Egg Shell Armor

Steel in the eyes that appears so strong,
it reaches inside
an iron to stretched over the heart’s scars,
all created by the armor of the lips,
worn with a hope
no one will be aware
one tear drop can shatter its truth.

Knights arrayed in their shimmering shields
can be a butterfly underneath,
for it doesn’t take a sword
to cut away the metal made
in an armory of pain
where it was prepared
as a protection against abuse.

Like eggs so many lives are sheltered
though they are painted to appear as impenetrable,
yet easily cracked
by the wind of words,
which can fracture any shell of feelings.

How delicate is the silence
used to cloth the tenderness
made to prevent it true nature,
because one time it was shared
with someone as trust
who used scissors to shred the fabric.

Cocoons

She dwelled in her dreams
waiting for her chance to flutter
underneath her gray hair and liver spots.
But she smiles to think in consolation's pride
of her four fledglings given their glides
even after her husband died in the war.
Oh the haven her wooden cocoon has been
draped in the design of Victorian passions,
ivory timbers aged and brittle now
like their mistress,
though it can’t keep her heart
from the beauty of love’s butterfly dance.

Outside the small town denizens
pass by with speculation and ponder
those strange noises coming from inside
made easy to explain since television came
when she played it so loud from her poor hearing,
yet it never seemed to truly justify
what minds conjured from a distance.

Within are the tales left to imagination
for she keeps her smile as seal over her pains,
on the wall are preserved the residue of her life,
each precious collage of winged moments.

Perhaps those fables of the past
still hold sovereignty over her abode
about the occupancy by witches and warlocks
before it became her womb of marriage and motherhood.

Still, October paints it with the hues of creepy vibrations
as youths come to taste her oatmeal cookies and admire her charms,
because this residence is the masterful abode of curiosity
on the road to the small town
filled with minds living on an era of private fancy adventures.

Maybe there were ghosts in the halls
or one more shadow that moved when it shouldn’t,
broken fence and a porch in disrepair
were normal enough
until the rocking chair moves by itself
and window opens on the second floor
when no hands are seen nearby.

Surely there is a reason,
is what the closest neighbors say
who cope with the crunch in the stomach
each time they walk by.

Granny still shows love more than hate
warms by the hugs and soft words,
never will it end the wonder
what happens behind that closed door.

Wind alone whispers the truth,
nobody really is listening
since magic is a must in a village of tears.

Night’s Pardon

The darkness just bled away
like being sucked out of my heart,
for my hands found the candle
that shines its radiance
into that black hole
where I feel .

But I reached up
through all the ooze,
out of the ebony stew in sadness,
just feeling that euphoric blast
from having night’s pardon
to bless me with new life.

It’s a cleansing shimmer,
which now burns inside,
totally eradicating that sense of futility.

Now I can dream and see the sky,
walk with steps completely alive,
I am the renewed,
alive as never before.

 

Darn Gravity

This silly scale is a sick, sadist sign
just don’t pay it any mind at all,
because I got it straight from the source,
the guy over at Home Depot in the plumbing section
none of these darn things do other than lie
because they were invented by Newton,
you know the Sir Issac one that created figs,
yeah, yeah, it is all his fault
not something we can trust in the least.

Imagine life back in BC
that was Before Calories,
why they didn’t have a clue about gravity
since it hadn’t been invented yet,
so nobody ever feared their weight
since the earth was flat
and everyone rode on magic carpets
between the flying pigs and cows.

Now see, don’t even touch that thing
we’ll just go back to eating what we want,
plus with enough candy we’ll pass out
then we can forget weight completely!

A Kiss

Moved in waves of intensity
the love burning
to the point of complete blindness.

Heart pounding
from the paradise dreams
until discovering
you mate
is kissing another,

pain burying the passion,

made hell
flaming the insides

when noticing
the other lover
is a cadaver!

