Life Preservers

To fret the ocean in potent portent of passions
live with the constant dialogue of wave worry,
dream of tsunami threats in detailed images
so one can spill their anxieties in steady plea
for someone to bring the rescue of life preservers
make sure they are ready to avoid drowning
under any situation that occurs.

But it loses the real flavor of crisis
when you don’t live near the beach
never plan on visiting the sea
or remotely go where the tides exists.

Oh the joy might thrive from the dialogue
all the constant rambling over problems,
yet it seems to lose its meaning
be deprived of any genuine zeal
if it is all an act of voicing
what is the pang of your heart
though it is just imagined
and never truly experienced.

Still it does get attention
oh how that feels so good
for when you have eyes and ears
to watch your sobs of rambling
they just seem so important
even if in reality
what you crave is the act of offered help
rather than any actual assistance
since who honestly
wants the burden of a life preserve
when you know how to swim?

The Produce Stand

We stopped by this produce stand
to look for bargains on fruit,
it was an old building
that had been there for years.

While we were checking apples
this man appeared dressed in a ratty gray robe,
he started screaming about the end of the world,
how melons were demon possessed.

The cashier had to call the cops
as the man got more insane with each second,
they finally came and hauled him away,
we bought some pears and bananas,
but just couldn’t get inspired to buy melons.

Framework Sky

Tears realized in black memories
to free the child sobbing in the corner,
while crossing the desert alone,
but watching the sky for portraits
of the cloudy hopes that drifted away
upon a wind that took the tomorrows
written in youth’s innocence.

Wisps of virginity,
the phantom inside that still looks for magic,
empowers the feet to keep chasing
that crimson balloon of pure joy,
a toy of wishes that could fly
where the heart was free from sadness.

The sun burns its truths
on the aging footprints,
yet still the angel inside longs to live,
keep the air preserved as a portrait
of the way life should be experienced.

Trudging through those barren
landscapes of despair’s bitter scenes,
ever reaching for the teddy bear hugs
lost in the frail caress of trust.

Sometimes they seem like mirages
more than the past,
but the heart never stops searching
for that toy chest of happiness.

All The Frozen Fun

Sliding down
a winter’s icy hill
on an inner tube
using a snow bank
for brakes.

Slush in the boots
such a good reason
to head for a fireplace,
sip on hot chocolate
until the socks dry,
then back for more fun
happy to know
there is always
more coco
and extra socks
for the rest of the day.

New Paint

Oh what incredible sense of peace
to think I can’t remember
every foul up, blunder and error
from a different life in a different face.

Only it does make me pause and think
is there a way to suddenly get a charge
into my psyche from my other lives?
Yeah, perhaps a blast of hypnosis
would unlock those wonderful achievements
that I did in some other life.

Now this can lead to so many questions
such as could I find out I was some villain
in another age that I really hated.
Maybe I would feel so guilty
that I would need to confess my crime
like that would really prove I was sane.

But the amazing bounty that lurks
in those shadows of past times,
makes it so appealing to know
what happen in a distant era.

Sure does get fuzzy though
since I worry most
I’ll find out I was my own ancestor
and then how can I blame my problems
on my heritage
because it would be my own fault!

Garlands

May the garland of love
be wrapped around your heart,
let it bring such peace and joy as gifts
to share and savor with every needy soul,
then to dream and believe there are stars to hold
and to live with care as the ornament for your mind.

Two Minutes Of Star Sprinkles

Streaking uncontrollably
surrounded by so many flashing suns,
bathed in cosmic glitter,
heart racing from the power
of Disney’s Space Mountain ride.

Cords For The Greatest Good

Woven strands of sentiments
carefully crafted to lasso the greatest good,
summarily altered to fit any need.

A tie when it helps inspire conformity
or a lasso to catch a life,
ready to drag in behind an ambulance
driven by the latest paper monarch
in a parade to honor those
who died from taking medicinal prescriptions,
which were tainted by toxins
ignored in the haste to perfect
one cure for every ill.

