Don’t do poetry

If you want to keep your life
Don’t do poetry

Try cross-stitching or toll painting
But you would do well to leave poetry alone

Real Poetry is food from the Heart
Strong medicine
It is not for the weak

Real poetry springs from the place
where the cold comes from
the barren house of spent desires and sorrows
The frightful down under place
where cathartic moments thunder against the rocks of your soul

Real Poetry slips into the world
through the crack in the sky
The place where the Sun and Moon
enter and exit
Pass on poetry
if you’re not ready to embrace the light

Veteran of the PSI Wars of 2011

I am a humble veteran of the PSI wars of 2011
and doesn’t matter one whit if I say it
cause you will be wiped long before my words sink in

You say that I look normal enough
but I’ve been on the edge so long
So far out the box
I have no memory of normal
and there’s really nothing left of me

The geologic layers of scarred integument
twined throughout my brain
make me a little less than sane
leaves me a little too unkind

What I’ve seen, the pain
has blinded me to the dancing sky
arching across the Chaos Bridge
The Rip in the Multiverse. . .

And you say the war is over
Just shows how little you can know
The Multiverse is in collision
and there’s no place left to go

My weapons are lost or broken
My armor pierced and split
and everything I have fought
I have become. . .
(I know
it doesn’t rhyme)

the garden gate’s remark

Back along the ridge
down the half hidden path
murky and lined with the weeds of regret

Someone’s house in the woods
Someone’s past life lost in loneliness

The roof caved in
the front door missing
a broken face
a mouth of the past
the window agape

a tattered tongue of curtain
ripped and ragged
flicking in and out
over broken teeth of glass

the garden gate’s remark
to the passing summer wind

When I liked to swim after dark

I turn around in an empty room
and face the window
The window where the sun is setting
Your dark blue eyes deeper and darker
than the sky now rich with stars
Add to the lines in my hand
Rippling the lake in the distance

I have this picture of you
folded in my billfold
Old photos are so . .

There was a time
When I liked to swim after dark
Now there is something luminescent in the waters
Somewhere below the silvery surface of consciousness
Leviathans stir the deep waters
The movement of their mass
ripples and breaks the sky into a mosaic of
life moments and memories

And the cicadas whirred

I was opening my hand in darkness
Opening and closing my hand
Thinking about all the things we did
Things we thought about
things we’d never do
And the cicadas whirred . . .

After dinner we broke out the recliners
In the dimming light, tiny rivers of lightning
coursed the belly of the clouds
snaking toward the setting sun
Forking like the veins and arteries
the roots of my heart

I felt your hand on my heart
your smile was not pretty

And the cicadas whirred . . .