Quiet down now, beautiful little bygones.

Your melancholy harmony was you greatest allure.

When I walk away like a cowboy into the sunset, you’ll miss

The point, and that’s something I’ll have to live with.


I’ll throw around words of distaste like boulders,

Looking for the golden ruling, but I’ll never be able to speak my heart.

Down by the water hole, I have reflected more than a man does in a lifetime,

And I’ve found just as much, because there is only one answer, every time.


The past is Four Roses on the rocks, And after a few,

I’m drunk in memories. Though it’s easiest to forget.

Strangers will gather and help me sing this song,

That digs me deeper, closer to my grave.


The Aces of life I laid on the table doubled its value,

But the dealer knew better and rigged the river,

And all that time wishing for the jackpot,

Left me with nothing but kindly banter from the others being played.


Yes, the fear of untimely change can make a man’s paunch ache,

Biting fingernails and sleepless nights, snappy judgment, blind eyes,

Rest assured, everything will be alright.

But first things first, get through the night alive.


Today I’ll ponder mortality; tomorrow I’ll fight it.

And that’s the answer, every time.

Today I’ll drink and toast. Tomorrow I’ll find a new town,

And call it my own, until it’s time for my sunset again


Their ways of understanding fill the steel basin,

As they want, not a drop more or less.

Let the stillness reflect their feelings,

Cool as floor tile, sharp as business kills.


Everyone heard about those stock market uncertainties.

The king hangs off the rung above,

Tersely slips a heating plate underneath,

Set to boil. Bubble over, let the liquid

Take its place, rain running fire starter.


Disguised in crystal clear, the liquid’s granulated sugar water,

Fore the king charms the bees, ants, and all naive.

The bishop passes down his orders, sacrifices his pawns,

And is wooed he will not be next.

Somebody please, bring a towel, this has gotten to be quite a mess.


When a pawn warns their bishop,

He can only watch the signal flare with unmoving eyes.

Cold and silent, their ways of understanding fill the basin,

But there’s not enough for anyone else, but the king and the game.



In twilight’s moment,
Where the black forest stirs,
Amongst a coyote’s howl for prey,
A burned away chapel two hundred years ago,
Remains a marble alter, a slab wall, and a story,
The sheen of dew shimmers in moon glow.

In a neighboring field, crooked tombstones
Jut up from the ground,
As if these victims eternally try to escape the fires.

These tablets, dressed in dried moss, bear worn out names,
Unpreserved only by ancient lore,
Known by locals who visit at this time to lay flowers and flags.

And behind it all, those rampant woods
Weave through each other like a fence,
Spreading up a rounded mountain,
Where brown bears graze on blackberries,
And rusted car skeletons lay buried in decomposition,
Providing shelters for wasps and field mice.

Headlights attached to my heart flip inside,
And out of the random,
I recall these gurlgling streams that ran like veins
Into deposits where beavers assembled their dams.
These secret lands, where stone trails were built,
By Union Soldiers in the Civil War,
Where I’d walk alone in youthful contemplation.

The church is a stop on the curving road,
Where “country driving” happens,
Where wild turkeys and red foxes meander across,
Where the world has been touched gently over the period of Humans.
It is here, I’ve locked away a peace that echoes
When I need it the most.

It is here, my bare feet squash the soft grass
In search of pinhead wild strawberries,
In search of connecting a beautiful, but melancholy past,
With a beautiful, meaningful present.

I ask, will you join me, or have you already?

Cool as ice, I am a calmer, collected self
Than I once was.
That is me in the reflection of my black tea,
The one I always wanted to be.

Warm as condensation, I am an aware, energized self
Than i once was.
The sun, the beach, the breeze,
Even I am amazed by my presence,
From a sad, melancholy history.

In love, as wave and shore, I am a confident, determined self
Than I once was.
Higher up the ladder of life.
And I am asking the lifeguard up top,
If they have ever saved someone.

A Lullaby For Our Concerns

We defy the malignant fears,
And we see the miracle like a meteor bedazzlement.
Inside those terrors, those morbid feelings,
That paint over skies at night in specter & awe,

The Homeland you once belonged to darkened.
The callous grip on your peoples’ voices to escape,
Those dilapidated houses, and reveal their song

Withheld them all.

We all have a dream,
To scour the land of life anew and lush,
To cleanse the oceans to their origins,
To regain a proper balance of acceptance and gratitude.
We see the outcome as a key to a destiny,

Enlightenment, answers, and more merrily accepted questions.
But still, truth remains absent, somewhere beyond the malignant fears.

Love Me Syndrome

Love Me Syndrome

Another tempestuous night in Town Park, melancholy

Wild Thoughts, seeks harbor from the fell dampness.

Across an old Maple, restroom facilities, in a stall,

His Swiss Knife carves, help!- a grounded cardinal,

Over faded, besought scratches, then his number.


The windows behold an ashen canvas, dashing away

A lustrous moon, sour lampposts, the path back & ahead,

But in buckets of rain, runs a scarlet damsel his way.

Wild Thoughts escapes on some path, Love Me Syndrome

Skips past roley- poley earthworms stuck in puddles.


The gales deepen in fury. By the Maple, a scarlet,

Melancholy soul runs to the restroom, closes the stall.

She sees unspeakable markings, one freshly concerning.

A knife on the basin, she dials the splintered number,

My name is Lonesome Dove, I’ve waited a long time for you.


A calm develops, drenched footsteps echo anticipations.

The beautiful ones, raised to know what comes & goes,

But not what stays- saturated under fluorescent sight,

They sparkle. Lonesome Dove eases five minutes in.

Your real name isn’t Wild Thoughts. Care to know mine?


From outside, a whip of lightning licks the Maple,

Crackling, thickly green branches smoke up, catch fire.

They ponder a tragic moment. Is it you? He knows, It’s

Me. Tragedy. She flies, red tail vanishing in the rain.


That night, a tornado brewed, ravaging Town Park.

Love Me Syndrome claimed one, but not the other.



Our lives are zephyrs
In hot Summers of love,
Not just to exist,
But each with this unique, determined purpose.
All the while,
We combat, kiss, kill, care.
We are savages, hostiles, heroes, the hope, servants, Kings & Queens,
We are peace and we are war.

But at first,
We are whatever,
Satisfied in any direction,
Coerced by gusts and birds,
To formulate our own purpose,
Where we grow into our ambitions,
And eventually, restless-

Mind, body, soul
From within,
With a trinity of agreed certainty,
Will leap to the tip of the tongue,
Like a gold finch’s first flight into the serene,
To Drizzle fantastic colors beyond rainbows over
The torpid hues of a day in the life,
Over others lost in the dark,
Or withheld by excess of light,
Or stuck in the grey,
Ones who haven’t tasted a breath of fresh air in ages,
And for that, they have gone mad.

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