At sunset the voices of reason
scream the insanity of it all,
then some forge a noose
as their solution to all the charades.

Totally unaware
when their bodies lie rotting
while swinging in the only air of peace
they ever found,
how in secret the strutting peacock physicians
to heal social diseases
had their private answers
for ending every problem.

It lies in a closet
with a sign describing its name,
“guillotine.”

The Doors Of Night

Darkness never smothers a dream
for the eyes can see so far beyond a tear,
can drift and float and hover
where the body is trapped in the shadows.

And inside there are the keys
to open every door of night
that often hides in the ebony space,
just waiting for the mind to locate
each place that offers escape
out of the sorrow’s cumbersome cage.

Yet they are there,
always able to be found
if one hears the keys jingle
with the ears of the heart
for they speak to our deepest need,
tell us of what we’ve lost and crave,
what we truly want to bring joy again.

So in the times of midnight’s rule,
to pause and search inside
will take this time of murmurs and echoes
and let it have its own way to light.

Just pausing in the sadness
totally reaching outside its realm,
allows laughter to hint of its presence
behind some nearby door.

Broken

Shattered shards of a picture frame,
irreparable,
no way to undo the damage.

Portrait once seen as so perfect
now just a mutilated image.

Words of sad regrets
apologetically expressed by the one who dropped it,
never can fix what is broken.

Always asking yourself
can you still trust the person
to hold anything again?

Heart doesn’t heal from the scars,
they aren’t something
one can forget,
makes mental lines
between memory and acceptance
blurred and fuzzy.

I’ve seen the ones
who say they are sorry,
yet repeat the same wrongs constantly.

And those whose try to move ahead,
acting as if nothing went wrong,
but the breech of trust is still felt,
unspoken,
a ghost that haunts each future encounter.

For me I don’t think revenge,
neither do I wish to be a whipping post,
sometimes though it hurts to be apart
walking alone
is easier
than waiting to receive
the next knife in the throat.

Revolving Thrones

Today is a surreal game of mental musical chairs,
picking the winner who gets the throne,
a struggle to find the champion
knowing loyalty earns some shade
in the shadow of victory.

Careful to watch each usurper’s eyes,
would there be a better lion
among the jackals?

Risk and strategy,
dare and cunning,
ever aware that power is a cruel sorcerer,
even more so to the ones
who stand with arms extended
as pretense to support the monarch’s rule
while waiting for the handout.

Problem is the wind,
how it can over turn any reign,
causing the leader’s furniture to crush
those how stand by the side.

So dance and wear the jester’s garb,
doing the best to please and pray you picked the right winner,
always checking for those exit signs
should his spring of crowns
end up as a cold and failed winter.

For appealing to the coronation’s hand
begets the beauty of certain perks,
lasting till the sun sets upon that glory,
hoping you can survive the night long enough
in order to find the next star in charge.

Switches

Faces fastidiously formed to fit any occasion
in the basement where repairs are made
unto the mistakes that happened far too often.

Just a flip of the switch in the head
so it turns on a different light to reveal another image
of the role crafted to wear for others,
with the tools used to make that persona
always stored in a box with fears.

Ever worried the power of dreams shall fail,
some surge in truth will short circuit the façade,
then the clown, wizard, fallen angel and warrior
may suddenly die in the blackout of lies,
simply stressed over the possible end
unto that charade played so often.

Still keeping the collection carefully preserved
even when some are torn and disfigured,
for existence is too harsh in the day at times
to risk being seen without that covering.

As long as those controls in the mind
allow the illusion to remain reality,
survival becomes a costume party
without a need for an invitation,
where you can be every guest
simply by changing profiles,
until you forget who you really are
and the scars hidden by the masks.

Dead inside

My world has become shrink wrapped in asbestos
insulated from any fire that warmed my heart,
works has turned into a cold, lifeless morgue
since they gutted any morale and slaughtered trust,
eliminated faces that had been there for years,
carved up the rest of us until we no longer
have any passion for other than survival.