The Ageless Ring

Two Adonis standing for a duel
surrounded by the eyes
waiting to see this glove warriors
serve fists of rage to another.

That is the legacy of contest,
the celebration of athletic spirit,
over the years it has produced its gods,
with names we learn and admire.

How time echoes their feats
for a while they are immortal,
their battles the song of bars
where they are remembered as legends,
the words, John L. Sullivan, Joe Louis,
Mohammed Ali and a throng of more
have given us the pinnacles of fighting passion,
which even filtered in cinematic fantasies
through the film tales of Rocky and others.

Enduring punishment, fatigue and so much more
inside a roped ring where they refuse to give up,
it is the graphic celebration of human stamina,
a display of the soul seeking excellence.

We are its witnesses and hold onto the memories
because in them we find our own inspiration
to face those fights in our own lives.

And it is the ageless quest for discovering
the best that resides within,
bedecked and bejeweled of famed for their diligence
while we go away from each bout
reminding there is something truly noble
found in the totally commitment to do your best.

Cones

July brings its magic
in the soft chilled cones
of vanilla mounds,
strawberry and chocolate
frozen thrills.

A few swipes
of the tongue
and the flavors
bring their smiles
with sweet sugar fantasies
melting over the mind.

Pour Me A Long and Lasting Tab

Pour me a long and lasting tab
of the bourbon I have spilled,
over the lies drunk could grab
which the booze did distilled,
with broken dreams to nab
until I have felt so filled.

For I have truly learned life is never free
that lead to my own soaked bouts of sadness,
as I hide in the dark bar’s stale jubilee
while watching pain become cocktail madness,
just one stained napkin, ringed by a shot’s spree
so the world drowns in beer of its every badness.

Now I’ll take another round to create the illusion of fun
because it is still better than venting rage with a gun
and just keep on drinking so I don’t have to face realty’s sun.

Waiting

To stand while sitting, fly while sleeping
it’s all the jumble of gyrations
spun like a spider’s web of revealing
in a mind slightly askew of sanity.

But the quill in the hands
is still a wand to wave over every impulse,
waiting, ever waiting for it all to make sense
while running everywhere without moving,
in love with someone you can’t have
and feeling like being suddenly Alice In Wonderland
trapped in a fun house
located in a cemetery that is occupied
by fairies dressed as preachers of grammar.

Those are the whirlwinds of brain
brush by a muse who doesn’t care to define
what sways, seduces, surrenders and succumbs
over the heart and thoughts
during each interlude of dancing on poetry mines.

And it is passion driving by whim
carefully created in frail logic
that when it works, when it all make sense
the lips can boast it was planned.

Then when it drools as incoherent dribble
suddenly the lips try to give it point,
stopping on a precipice of excuses,
thanking god for literary licenses
that mercifully avoids the embarrassment
of explaining why
what was written
was not really artistry,
but just chaos carefully cloaked as verse.

Trimming

Across the sprawling landscape
stretch those asphalt ribbons
tying the endless mazes of cities
with their traffic bows.

Speeding along that concrete trimming
chasing the promises of presents
lying somewhere at the place
where the decorations end.

Getting lost on that black thread
while the mind goes to a party,
wishing this commute
had more cake than gas.

If not for those holes and ruts
might never get shook from that dream,
so go back to rolling along that strip
taking your future for a ride,
always searching for a pair of scissors
that might cut this band
over each day.

But that only happens on Christmas morn
and on birthdays,
when you get to stop merely imagining
being free from the adornment
of what life’s gift wrapper
created as your box.

Supple Grins

So full and firm
those luscious large lumps are together,
can’t help make me drool
over how appealing they appear
just want to fondle their shape.

Oh that incredible,
yet inexplicable thrill
when watching such two
truly lovely matching forms.

If only they didn’t hide
behind some covering
so you just have to look
while wondering how they feel.

