Rooms always boxed inPlaced strategically in locationReliably there always expectedWithout question even I knowWhat I will do Adventure used to creep inMy bones would resonate with adventureMy muscles mimic the wavesOf distant shoresI wanted to see I did what was requiredI met makers with honorsI married, had kids found treasureBut never moved till even todayAll I tune with anticipation I desire to delve into mysteryTo approach danger and hug itThe wanderer is trappedEven though the
A Distant Train
A distant train vibrates the air.Even in my home.What power to touch an ear –drum so gentle from here. A tweet from Australia.Is read by me shirtless in Texas.What power to touch my eye.So gentle from here. These things like projectiles.Shot through air and wire.Surrounded by the fullness of space.Flowing around them all of it fluid. Except me, see this machine.We know and can explain.Yet besides it we ask the engineers.Are galaxies made and destroyed.
Beauty In The Slow Naked in the Silent
1000 years ago a man and his staff walk silently through the wilderness.500 years ago a lad and his bow transverse the plains.200 years ago a cowboy and his pistol gaze upon the mountains.50 years ago a soldier and his rifle walked though the jungles.Now I stand in a dark empty park with these words. What is this heavy yet invisible fog that finds me alone?A wilderness in between such modern construction.It is always the
Next To The Purple Wood
To the liquor store we went.The lightest of blues and yellows mingled.in the sky casting its purple hue.The atmosphere mingling all fall colors.With that purple ethereal nostalgia, a road traveled often.I lost my purpose for the trip.Like a soldier forgetting the mission.Dad listened to music about pimps.I did to, it hung in my brain.Next to the image of the purple wood.
Life Does Not Ask
We all exist at some expenseA mothers pain or a fathers heftWithout a question being asked of ourselvesOf weather existence is what we desiredNoLife does not ask and neither does GodYou are woven and crafted a divine poem in sinewBlood pumps through the veins of an earthen shellWhile a light no fleshy eyes see burns brighterThan a campfire laced with magnesiumIt is hard knowingIts hard rowinga life livedpurposeknown
Thank you for this failure.It was a ride.I will let my shame fade away with the rising tide. Thank you for this wound.It was a trauma.I will let this scar be a boon a poem on my flesh a happy mantra. Thank you for this insult.It was quite sharp.I will let these words be pulled tight like strings to my harp. Thank you for these shortcomings.They are magnificent.I will let them glow bright with the
Schrodinger’s Spiritual Mind
Schrodinger’s spiritual mind both alive and dead.A swelling desire to dwell on the eternal.The carnal inspiration of the darker thoughts.loneliness and anger war against the lovely and pure.Staring into a sunrise over mountains while counting my sins and offenses. A swelling din of joy growing at the sight, the sound of the beloved.Into the fog of melancholy nihilism, fatalistic grind, the rut.Rise above I tell myself, breath in the fog its good for the lungs.See
I am like this abandoned school I drive by everyday.I echo faintly with the nostalgia of youth.I have a playground but no but me uses it. I oil the merry go round.I test the seesaw.I bat at the deflated tether-ball. I stand vacant surrounded by busy lives.Equal parts Charlie Brown and Calvin and Hobbes.Yet old, not useless just old without being old. At least part of me fits this description.A part that was full of
Ears To Listen
There is a God, evidencedBy the fact, my son livesHe survived tidal wave of my own wrathBeating me down slowlyMy own patience erodingPersistent waves of adolescence Assailing my own foundation Crash crash crash crash crashThe loud din of a man lostMy own voice crushes you Shame Im sorry I lost my temperIm not sorry for being angry Daddy fallsMay we both have ears to listen
People take pictures of everything.Pictures of food, pictures of each otherlandscape, pets, kids, friends, everything.This is good. I stopped taking pictures of everything and started to write poetry. Capture the feeling of loving my child, or my wife, being late to work, or the breeze as it passes through the pines. Even if no one reads it this will still be with me.