At home we have a fake Christmas tree
it reflects the lack of love and death in joy,
a shell of a shelter with decaying lives.

I live next to a cemetery and near a cement plant
now they say the plant is spewing poison in the air,
it’s hard to hold onto the fading and fleeting future
when so many neighbors are getting sicker each day
and we can’t sell the place or leave.

Not sure the graves next door
aren’t better homes than our crumbling castle,
in the night we turn on the television
to distract from the dark that is crawling inside.

Once we has dreams,
now they are corpses in our bed,
we exchanged holidays for wakes,
carols for dirges,
hope to survive the failed economy
only with all that has vanished and depleted,
health enduring cancerous assaults,
sometimes that graveyard becomes a fantasy
where at least things would keep declining
and wouldn’t have to struggle
for a reason to want another sunrise.

Windswept

Aloft upon a single fluttering vision,
a moth heart in dreamy gossamer form
tries to escape on a wisp in utopian inspiration
from the pressed lips in pressurized presumption.

Feeling trapped upon a cerebral cerulean sky
painted by the brush strokes of social artistry,
where life’s canvas is crafted by definitions
instead of the windswept feel in creativity.

Tinker Bell thoughts thread a timbre of teasing tones,
rippling through the tendons in tenuous touches,
stretching the mind’s eye towards the stars
while wishing their mystery would engrain
some stardust radiation upon reality.

Chasing euphoria’s zephyr breeze
across the concrete landscape,
hoping it will somehow truly endow with wings
to soar before the approaching asphalt paths.

Impossible is the wall seen within the head,
building bricks made of “can’t,”
struggling to deny its presence
by thinking of flights beyond limitations,
riding them to realms
rich in the textures of serene hues
where one doesn’t have to merely dream
to feel more than an airy essence
upon time’s sprawling script.

Exhaling what has burdened
while trying to focus
so the frail creature who dwells inside
might become the flesh without fear,
willing to stop shrinking into the shadows
at last allowing oneself
a chance to truly travel
where abilities can go
when not withered by excuses.

Between The Tears

Between the tears
that flowed unseen in my heart,
between the lips of silent pain
loneliness was an asp’s fangs.

Yet she felt the numbness and the agony
in every pore of missing caresses
then let love be the bandage
of my many gaping wounds.

Slowly she wrapped what others had ignored,
gently she bonded my vagabond soul
in those touches that had been
a famine that never ended
for so many aching ages of being alone.

She didn’t care I was scarred,
didn’t fear my mutilated heart,
merely paused to reach out with her compassion.
Softly stretching that gauze of affection
upon my bleeding cuts
left by so many knives
used by voices with only
betrayal as their edge.

And amid the sobs and despair
her hands moved to lift me
out of that rut along the side of life
where others had robbed my trust,
just content to abandon me to death.

Now in her arms I lay
as a feather upon the wind,
quietly savoring that precious gift
of the embrace that never before
came without acid in the hug.

Oh every second spent
in the beauty of her sweet nursing hold
gives me the only joy I’ve felt
in that endless desert of time.

Somewhere Over the Bent Rainbow

Once upon a midday bleary,
at a Kansas commune for dysfunctional agrarian advocates,
there was a virgin named, Dorothy,
of questionable legitimacy and a neophyte in social consciousness.
She suffered from Wiccaphobia,
after a traumatic incident
with an feminine awareness counselor
having issues over Cynophobia,

Becoming the victim of a tempest act
from a indefinable deity origin,
this girl of scarred psyche
found herself forcible abducted by pollutions zephyr gust,
then deposited in hood for minorities
that had to deal with diabetes concerns
as well as height disorders.

Coming to her aid was a social worker,
directing her towards the nearest
center for group therapy
known as the Emerald City,
the green a consequence of being a site
used for illegal dumping of toxic waste.

