Dark Leaves

Smoking sensational paragraphs to burn away at the filter between mouth and mind
Indulging in exotic flavors, rolled between papers for these rhymes written and left behind
Passing through hands before bid goodbye through clouds of smoke
The pounds of paragraph trickle away into scenes of perpetual night choking out of imperfect throats

Into the sway of palm trees freezing amidst the dark seas
where the cold moonlight meets the heart on my warm sleeves
A place for thieves to eavesdrop, only to catch wind of the passing of minds between these smoked leaves
to stay somber a little longer, for our words are stronger than what our minds perceive

Dry cotton begotten on the tips of tongues and inner cheeks
Filling the lungs with silence, strung on clouds high as ice tipped peaks
Exhaling the trailing sounds of the ailing, to send sailing our thoughts lost for weeks
between the dark nights through which I sleep, and the brighter days forever mine to keep


Of a sick nature, a signature to sign away a mind at play and find a way

Standing up to authority, an author to conformity comforting all those committed to dogmatic insanity

Mentally implicit, I imply men tally illicit points extracted from the flesh and joints of the sexually complicit

Completed and sold, a soul pleated and folded to be rigid in its ways of being eternally molded yet bold

Bowled over through tough crowds, watched though the hands of clocks with pupils as keen as stuffed owls

Boys and girls of the world, whirled and meshed for a mash up of childish chess making kings and queens from the hands of pawns and jesters at best

A jaw at jest, gums flapping like wings singing songs of rebellion to test the guns at rest

Putting down swords to pick up cannons, the hands of the abandoned itch more than can stand the patience of the arms secluded and stranded in tandem

Branded for earth, bandaids at birth do little to patch up the tragedy of the pageantry of our worth



The walls are smothered plain in paint, often sterile, covered sometimes in something wonderful and worthwhile. I stop for a look; a piece of paper bearing phone number and service. A concert, a shop, a store offering more than your average bore or acupuncture to heal the nervous.

Sometimes, these walls cover entire cultures. Graffiti against capitalist vultures and political propaganda aimed to rupture what’s left of the day with a taste of bitterness so vulgar. A smiling photograph placed to note your fall from grace. A mall map to remind you of your place in society and state. The bus schedule to keep your life organized. A gentle reminder to abused wives that this must not continue for the course of their entire lives.

These walls thrive under the watchful presence of our eyes. Some posters cut up with the help of claws and knives driven through the paper by gangs of teenagers frustrated by nurture and the nature of their young lives in disguise.

I look at these billboards, and what they advertise, aimed at enticing and spicing up our presence with a prize. Ideas for presents, a smile and a little sentence to accompany a pretty face so pleasant. I stop and look, I pause for a few seconds, moving on past these walls running through this life of little errands.

Dark Winter

There is a darkness this time of year
I see it in others
The texture of their skin ashy and thin
weak patchy smoke seeping from mouths
lips cracked, heads covered
neck smothered by wool
a rumbling belly full of snow
trying their best to thwart winter’s pull

They are a sort of beauty in the face of faded light
a little fight left yet
shivering in cracked denim in cold winter night

Without much motion, in search of a silent commotion to avoid a solitary erosion
I see them in the streets and stores
outside and behind closed double doors
I watch them cover the flame of their candle
in the face of cold winds often too much to handle

Thought Balloon

A reeling feeling, finding its way to my ceiling
Of thoughts trapped inside their balloons, bouncing below the horizons of freedom where they loom
Inflated to the point of bursting, the sentiments bloom large turning dark as doom
Sucking air from the room, these balloons grow bigger, awaiting a trigger to pop quickly and boom

Popped in the face of politics, in the face of issues, between walls and windows of grown animosity and misuse
Turning into a monstrosity, the audacity of silence, the violence of tongue sprung upon those that hum to their own tune daft and dumb

I wish away for I am too close, to slip away out of space into meadows and oceans of those who leak out of mind to live as true ghosts
Without reason to bulldoze or throw blows, to find their balloons filled with true growth void of sour ideas in repose


He is no longer amused. Dragging his feet, his hair uncombed, ready to give up on life before true chance and the essence of existence may unfold. What is life to him, a mere victim, a melancholic mess dressed to perform his duties before bidding so long to a cruel world unyielding in stress. An excess of sadness undeniable and happiness defied, the cries for help subdued on his lonely solemn ride.

