m not that kind of cynic.
And I feel no joy from any of this.
This old house
There was new life once
In this old house
Which echos lonely footsteps
—silence rants and raves—
Trudging towards Nirvana
Amongst Other Things
My confidence comes and goes
like passing showers in Southern California.
Aprils Fool
I wish I could have been
The air of reason
Forever calm
Before the storm
Instead of becoming
Those howling winds
Those howling winds
You knew before
But having been
Picked over plenty
Like a jukebox full
Of another’s score
And though I never
Sought to reign
Like Aprils Fool
I seem to pour
Words Of An Average White Male 