Instructed to follow the highway not yet completed,
budget cutbacks preventing it from being asphalted.

Along the way she was joined
by a dyslexic field worker,
individual with armor fetish
and multi-phobic animal rights activist.

They all went in quest of assistance,
were subjected to a panoply of bureaucratic injustices
before finally meeting the head therapist.

Sadly he left for a timeshare hot air balloon vacation
after curing the three friends,
but not rendering adequate assistance unto the maiden.

In a fit out moral outrage,
unable to restraint her emotions any longer,
from her accumulate scars of being neglected and oppressed
did she end up disemboweling the armor worshipper,
giving the field worker a lobotomy and castrating the animal rights activists.

When she turned on the social worker
who showed up with a do it yourself map kit,
the story came to a tragedy end.

Dorothy did make it back to Kansas,
only doing time in Leavenworth,
learning the hard way
if you are going to try and shove a red slipper
up a place in a social worker's body that the sun don't shine,
a red tape bitch will figure a way to prove she is a witch.

Visiting

In the dark the walls move inward
until they crush my sanity,
I could scream,
but my neighbors are all psychotics
they would just stand and cheer
with knives in their hands
waiting till I died
so they could feast on my corpse.

Perhaps this night
won’t end with my swimming in acid,
might even survive without needing
a hellish yell of terror,
if the moans cease and the blurs vanish.

It’s all the molasses of melancholy
slowly poured over my brain
so it losing any sanity
before I hear ‘them’ again.

Those are the invisible creature
nobody can identify,
yet they creep up the spine
whenever they are present.

Just try to hold onto a thread of light
where darkness has a lasso,
only the more I try to hold on,
the more I feeling strangled
by those forces I can't see.

Doesn’t do any good to tell others,
since they seem to disappear
once they know,
left only wondering
how long before I am just a statistic too?

Time spent getting ready for those visiting moments
that will eventually drag me into a vile hole
where I’ll tread vomit to survive
while the beings who captured me
howl over their success.

Someday perhaps I accept that reality
as it awaits for the perfect time,
what a reunion I’ll have with all those faces
who faded out of my life.

Perhaps it is fantasy,
just won’t keep me from the dread
since each midnight those scratches
on the closet door
tell me the tortured are real.

Tomorrow you may read this
or you might find it as a copy
nailed the wall of that pit
you’ve been left,
will be too late to help,
at least you’ll no longer
call me a lunatic.

Mariner Hearts

Set sail up the sea of swelling passion
two hearts piloting together towards that isle
where they will bring the cargo of the love
to build a honeymoon so caring and lasting
and dwell so full of bliss inside its enchantment,
as the lair of intimacy that sings in the soul.

But gales ride the horizon,
all the tempest winds blow against the dream,
slowly the passage loses its rudder,
masts where trust were the rigging
snap under the force of hurricanes
who strain and tug against the lace of finger.

Eventually driven off course
until that ship strikes the reef
that so many other vessels
ended up destroyed and sinking.

In the waters the two are separated
hands simply slip away,
they land on different beaches,
soaked and sobbing from their failed cruise.

Somehow when the sun shines on their face
there comes a bitter light of reality,
aware this journey had no real chance for success,
how the warning were ignored.

Now stranded spirits weep
on a mourn stained distant shore,
unable to attempt another voyager
since the perils only brought so much pain.

Falling Into Mellow

I fell into mellow
it was mixed with ivory and ebony blurs
they screamed their rules as boundaries
from the ancient mouths I thought
were gone deaf ages ago.

Love loom in a mistress’s eyes
conjured out of dance hall
where I chase my dreams,
if only those feelings were a dance for two,
but those shadows have incarnate motives
they are the thieves of happiness
stalking in the same steps
because I can’t hide from them,
so I waltz through their sounds
trying to find sanity
though it really doesn’t exist.