Tripped up to fall, slipping with no one to catch him at all, he does his best to stand tall in his never-ending crawl up against life’s walls. Taking steps back before moving forward in place, there is no haste to his action and he dwindles slow to life’s attraction in his face. He retracts his words, thoughts as absurd as situations that unfold in his world. He has earned his safety and space with nothing to show, he continues to grow but progress is slow. Where will he go when life continues to spins him around, a perpetual frown on our man broken down.

Forever waiting, dying to live, with more to give then he understands, he soon learns to forgive. Living his moments, the omens released. Life goes on as he does, and he shall not cease. He catches himself in his downward spiral, pushes and stands in the face of his endless rivals. Bidding farewell to the trifle of woes, he grows by the minute and his happiness shows.

Stifled no longer, he does what he can to get stronger. The positive pushing against his pain, he survives his days in ways he can to stay unconquered. Wrong are those who doubt such men. Their struggles may never end but they find ways to fight and forever rise again.

A Rhyme A day

Waking to a day like any other, the ringing of the alarm was hushed and teeth were brushed. A hearty breakfast, indulgent but necessary, I wandered into the world knowing today would pass by in a hurry. The sky blue, clawed by streaked clouds, I stood proud in wait for my bus, as little flesh as possible exposed, as much as the cold air  allowed.

I watched the world pass through the giant windows on the bus’s path
I tried to swallow sunshine, confined in the grasp of my warm vehicular cast
Hot blasts of air kept me comfortable on this little trip
I was well equipped although I expected nothing but cold fingertips and dry lips

Entering the mall, shopping as necessary. A few items found buried, some blatantly obvious to those not in a hurry. Purchases and sales, a cold march through the center’s trails. Avoiding the salespersons and stares, knowing I did not care to be bothered on this wonderful day with the details of worry.

Walking the dog and doing my work, his ears perked for goodies, my ears buried in the hoody over my t-shirt. I blurted his name and we marched into the forest. He’s a smart one, that Marley, and careful not to be too honest.

The world of music within my ears brightened my day. I performed numerous other duties, and thus I must say that it all went my way. Today will be yesterday’s news, and tomorrow is a new day. Although used to the hands of time, I did well for a man so recluse and far away.


An anger manifested, ingested through pain and anguish
Languishing in the depths of dreams gone wrong, I sing a song to bid these woes so long
Offbeat in the heat of the moment, a tone too high and a note too low
Let these words roll of my tongue and hum away pain until I’m numb enough to let it all go.

The 23rd Hour

The dark circles like sharks, dropping in to weaken the warmth of the room. She sits in patient wait, guided by the hours left in her life. A proposition so grim for a life so bright, so full of experience and adventure, now she sits in her reclining chair, looking back through the memories of different times.

A photo album sits near her metal framed bed to remind her she is not alone. She flips through the pictures to visit her past, a life lived to the fullest, extracted of its essence and enjoyed, like squeezing a lemon until no more may pour from it. In between the visits from her family and friends who pass through on occasion, she has the hours in the day to think about what was, and what can still be in her long life.

The nurses walk by, peeking into her room on occasion.  There is never a need for alarm with her, a woman as calm as the lakes situated in her home town and as durable as the pine trees that sway in the winter winds. She sits in her gown, a book in hand and glasses hanging off her nose, peering from the window to watch the silence of her world go by without a complaint or care.

She eats with the others and reports on her day, on her memories and her health. The television reports the news in a world detached from her youth. As she returns to her room for respite, she is happier alone than in the company of those she knows for short periods of time, only to see them stretchered away in the middle of the night in ambulances, never to return.

A dim light is now her torch, carrying her aspirations to read into the evening. She reads the newspaper, on the lives of others and the world that was once hers. Her life hangs in a delicate balance of days and nights, and dwindling days of the future which she counts away in her pocket calendar. From this room, she is elsewhere, no longer a part of society or vacated from it.

New Year

He scampers under the bed; a night of fireworks fills his little heart with dread. The sound of bursts, the bubbles of color that explode over earth are much to handle, too much for little Marley in a house of dimly burning candles.

He waits for the noise to stop, the popping to filter away with the night. Instead, he holds his fright, pawing at my feet without rest or sleep to wave away the sparkling light.

The popping continues, chipping away at my young boy’s heart. From the start, he was skeptical, not one for midnight spectacles in the dark.

He must resign to this barrage, the mirage of sound that surrounds his town.

Lay down in his corner safely

And let the children celebrate their final rounds