The posings of a poet.

The Thing Is

The distance between memory prophecy and deja vu
Is the same as the length of a promised tomorrow
The similarity closeness here between me and you
Is the same as the good intents with which we borrow
The height of our flightful trajected arc
Is the same as the spinning of the suspended sun
The depths of our passion in the dark
Is the same as the link between joy and fun
The purity of purpose in our possession
Is the same as the purported problem in a hurricane
The inadequacy of words to make this confession
Is the same as language barrier between parts of my brain
The love I bear for the heart you hold
Is the same as that first created to sing
The love I feel from that heart that continues to unfold
Is the same hope to which the drowning cling

Bit of a Tic

If you’ll excuse my being pedantic
You may find this a little bit mantic
Or perhaps just another antic
As my words seem a jumble quite frantic
It’s just that when I get semantic
And in truth a bit sycophantic
I seem to notice something gigantic
Behind the way that you call me romantic


Words fly like insubstantial birds
Through the air like an arrow from the yew
And strike a chord within me I begin to understand
Love floats down from high above
More than letters at their core
Intentions thoughts plans connections beyond conventions
Desire delight defense freedom faith fire
Pleasure passion pursuit time tenderness treasure
Temptation trepidation trial surrender surreal sensation
Birds insubstantiate the flight of Words
The yew forms the arrow that it Threw
Understand to begin me within a chord strike an And
Above high from down flees Love
Core their letters and see More
Conventions beyond connect plans thought Intentions
Fire faith with freedom in defense of delighted Desire
Treasure tenderness and time pursuit with passionate Pleasure
Sensation is surreal surrender to trials of trepidation or Temptation

If What If

If heaven had a home and leaven were all alone how far could we rise
If hell had no fury and no one was in a hurry wouldn’t that just be a surprise
and If IF meant possibility becoming reality

What would become of the negative sum of aggression and prejudice
What could we do if between me and you we surrendered to selflessness
and kept judgement at its apogee

If we all claimed love instead of blamed hate what could flow
If we all chose joy and let close the wounds we allowed to grow
and a golden future spiraled like alchemy

Dark ANgels

The standard uncomplicated conversation is a tattooed constellation on the left side of tomorrow
The dareless dreams of day are meditations on the gray that lingers between the patches of fog we borrow
The night holds light as bright as tygers in the mind

The repetitious regurgitation of fact or fiction breaks with concentration in the factories of faith and thought
The settled servile sentence called happiness or repentance is a calculated indecision cheaply bought
The dark covers much but reveals in kind

The dimmed delight of dessicated day is night and brings relief and room to breathe and stretch our wings
The fear felt for few is flight to me and you and fumbling fun in close quarters and other things
The moon smiles upon the mark we leave behind

Just One Question

I don’t know if I ever knew
So I’ll begin by asking you
That is if you have the time
For one long question and my rhyme
How do you take your heart off your sleeve
How do you smile as bits of you leave
How do you hate and never forget
How do you lie without any regret
How do you justify such disrespect
How do you become victim in every aspect
How do you believe your plan is best
How can you not see truth in the rest
How do you poison what you hold dear
How do you forbid even the tiniest tear
How can you go back to such a small world
How when the universe is before you unfurled
How are you able to point the finger but miss
How you at the betrayer who sealed fate with a kiss
How have you survived if it was always so bad
How can you not blame yourself just a tad
How are you vindicated how are you free
That’s how
Just make the bad guy out


If you step back from life it will speak
And whisper to you if you’re strong or weak
It will speak of the questions you have in your heart
And remind you that answers are no place to start
It will calm you and call you to simply recall
There’s joy in the journey even if it’s a fall
Life has her secrets that you may yet guess
The greatest she holds is the lock of success
Yes the lock is the secret understood by so few
They expect to find keys, but the key, friend, is you
Throw your passion desire and will at that latch
And stepping back you will find your dreams you will catch
For you need not chase them or follow at all
Just find the resistance for that lock is your call
Just find that one point in all life that ignites
For which you’d give up money privilege and rights
Change that resistance to friction and turn
You’re the key, unlock life and let your light burn

Sum Day

Some day I will add up the story that is me
Some day I will subtract the lies I choose to believe
Someday I will divide myself and know what it means to be free
Someday I will mulitply my joys for you to receive
Someday I will exponentially expound how this came to be
Someday I will parenthetically remove the ways in which I decieve
Someday I will find more than fractions of subdivided phi
Someday I will find the angle from which I may achieve
Someday I will allow there is some percent I cannot forsee
Someday I will drop the remainder that has made me so naive
Someday I will equate what has been done oh so irrationally
Someday I will sum it up and all your fears relieve

And A Little Child Shall Lead Them

   I have noticed there is a pervasive belief that efficiency is the same as maturity, or at the very least a measure of it. In short, if you choose to spend your time, effort, or energy on what others deem as a waste, you are immature and childish. The problem with that is, and ever will be, that the terms are, by and large, subjective. Take a look:



noun, plural ef·fi·cien·cies.
1. the state or quality of being efficient; competency in performance.



