Sunday, September 14, 2008

Sand Man

Sand Man

This treadmill
each night, running
yet going nowhere,
falling apart
bit by bit
a crumb here
and there
diminishing the whole,
of who I am.
Its the sand man
who I fear each night—
or is it him
lulling me to sleep
with apathy,
a dead sadness
blackened by age,
pretending all along
to deliver sweet dreams.

Saturday, September 13, 2008



Feeling the auburn flame,
a warming, yet ghostly embrace.
Brushing behind my perspiring neck,
causing an uncontrolled shiver down my spine.

Shadowy pixies dance upon our pasty uneven walls,
laughing quietly along with the rest.
Playing their twisted little games,
making my mind envision impossible things.

A calming scent of fresh cut peaches,
swell my lungs with convinced hope.
In remembrance of our moments together,
buried deep amongst our dreams.

Once an illumination for my soul,
keeping me normal and intact.
Direction and purpose predetermined,
needing not to fear the cold, dark world.

These past years I’ve seen,
the slow deteriorating wick.
An unstoppable melting,
liquefying this heart of softened wax.

Till the candle final fades,
little by little losing the fight.
Until it has been consumed,
and left cold and empty.

One Moment

One Moment

It is your shimmering lips
I crave tonight—
glossy, pouting
beckoning a taste
just once,
in the dark
beneath the street light
holding on gently
giving your heart
to this stranger as
your scent of sweet coconut
wraps around your skin
testing me
to be honest somehow
as I follow your body
with hands of faith
touching your soul
for just a moment
with my words.

Starting Over

Starting Over

To begin again
means the end—
a last taste of your lips,
the final scent of your flesh
a momentary linger of lust.
This brush with fate’s flower
beyond a memory faded,
leading to something new
a place fresh with color—
brilliant shades of light,
sparkling crystal bright
blinding all the past,
all the pain remembered
letting the hurt go
below the surface.
Starting over—
never looking backwards
past the point of reference
of our dividing hearts,
our severed dreams,
silently shared teardrops.
It was you I lost
only to remember me,
pretending the truth
sacrificing our lives—
breathing each others fears.
To begin again
means the end—
to resurrect me
from the dead.

Saturday, September 6, 2008

blinking with fists

Picked up this collection of poetry entitled "blinking with fists" from the local bookstore without realizing at first who the writer was. It was like most times when I pick up a book whether of poetry or a novel, that being the content that I browsed through. Thought the two poems I read there standing in the aisle where something of interest that I bought it.

In just a few pages I found myself connected to the man who founded the Smashing Pumpkins. Connected to the words of his poetry and the struggles I could feel through those words.

Opening the book is the poem “The Poetry of My Heart” which sets the stage for the remaining pieces. The collection is full of looks within him and like many writers/musicians, we write these things down to purge the soul somehow.

A book worth looking at.



We picked through the sand
feeling the tiny grains slip
past our grasp—
falling slowly together
becoming less complicated,
once mixed within the rest.

And it was warm then
the ocean breeze—which
floated water birds
above us,
calling for heaven to open
under a perfect cloudless sky.

It was that moment,
on that day
I promised you Forever—
holding tightly the lavender
you pick for me
in the rocks near town.

I remember so clearly
a smile, perhaps more
as you laughed at my silly jokes—
drying naked upon the stones
evaporating away a thousand tears.

At the end of that perfect day,
we watched the sun fall
drained of the power it had,
moments ago
holding on to each other’s heart
until Forever claimed my promise of you.

Black Hole

Black Hole

Filling with the emptiness
of your sudden withdraw,
not fully understanding the import
of the deafening silence.

Attempting to rationalize
why some people disappear,
while others simply fade,
leaving the consistent void.

Letters cannot replace your voice
or pictures that peaceful look,
knowing all that is tangible
eventually returns to dust.

I would read your poems
under the light of the moon,
reflecting rhymes off the shimmer
only to enlighten my sadness.

Into the darkness each tear fell
as you bled out your thoughts,
composing a serenade so sweet
it echoes even tonight.

Suddenly it all disappeared
into an invisible black hole,
emptying all we had together
absorbed into the heavens above.

Dreaming on occasion
how we once were,
only to awaken suddenly
believing you will return someday.