Speechless and spellbound in surreal strolls
this light only yields some brain tomatoes
that are squeezed by the heart
and everyone I fear is watching
the mellow is drained by their gaze,
tomorrow I let the dawn
rain a new illusion
before I hide in the fantasy
waiting for a happy ending
dwelling on the lips of those
who are doctors in their heads
and have prescriptions for my dementia
only they are the cause.

Another journey taken without being expected
another dream that got strained and weird,
just clinging to the life force that left is memory
while it being drained of any hope it will ever end.

Unisexes

Utopian urgencies were the rage
in this fantasy of equality
spilled by surrogate sages
over the minds like some divine nectar
that was expected to cure any social ills.

Slide show presentation
coupled with a monologue of idealism,
soon there would be no risk of sexual innuendoes,
no danger of impropriety
while a new climate of harmony
was forged out of the chaos of lustful lures.

Somebody actually thought it was a good idea,
every person dressed in drab gray jump suits,
no more male or female gender tags,
it was all done by names changed to numbers,
after all who could be sexy
when know as number five,
course sixty nine was denied,
there was no reason to elevate that risk.

How they thought this would solve so many problems,
love just kept as a sterile embrace,
might have been insane,
but they were on a roll
after their success with their environment campaign
manage to get a whole two people
to stop throwing old batteries in the trash.

This was the fruit of a government grant,
an exquisite funding of true vision
if you didn’t include any facts,
if you didn’t delve into truth.

Our hearts were sewn unto that reverie
where tomorrow would be such harmony jubilee
of same haircuts and uniforms,
at last a blow for unity that truly would bear fruit.

Nobody naturally poked beneath the facades
from committee meetings and plans
spreading this mantle of progress to the world.

It all worked in their minds
until the head of the committee
ran off with a gal half his age,
the secretary ended up expecting
after a private meeting with some guy
who said he used to be a monk.

This scandal they tried to gloss over
until another member of the group
got busted for making porn flicks
in the meeting chamber.

So the noble crusade ended,
even though the skin flick was a success,
well not for the traditional idea of unisex,
but she did believe in lovers of both genders,
which I guess counted for something.

Switches

Faces fastidiously formed to fit any occasion
in the basement where repairs are made
unto the mistakes that happened far too often.

Just a flip of the switch in the head
so it turns on a different light to reveal another image
of the role crafted to wear for others,
with the tools used to make that persona
always stored in a box with fears.

Ever worried the power of dreams shall fail,
some surge in truth will short circuit the façade,
then the clown, wizard, fallen angel and warrior
may suddenly die in the blackout of lies,
simply stressed over the possible end
unto that charade played so often.

Still keeping the collection carefully preserved
even when some are torn and disfigured,
for existence is too harsh in the day at times
to risk being seen without that covering.

As long as those controls in the mind
allow the illusion to remain reality,
survival becomes a costume party
without a need for an invitation,
where you can be every guest
simply by changing profiles,
until you forget who you really are
and the scars hidden by the masks.

Night Streaks

In the midnight layers of lament
groping for some azure streaks in sanity
amid all the sobs of loneliness.
And for each sojourn though mazes
of the dark and biting memories
from detours into depression.

Oh if melancholy wasn’t a banshee
that came to life after dark,
possessed and destroyed dreams
until the black of eve
became a smothering death shroud.

If only there was a way out
of the abyss where self hate
wasn’t the torturer
with some voice that could come
who would shred the stillness
by a hint that love existed.

Tomorrow’s sun will not warm,
it will have no light to set ablaze
the cold emptiness and end the urge
to find mercy in ways,
which mutter sobs no one hears
or will bring a rope
lifting out of the valley
filled with snakes and monsters
other than as a hangman’s noose.

No Apologies

The black locomotive blew its charcoal smoke
as a long vaporous trail
into the noon’s turquoise sky,
its silver wheels a blur of spinning speed,
crimson passenger cars rocking back and forth
as the streamline train
speeds across the desert terrain.