  [muh-choor-i-tee, -toor-, -tyoor-, -chur-] 

1. the state of being mature; ripeness: The fruit will reach maturity in a few days.
2. full development; perfected condition: maturity of judgment; to bring a plan to maturity.
First of all, read the pronunciation syllable for syllable and keep a straight face, oh, reaaaaal mature! 
Now that you made it through that, look at efficiency. Competency in performance.



1. the quality of being competent; adequacy; possession of required skill, knowledge, qualification, or capacity: He hired her because of her competence as an accountant.
Adequacy. Admit it, this depends on your mood most of the time. Sitting in traffic for 4 hours because someone made a common mistake and caused an accident? How INadequate! But if it were you in the accident…




1. a musical, dramatic, or other entertainment presented before an audience.
2. the act of performing a ceremony, play, piece of music, etc.
3. the execution or accomplishment of work, acts, feats, etc.
4. a particular action, deed, or proceeding.
5. an action or proceeding of an unusual or spectacular kind:
4 or 5? A particular act I’m adequate in or an unusual one?
Sarcasm gene…kicking in….must…move…on.
So efficiency is being adequate in a particular, possibly unusual, act that often draws its judgement during times of duress….In a word: Subjective.
Ripeness. Full development. 
Is anyone there?
We can’t even wait to pick mature bananas before shipping them off, who are we to judge ripeness? 
      Now, forget all that technical wordplay. 
      Think of how you write. Smallish, quick strokes or grand, looping waves? I bet they fit within the margins and follow a straight line. Look at how a child writes throughout elementary. Largely, boldly, nearly ripping the paper and margins and straight-edges be damned! We don’t want that though.
“No passion in writing, thank you all the same. Keep it neat, that’s what matters, but for heaven’s sake be BOLD…no, not literally, well yes literally, but….just stay in the margins please.” Mr. Hancock was quite immature, I’m sure!
     What if you made a mistake? Quick small swipes of the eraser. After all, it is a point of pride to have a stub of a pencil with eraser still in mint condition. Now watch a child. Mistake? I SHALL OBLITERATE IT. They erase until there is nearly a hole, or in fact there is a hole, through the page. They blow off the excess rubber as if it were sawdust from a mill! Erasers are made to be used up, I think there’s a term for hoarding them, but I’m no psychologist. 
     What of art? If you still doodle, it’s probably only in the margins, or in a specified notebook. Coloring? Look at my shading and depth! It’s chalk, get over it. Child? Just watch his face. Pure joy. Pure mess, but pure abandonment to joy. The art is in creating and what the artist sees. Who cares about the beholder? Unless it’s mom or dad, that is. “Well, that’s nice dear…what is it? Oh, a unicorn driving a train made of Twinkies through a waterfall of M & M’s? …..yeah, I see it. (squints and nods).” Did Van Gogh’s parents fuss at him to use less paint?
Blah, blah, blah….what’s my point?
Enjoy life.
Make a mess.
Waste your time.
Waste your energy.
Waste yourself in living.
The trick is to only do it on what matters to you and you alone.
Let the “mature” and “efficient” lead their lives.
Ignore their epithets of “Child” and “Immature”.
I for one would love to be remembered as one who is bold in my subject matter and its presentation.
One who is unafraid of mistakes, because there are always more erasers and paper.
One who is so passionate you can almost see that Twinkie train for yourself.
     My now 4 year old daughter said it best. After being told she had to do more work and less talking as an adult she replied, “I don’t wanna be a DULT!” I replied then, and ever will, “Me either darlin’, me either.”
My sandbox is open. If I’m out, check the tree house or just leave me a painting.
Gotta go, my kids wanna run in the rain.


If I could jump from my body to yours
What would it be like to walk on your floors
What would it look like to use your eyes
What would it sound like to make your sighs
What would it taste like to eat a peach
How tall is too tall for how far you can reach
When would you wake up, when would you sleep
What kind of secrets would I find you keep
Would a rose called by that name
To you still smell quite the same
What makes you you and makes me me
What if each the other we could be
Would your heart be in the same time
Could you twist words to make them rhyme
Would you love me while I was you
Would there be in me some reason not to
True nakedness of heart and soul
Hasn’t that really been the goal

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