Still when I see
the boobs over at the office,
all the bounties in morons
who stay in the cubicles,
got to admire the presence
of all those brain dead boobies,
since they are so dumb,
each day becomes a joke
while dreaming I could clue
their heads together
to keep that idiocy
in one place.

Words

Songs of lips slip into her slumber
about fantasy creatures
and all the magical realm.

They dance in dreams
where she twirls to join
in the simple of bliss
of pure make believe.

When it summons a smile
on a waking face
then the love spoken
while she listened
was what truly colored
her creations.

Staffs Of Fading

Gazes into the abyss,
fingers tightly wrapped
around the staff of life,
while the call upon the heart
pulsates with its vitality.

But there is darkness
in the robust roams
and the watch care vigil
decays in its zenith.
Oh frail heart beneath the iron
seeing visions with morbid stains,
this moment of trespass
upon the surety of strolls
across the layers of lucidity
where life was a tranquil illusion.

Now the mask is gone
the heart again an aging throb,
no eyes to look into the magic
for the wand has become
a key to a fleeting dreams
and the stare sires its stickers
while inside we bleed.

One whimper to exhale,
one sob to drown in song,
yet the reaper still carves a skull
to fracture the fragile vase of hope.

Eden’s whiffs turns
into stale and putrid scents
as the heart claws for what is lost,
perhaps a reverie will yield wings
before dawn slays the fancy,
left swimming in a pool of tears.

Sleeping

Little cubicles of night
release the beasts
they grew so big
when cartoons were reality.

Now they come out
in the eyes and lips
with a child’s temperament
stomping against the world
that we feel as strange,
yet can’t ever get a clear peek
at that monster
who is sleeping in the brain.

Lost

He’s back home after five years
to walk along the familiar paths
slip through the maze in stores
and return to the haunts
that he knew years before.

His clothes are plain and so much
like the many others wear,
yet they are uncomfortable now,
a reminder of lives without suits,
without the memory of pressures and deadlines
like haunt his every day in the city.

So he walks like he did before,
faceless, simple and mute
passed the local heroes
of former high school athletes,
beyond the small shops
where some town older citizens gather
in order to spend their retirement
by talking about how life should be.

What can he say now
from his experience in corporations
after he finished college?
Oh they each can offer him advice,
none of it feels like coming from a god
like when he was a youth.

They’ll never see him as the gifted life
that moves in circles of power,
perhaps it is the way it was meant to be
since they are so content in their innocence.

Makes him filled with mixed blessings
joy of knowing leaving wasn’t a mistake,
still coming back had its merits
as a motivator to stay
where he lived on the mountain top
and felt the power of dreams that come true.

Night Strings

Black silky cords tie together the images of night
they squeeze them of life
until only madness seems to be seen.

Still the mind resurrects its immortals
from alleys, sewers and unlit rooms
until they scream as ghostly intruders,
unsure if they come from heaven or hell.

Walk a little father into the darkening morass
where the truth lies to be found
not by seeking parrots out of the light,
but by listening to the heart.

In that anguish bleed a little,
smile and embrace the vision
because once they kiss your mind at midnight
life is never the same.

Fur Leaping Thinking

What am I supposed to do
since Kermit is so very cool,
and my owner things he’s grand
so had to come up with a plan,
to get the same attention for me too
because I’m a kitty and I’m truly due.

Hope this get up really works for me
on my owner who has just turned three,
wonder if I’ll have to love Ms. Piggy as well
guess I can lick his stuff one to try it for a spell.

A Little Mark

My heart will write it feelings for you
not by flowers that will fade,
words that may touch today,
but will not warm during the night
or caresses that hold you for a while,
yet not when you are alone.

A little mark I leave with my lips,
with it comes all the passion inside
to reach deep within you with all my desires
that you would know
how everlasting is my love
so ready to cherish you always,
adore you with each kiss
until it lasts and makes you glow,
no matter where I am.