Conductor strolling down the aisle,
dressed in ebony suit with matching hat,
collecting tickets with a broad serene smile
and boasting the railroad’s unparallel safety record.

Engineer suddenly has lethal heart attack
from trying to unstuck throttle
that was faulty, but inspectors ignored,
his partner noticing sign that bridge is out,
tries to apply the brakes,
but they fail because the lines were broken,
repair order back at station,
buried and forgotten under a stack of bills
on a clerk’s desk who declining sanity
was ignored because he worked for such low wages.

Engine’s surviving crewman
abandons the cab to climb and warn
the conductor of the danger,
feeling an urge to confess the guilt
unto the doom travelers,
but the man gives him a stern look of rebuke
to ensure they are not told a thing,
replying with a defensive tone of transit pride,
“everybody dies.”

Ride Me!

His quacks
echoes in hell
this dark fowl of blackest desires
who was once Donald's brother,
but gave over
to evil lure
possessed by spell
of Satan's duck pond.

Now his demon curse from
sits silently in this park,
waiting for innocence's to arrive,
climb upon his back
where his vile sway
will softly seduce
with voices speaking
while a child rocks back and forth,
until they keep riding and sneering
as his tempting voice corrupts.

Mothers never suspecting a thing
going nuts from rooms that never get cleaned
or toilet seats boys leave up,
little eyes with leering gazes
looking into mirrors
admiring horns only they can see.

OLD GLUE-BAIT

He's the pride of his owner's stables
the ones where they bred horses
to use for pony pictures.

But Old Glue-bait
was different,
thunder in his hoofs,
lightning in his thighs
born to run swift and sure,
(sounded great on the sign
in front of his stall!)

Took some miracles
and a whole lot of praying
for his owner to manage a slot
at the Kentucky Derby.

Was so hard to be sure
enough races had been won
just to get a chance,
course towing the horse
inside a trailer down the track
behind a souped up semi
raised eyebrows,
however rules didn't say it couldn't be.

So the day came of the big race
all the proud steeds prepared to compete,
most just snickered at Old Glue-bait
until he crossed the finish line ahead of them
with jockey having held the picture before his eyes
of a glue factory
while whispering the whole time
this is where you go if you don't win!

Wisdom

Father passing on his learned wisdom,
by the time honored family ritual
of laying on the paw from "Paw."
Growls of advice, tips for junior
to grow into the glory of canine maturity.

Never bite the postman
when he's hauling box of mail order dog biscuits,
don't hang around fire hydrants
if fireman is turning them on,
trees can be such temptations,
but make sure you don't get lured
into lifting your hind leg if anyone is watching,
especially if it is the dog catcher.

Bushes are a better toilet
than neighbor's lawn,
even more important should you be the only mutt
who can get blamed for the evidence.

Most important is never believe any female's claim
she's been neutered,
without knowing how many other rovers
that she's snuck off to play with in the alley.

Otherwise, you end up being the father,
just as this dad had been,
left to take care of the pup
while she's out frolicking the block
and leaving too many others
with some special reason to grin.

Ascension

Mental timbers rise
Spirals towards inner light
Fear of darkness flees

Reaching truth’s heaven
Posts of soul are energized
Heart bathes in the joy

Love’s wind blows in sky
Spirit strolls roof of one’s life
Wisdom sees past steps

Legs in the Darkness

Mind flutters in eve's shadows as the soul soars by sorrow's wings,
alone, the heart rides ribbons of recollection's many mood colored streamers.

Night calls forth memory's butterflies from flights where love's wind once flew,
voices of those lost and missing kiss their song upon grief's scars,
walking by feeble legs of hope to find a day without need to sleep in a cocoon.

Wisdom's Willow

Wisdom's willow,
aged and drooped,
residing in the forest of the mind.

Waiting for innocence
to climb its branches
and touch its sagacious leaves.

Winds of time
rustle its branches
releasing inspiration's scent.

