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Scattered Thoughts, .
a dandelion seed
just a weed gone wild
who fell into the crack
of a sidewalk
wedged tight and rootless
my feathery parachute
stuck to something
more concrete
than I'd ever desired.
let the tears of a passing storm
wash me into the soil
that I call chance
and I will burst in
bright greens and yellows
to brighten the
ghetto of my world.
If not then bury
my withered remains
in potters field
until I become clay
that the master
potter above
can reform with love
into a vessel worthy
of holding on to
something far more
than a childish wish
and a puff of
exasperated air.
I am the
unfinished prayer
the sermon still
germinating
an incomplete poem
that wallows in
the cathedral of my skull,
nothing penned
can capture me
until I am freed
from this pathway
to obscurity.
( o o )
\ ^ /
=
=
Where will we go
in the after life,
after the muss
of the morticians knife,
will we wander strange worlds
where old memories are hurled
like cold rain on our face
with no flesh left to wipe.
Will we find just oblivion
when death comes by delivering,
that one long final gasp,
near our loved one's who clasp,
but can't hold us no more,
as we slip into nothing
and sleep evermore.
Is death like a nap,
that we'll wake from someday,
and stand before God,
in a judgemental way....
or is it a chapter
that ends every story
with peace...happy endings
somewhere far off in glory.....
There's no end to this song,
cause I've yet met my own,
there's no answers of course,
only coffins and bones,
but I swear on my grave,
when I reach the unknown
I will publish the truth
in a song or a poem.
As a ghost writer slipping
into some writers brain,
I will bring the world truth,
so that all who remain,
can at last seek the path
that will lead to less pain......
Whispering death's like a nap,
that we'll wake from someday,
and stand before God,
in a judgemental way....
or that death's our last chapter
that ends every story
with peace...happy endings
somewhere far off in glory.....
Or something far worse,
that all good men will curse,
from the dank realms of hell,
what a story I'll tell...
I'll be dead anyway,
it's the least I can do,
no more poems, no more songs,
just my final debut.
So if in some wee hour,
you mind is invaded,
by some unearthly power,
by this poet belated,
Just be sure that you write,
every word that I send,
lest you wind up a sequel.
in which "you'll" write
Part III
Parchment flesh is
faded ink blots over
the blue veined
scritch-scratched
lines of life waning.
Time writes
its soliloquy
from the wells of
watery, cataract
clouded eyes.
Lips tremble
over the mutterings
of some long
forgotten dream,
as hankies genuflect
beneath sorrows leaked.
True maturity
is the final page
fluttering like
a frail heart
in its closing chapter.
All of its wisdom
destined to be
bound between
tight covers of earth
by the author
and finisher
of our faith.
There are countless
acres of stories
shelved in neat rows
beneath granite markers
that note those who
mastered maturity
in chiseled footnotes.
secret messages
sent with eager fingers
on the slipstreams of inkjets
blood coursing
through our viens
to those most private places
we had yet to explore.
We were fresh
like warm loaves
of hot bread steaming
and begging for the silk
of buttering each other up.
We bantied words about
our thoughts turning to
love and possibilties,
we wrote passioned poems
with fingers pressing buttons
not of the flesh kind
but fleshing out a
long distance intimacy
between us.
You haunted my dreams
like the soft wisp
of a kiss denied,
and I chased your promise
between lonely sheets.
I was the Gable floating
high over your Tara,
coveting those
scarlet lips
that were
far too soon
gone with the wind.
Distance and time
eventually eroded
what we savored
into just a passing fancy
now we are not in love
nor at war
we simply
remain civil.
But I will always
cherish what we
once thought we
might have had.
X-poze-ing VIP`s Speech
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