The Crap I Write

I finish the crap I write

over coffee I can’t afford

in the mornings on

my days off from work

and I call it poetry.

Before the ice waters down

my Ethiopian cure

I can usually turn 3 or 4

workable pieces I find alright.

Nothing’s ever perfect and

I don’t strive for perfection anymore.

I just do as I do and that seems

good enough for now, besides

nobody reads poetry anymore unless

you’re dead or one of those Slam poets,

but that’s a pack I’d never run with—

the dead are fine but the Slam, no thank you—

since I’m no actor I haven’t the stomach.

I just know how I feel and put it down

whether or not it kills—HA!

If anybody actually cared what I had to say

I’d still be broke. I’d still be here,

no longer curious but still sincere,

breaking 8 balls and biting glass for reasons

only I can understand.

Walking home I no longer debate, I just

spit laughing blood and repeat,

waiting to be called back and told what to do.

The slammed door and the silence

The slammed door said I’m hurting.

The silence said I’m scared.

The walls between us listened

when no one seemed to care.

The portraits on the wall,

oh how they seemed stare,

where deep within night

the stars poured ever clear.

The door knob turned eventually

as silence did it’s head,

the sea between us parted and

the portraits went to bed.

While all the world was sleeping

with all their monsters fed,

the boy and girl slept soundly

no sooner had they met.

His final farewell

I recall the calm

as I recall the storm.

Lead foot hesitation,

the slamming of doors.

Endangered are many

who’ve less stayed for more.

Excuses are fatal,

not ours anymore.

See I recall quiet

death and coffin smell,

his mustache, beard shaven

estranged from the crowd.

Was I the unwelcome?

The burden? Expelled?

His name once my keeper

I’ve written it well.

Yes I recall freedom

wished upon a star,

a second floor window

alone in the dark.

The price no one bargained

unimaginably hard,

his soul like a raven

still blackens my heart.

A kid and a coffin

for now I recall,

the parlor room floor

dead silence in awe.

While tears spill to carpet

and jittering jaw,

echoed through the parlor

with no sign of God.

I recall the calm

the storm never ends,

it grows like a Cancer

bad thoughts fill my head.

His final farewell

is my cross to bear,

how no son of mine

shall feel such fear.