poetry

Hos-piss

poetry

Hospice
A word with all the powers of a magnet
Drawing things together
Somethings are shunned and wish to be repelled
But they always return
Others are accepted easily
But can never come back
Everything attracted has something in common
Power to express emotions
Love
Pain
Fear
Last wishes- like fire -are warm
But too much fire surrounding one self becomes
The source of more love
The source of more pain
The source of more fear
The smoke becomes a heavy blanket
Smothering its starter
To reduce the burden a stand must be made
One of courage where friends may be hurt
You can piss out the fire
But you cant piss out the pain
Great difficulty lies on the path where you try to be kind and loving
But sacrifices must be made
To live the rest of ones days with only the closest people to their heart.

(re)alizations

poetry

wednesday night i looked
up and realized
i had forgotten the
sky

transfixed by my (re)discovery
i stared until
stars (re)appeared
thousands by
the second

i (re)ached for your hand
forgot what we left east of us
as we escaped into central PA

meanwhile
stars continued to (re)appear
and the sky seemed so saturated
i half expected
it
to exhale.

because sometimes we think microchips and nukes make us pretty tough

poetry

your torrential downpour –
wash us clean from our pride
to remind us
of things we cannot control

your voice alone is the thunder
your grace alone is the rain

no matter the price of gas
you will not cease to send your rain

people dying in earthquakes
those who will drown today in oceans
they’re as real as this house
this street, this page, these words

and my wife.

you created life
we try so hard to harness
you alone create.

how small i am and how big you are
to strike down,
create
destroy

remembering that you are not safe
but you are good

your rain
so thick i cannot see
you remind us who you are

and who are
we.

19 jun 8

poetry

water from a hose

hot before cool and passed

brother to brother—

the break worthwhile

 

untainted by man

like bottled water will be

and much much purer—

for guzzles earned

 

when I-25

reached one end to the other

my house to Grandpa’s—

places for play

In my world, pessimism usually rules the day

poetry

I work in order to be at my leisure
but I am not at my leisure because I work;

this sick circle takes me around
and around and around yet again
with no exit in sight until the
ripe age of 65. 62 if I’m lucky.
59 1/2 if I’m ridiculously lucky.
Lucky thing that I married money,
(which hasn’t paid off yet
but may before I’m 59 1/2,
if I’m not dead by then,
or maimed, or paralyzed,
either physically or mentally
by the stultifying effects of life)
as a means of saving my zest for life.

Sometimes I dusgust myself

poetry

I consider myself to be a normal boy
(perhaps even a normal man)
with normal likes and dislikes
(such as apple pie and country music),
but then I question all this
when I find myself liking the smell of my own farts
rating the quality of each I release.

oh sweet refuse, filling the air
byproduct of my own waste,
handiwork of my own bowels.