Because you first embraced me
and made me feel so complete,
now all I am belongs to you,
its devotion flowing with each puckered touch.

I will leave it as my vow,
the very blood of my life
and the essence of who I am,
for without you I’m a mere ghost
whose spirit and being
will eternally be yours to possess.

Behind The Badge

The bakery smells flowed into his back room office,
after so many years the fresh baked aroma of bread
just didn’t affect the same any longer.

Perhaps it might have if his heart didn’t have those yearns
to live our west and know that dream
of dance halls and gunfights,
courage and whiskey blended with lethal consequence.

But a leg injury as a kid prevented his being able to ride a horse,
so he settled for taking over the family bakery
and spending his days in that Missouri town
while writing his wild west fantasies
in stories that only he would share with a few friends.

Today he was struggle with his latest adventure
clawing at his mind for names,
out the window there was a cemetery,
tombstone came into his head,
sounded like a good name for a town.

Then he needed a main character,
hmmm, Wyatt popped into his brain,
one of his friends, taking on Earp
after a neighbor whose had it as a last name.

Also needed a companion,
perhaps a doctor,
suddenly reminded he had a vacation coming up,
writer’s thought creating friend, Doc Holiday.

Now for a drama scene,
saw the cousin letter from Oklahoma,
Ok had a ring, just grabbed the word corral out of the blue.
Hours later he had his finished tale.

Walking home he ran into Jessie,
wanted him to come by his house,
can’t say no to the James boys,
outlaws don’t take rejection.

Inside stood Bob Ford,
one blast of the pistol and soon
a missing bakery would be buried
to replace the faked death of Jessie James.

Months later, a man rides into the streets of Tombstone
he looks up that name and smiles,
seeing the Ok Corral is left amazing
how that baker was so incredibly accurate
about things he never had seen.

In his saddlebag is that baker’s writing,
he wanders into bar
will get used to being called Wyatt,
and notices Doc Holiday is sitting at a table,
nods and avoids calling him Frank,
which he learn to avoid,
now that his brother like him
has a new identity.

Monday’s Lover

Friday night whispers
in soft coos of seduction
spill their spells in the mind
with kisses to the brain.

Chasing that voice
down a dark alley
to weekend secrets
and throbbing dreams.

Blending into Sunday night
their vibrations fading,
their moans dying in the blackness.

But dawn summons
vision seeing Monday’s light,
until she rises in you head,
screaming every detail
you want to forget,
finally hitting you in the stomach
with boxing gloves of regret.

Too late to stop the blows
for they are a knock out
to the conscience and will
like other weeks of being
a punching bag for guilt.

Ghosts

We can dread the sunset,
see only ghosts among the ebbing light
and miss the splendor of the scene
with all its majesty and beauty.

Tomorrow is not a cancerous occasion
just because today somebody had the flu,
allowing anxiety’s specters to haunt
every view we expect to see,
takes away the gift of sight,
which always looks for hope
among each new dawn.

Because even though life changes,
love still dwells within the heart,
some minds may look for doom,
yet others search for answers.

Humanity is a tide of thought
flowing slowly towards its own destination,
being one we can fill with progress or ruins.

So even with the times come
that mankind falls from glory,
there is always the dreamer
on the thrones of power
who refuse to see only storms.
They hold onto the candle
enduring in any wind,
remembering how often
prophets of our demise
have been proven wrong.

True gold lies in the spirit
where it shines in everlasting expectation
of moving ahead despite the problems,
standing instead of sitting,
facing the future
and holding up a vision of change
filled with blessings and not curses.

Head Shakes

And she lived for walls
of bricks built by head shakes.

They would smash egos
destroy dreams,
it was a lock unspoken,
which her passions
lusted to seal
over every mind
that wanted,
demanded
or abused her hopes.

Then she met
the one she needed,
dreamt would bring her clouds,
only he just twisted his melon,
suddenly her shake lover
wasn’t as beautiful
as she once believed.