Vulnerable minds inhale
the fragrance
giving eyes to see
a world abounding in possibilities.

Creativity's mushroom
sprout in the soul
until magic becomes
more than a dream.

Waiting

Within the heart of each woman
who has not found her true love
reside the nymph waiting rescue
trapped in the forest of the mind
where she wears that ivory raiment
of pure desire to hold her knight,
ever wanting to find the one
that will make her complete.

Between the worlds of light and dark
her thoughts are trapped with that
inner essence of longing
the burning need to feel fulfilled.

Timeless are those trees
filled with the power to inspire dreams
about the one who is meant to be
a soul mate through eternity.

Ever snared in her spirit
among those mystical woods
while listening to the sounds
from the fairies who sprinkle visions
so inside she has the vivid image
of the one who is her perfect match.

Though life at times denies that occasion
when two lives will be one,
in this realm the nymph will always
meet her intended lover
for it is the netherworld wilderness
and in the perfect fate moment
whether this age or immortality
shall she walked at last
as companion to the one
who she’ll be with forever.

Finis

The Hollywood Hills hides its dark secrets,
ghosts of cinema fame
making appearances in their former estates,
servants and secure guards bearer of litany in haunting legends
that leave the body wearing icy cloak of quivering.

But terror was never created than in the empty mansion
surrounded by an foreboding, eerie presence,
once owned by a movie producer
known for his strange powers,
exuding of an evil, disquieting aura,
his azure eyes piercing in their probing,
voice able to wrap itself around any mind
until any heart was his slave,
rumors always prevalent about the chamber of sadism in his basement
where he lured young girls for nights of vile and depraved pleasures.

No one sad when he contract terminal cancer
ignoring the gossip of his using black magic
to somehow avoid his fate.
Found one morning dead in his study
next to movie projector
where he had been viewing copy of his latest film.

When the copy was watched by others
there was an unexpected new last image added before the credits
revealing the man's eyes
staring out at audience in their stark malevolence.

Nothing done could eliminate his orbs from the movie,
later they were manifested in every film he had worked on.
Many who watched the flicks claimed to feel
some overpowering sense of being possessed,
suffering nightmares about being tortured in his private chamber
his face emaciated and reeking of stench from rotting flesh.
Studio squelching the truth with bribes
though refusing to stop showing films because of profit
sealing door to his torture chamber
where fresh blood stains appear on dusty floor
every morning.

Horns

Rhetoric’s resonance resounding its reason,
written to orchestrate
a cohesive symbiotic serenade
and induce a serene cathartic clarion call,
shaping the cerebral spine
into an arching ballet
as an ornamental social figurine
postured in cloned clarity,
expressing the transparency
of crystalline conformity.

In silence the soul’s is shaped into solidity,
embracing the sounds of the conscience,
becoming the vanguard emblem
for the cruise of minds and hearts.

Until the pose bears its own trumpet
having a song with lucid notes,
its music summoning a peaceful inner psalm,
becoming the tangential composition
between self and the whole.

Rehearsed

We didn’t know the backdrop of chance
used to collect for boys for a new band,
all the chaos and drama,
the selection process that took for guys
and made them the voices, sights and sounds
of the Monkees band.

Upon the screen the appeared
such a marvelous mix of magic, humor and melodies,
first perhaps a bit awkward,
a bit unpolished or refined
dependent upon others for their imaged.

But in time their beat found its thrum,
their hearts and souls drifted into the wind
where they became a harmony
spilling the sounds of a generation,
while making us believe they were truly
acting out their behavior on purposes.

When the limelight dimmed on television,
after the magic slowly faded,
for a while they toured and gave us their music
though we got more snared by other groups.

Still the albums and spirit lingered
sometimes in reflection
it continues to haunt
like a fingerprint you can’t forget,
having blessed us with one more nostalgic cog
in the memories of a turbulent era
with those tunes like Daydream Believer
and The Last Train To Clarksville
rising on the radio
to stir the mind with flashbacks.