Advice for those of arid grins

Here's a thought or two
that might flow instead of be a desert
when one seeks to smile
in a way that others don't.

Avoid using a book of anatomy
for a place to tell jokes.
Do not rely upon a mortician
to be your inspiration for humor.
Refrain from treating government regulations
as a form of satire.

Most of all, never see contradictions
in a way that others do find a reason to smile,
because oxymorons you're brain's brilliant dry wit perceives
in subtle, yet ironic jibes
will never water less empowered cerebral cells!

Teapots

Curvaceous porcelain
always hides what simmers,
presumed it so easily shatters,
then so often it is fondled frivolously.

But how the reality scalds
when that china
truly clothes metal
and you turn up that pilot,
which boils the contents
until it brews a broth
stewed with leaves
baked in a sun.
They can scorch so unexpectedly
whoever raised the heat.

What gets served
unto that person
can be so painful
should her temperate
make the flavor
full of toxins,
silently dispensed
with a lump of sugar
for disguising that steaming wrath.

Living Lines

Ink flows from a whirlpool
swirling in sensations
within the mind.

It pours like a pitcher
when it has enough form and life,
when the spirit of the creator
is infused with churning energy
and it moves with power
out of that pool
then unto a page,
not just words,
but a birth,
being a pure child of expression,
living by how it is shaped
inside a reader’s head.

Slowly moving so deep
into where we live
becoming part of our existence,
a piece of life’s puzzle
added with passion.

Touched is the vibration
that affirms its pulse
as we no longer merely think
what our eyes beheld,
but let it grow and evolve
in every thought we have
so it becomes a lover
held with all our heart.

Scales Of Light

Some measure life by a yardstick
inherited from their forebears,
inches faded and slightly bent,
but it worked for one’s ancestors
so it will still be true.

Others prefer to see what
can’t been defined in just inches,
using a candle to discover
all the facets of any form,
the rays expose what was hidden
in the crevices
until its real worth is revealed.

It is the balance that shines
without a lecture or rules,
evident to both the lamp holder
and the one who is bathed in the glow.

Reflections

Stumbling across a pool
on a detour from masquerade ball,
tripping on a log
you couldn’t see
while wearing a mask.

It falls off and in the water
you see the face
that had always been covered,
spend the rest of your life
constantly telling others
what you saw,
hoping they will have a different opinion.

Glory Be!

Oh Suzie done found God
right there at the grocery store check out counter,
saw an ad in the back of a gossip magazine
to become a High Priestess
of the Divine Golden Holy Jicama Abundant Life Tabernacle
where for a ten dollar donation
she got a ordination from His Pious Veggie Sacred Saintless,
Brother Bobby Joe Lo Precious.

Then she was so thrilled when she got that box in the mail
came with a Jicama having a halo carved in the side,
gave her instructions for chanting,
“Jica-jica-sticka-micka-mama,jama WOOSH PIE!”

Her instructions swore
if she held that Holy Jicama long enough
it would bring blessings and visions,
which was okay by her biker boyfriend Zed,
since one the first things that came to her
was that Bud and pickled eggs are truth paths
to eternal peace, or maybe it was infernal piece,
hard for Suzie to keep that straight
since she chanted so hard she nearly passed out.

Well things moved right along alright,
each day Suzie got a new message
from her Holy Jicama,
the last one being rather strange,
about how it was a sin to wear underwear
during that time of the month.

But who she to argue with a god vegetable after all?
So when that time of the month came,
she just done went all natural,
which weren’t so bad,
excepting for when they were cruising down the road
and it came time to change that tampon.

Dang it all, if she didn't slipped
that old, bloodied one went flying in the air
hitting poor Motorcycle Cop, Pete,
right in the mouth
when it was yawning.

Now Suzie’s got a citation
for littering in the first degree,
just holding her Holy Jicama
and praying for some carbo light
to show her how to pay that huge fine!